Beck le Street

by Tony McHale

“Sorry … crosses?”

  “Martyrs. People who walk round displaying their troubles for all to see. Besides I need to sort this. Breakfast.”

  And with Genesis not really knowing what he meant they set off for breakfast.

  Genesis was assuming they’d go to some little café, but Charlie had other plans. He drove them into the West End and parked up on a meter in Covent Garden. They then went into The Delaunay restaurant, which he knew started serving breakfast early. Charlie had ‘The English’ with poached eggs and Genesis let her diet slip and had Waffles with maple syrup. Both of them felt better for being indulgent.

  “So what happens now?” she asked as Charlie cut up his sausage.

  “I do what nobody wants me to do,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “Which is?”

  “I find out who killed my mother and who killed Devika.”

  “Who killed Devika? I thought it was an accident.”

  “It’s easier for everyone if it is, but it wasn’t. I was on the phone with her. She was driven off the road.”

  “So how you going to find out who killed them?”

  “That I have to work out.”

  “Have you any leads?” she naturally asked.

  “No.”

  “So where do you start?”

  Charlie stopped eating. That was his big problem – where did he start? He just knew he now was able to start, something he couldn’t have done before yesterday. He also knew that he had to get this right. Because if he didn’t he’d be the next victim. The next time he stepped foot in Beck le Street, it was kill or be killed.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The church was packed, standing room only. Devika’s parents were Christian and they wanted a Christian burial for their daughter, a funeral service in which God was the major player with the deceased a close second. For Charlie this was hard, harder than he could have imagined. He hardly knew Devika’s parents and they’d made the majority of decisions with regards to their daughter’s interment, which only seemed right, even if it made Charlie feel detached from the whole affair.

  But the funeral did something for Charlie that he’d never imagined. It showed him how many friends he really did have. All those e-mails he’d ignored, all those calls and texts he couldn’t answer, they arrived in person to support him. They understood why he hadn’t replied to their words of sympathy and offers of help – he simply couldn’t. His mother was murdered and then his partner was killed in a car crash. It was a modern day tragedy of Greek proportions. Nobody wanted to force Charlie to do anything, but they did want to shore him up, which is why they were there, why they’d taken the trouble to train, drive or be driven out to St Mary’s Church in Wendover, the church the Bahls attended most Sundays.

  Amongst the mourners were a number of instantly recognisable models, but the couple that created the most stir were Genesis and Justin. The press just loved this girl and although even they knew this wasn’t the time to try and grab a quick quote, the paparazzi managed to get some shots of the latest Saturday night hit presenter all in black and subsequently ran columns about a friendship between her and Devika they knew nothing about.

  Throughout the service Charlie was next to her parents. He joined in the hymns, the prayers and listened to the readings from the scriptures. There was a eulogy given by Devika’s uncle, her father’s younger brother, who spoke affectionately of her childhood, holidays at their villa in Spain and how gifted Devika had been at school. No mention of her modelling career, no mention of her relationship with Charlie and no mention of the way she died. It was his mother’s funeral all over again.

  But as the coffin was carried out to be taken to the Amersham Cemetery where it was to be buried in a plot originally bought by Madhur for him and his wife, the choir sang Dies Irae from Verdi’s Requiem.

  A small family group and Charlie stood round the open grave as the coffin was lowered in. Anju wept profusely and Madhur held her tight making sure she didn’t collapse completely. Charlie kept his head lowered. He knew he was there under sufferance.

  After earth was thrown onto the coffin, the mourners turned away from the grave. He heard Madhur inviting various people back to their house, Charlie wasn’t included in the invite.

  He’d driven to the cemetery and just as he was climbing back into his car, his mobile went. It was Carl Schreiber his agent. He debated whether to answer it or not, but decided he should.

  “Hi Carl.”

  “Where are you?” Carl was always straight to the point.

  “Just leaving Amersham.”

  “How far is that from Great Missenden?”

  “Ten … fifteen minutes.”

  “Then that’s when we’ll expect you. We’re in a pub called The Black Horse.”“I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

  “You’re up to it. Besides I’ve got you a commission. I need to talk to you about it.”

  Carl had been good for Charlie over the years and Charlie had been good for Carl. They’d both made serious money from Charlie’s photographs with Carl doing lucrative deals with Associated Press and Knight Ridder. But it was the fact that he’d taken the time and the effort to drive to Buckinghamshire that had made Charlie decide he had to make an appearance at The Black Horse in Great Missenden.There were a few others alongside Carl, mainly other photographers, but there were also a couple of Devika’s model friends. The locals found their presence a cross between entertaining and threatening. Although all were dressed in black, the design of their clothing was in some cases quite outlandish.

  Charlie was welcomed by them all and suddenly, after weeks of being in Yorkshire with people who on the whole appeared not to particularly like him, it was nice to be among friends. He ended up sitting at a table with Carl talking to begin with about work. Carl clearly wanted his top photographer to get back behind the lens.

  “Remember when you first arrived at my office with your portfolio?” said Carl playing the nostalgia card.

  “Yeah … I remember.”

  “You had photograph after photograph of the village you were brought up in.”

  “There were some of Whitby … and Scarborough.”

  “But they were mainly of the village … and the people that lived there.”

  “You’re going to tell me you thought they were crap.”

  “No … I thought they were brilliant. Still do. That’s why I kept them.”

  “You still have them?”

  “Of course. Look.”

  Carl took out his iPad and opened a file that was a collection of Charlie’s photographs. There were a lot of shots of the actual houses and buildings in the village, but there was literally shot after shot of the bar in The Black Dog. There were people drinking, a young Farrah working behind the bar, there was his mother and his father, lots of shots of darts matches and disproportionate number of shots of Cassie, his girlfriend at the time.

  “Why have you got these on your iPad?” asked Charlie.

  “I show them to young and aspiring photographers. This is the competition. You have to be as good as this.”

  “Yeah – right,” was Charlie’s dismissive come back.

  “Yeah – right. But there’s another reason, they constantly remind me how talented you are and not to use that talent would be a waste.”

  “You want me back on the horse.”

  “I want you back on your horse,” Carl emphasised.

  Of course Carl knew financially this would be good for him, good for his overheads, but he also knew that it would force Charlie back into the real world. Carl had an assignment at the Grosvenor House Hotel the following night. It was a big charity bash and the organisers wanted the best, so they were prepared to pay for Charlie and allow him to keep the copyright of any photos, as long as they could use them. It seemed like a no brai
ner. But Charlie wasn’t so sure he wanted to do the gig. After nearly an hour Carl eventually persuaded him it was a good idea.

  By then they were half way down their second bottle of wine, with another one already lined up for them to drink. It was inevitable with that much alcohol in their bloodstream that their conversation turned to what happened in Beck le Street. Charlie started to try and explain, whilst a shocked Carl listened. By the time Charlie arrived at the death of Naylor and his wife, Carl was totally transfixed. Charlie poured them both another glass as he described how they’d found Naylor and his wife dead and that Wood believed, and Charlie had to agree with him, that the incriminating letter written by Caroline had now been destroyed. If that was the case, was that the end of the trail … no more clues, no more evidence, no way of catching the killer?

  “That can’t be fucking it,” stated Carl before taking another mouthful of wine.

  “It’s not. There’s still a killer out there. But why they killed my mum … I still haven’t a clue.”

  “A killer?”

  “Yeah – a killer,” said Charlie emphatically. “Or do you think this was all some huge coincidence. My mother did commit suicide, Kyle fell backwards onto a knife and stabbed himself, Devika just lost control and crashed and Naylor and his wife … killed by some jealous husband.”

  “No … that’s just fucking ridiculous.” Carl’s words weren’t slurred at all, but there was no doubting the wine was affecting him.

  “What then?” asked an equally intoxicated Charlie.

  “I think …” Carl paused for a moment and pointed a finger at Charlie, “ … I think there’s more than one killer.”

  Charlie was leaning back in his seat, his head moved from side to side, but his eyes never left Carl. He eventually said: “More than one killer? How do you figure that?”

  “Your mother was killed by the first killer. So was this Kyle kid …”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why,” said Carl rather loudly. “I’m not fucking Agatha fucking Marple …”

  “Agatha Christie … Miss Marple …” corrected Charlie.

  “You know what I fucking mean.”

  “My mother and Kyle were killed by the same person … okay.” Charlie got them back on track.

  “Right,” said Carl trying to remember where they were. “Then Devika got this letter … that your mother left with the solicitors. That letter was stolen when she was run off the road … right? So someone got that letter.”

  “We think Naylor … the copper.”

  “The person who killed your mum wanted that letter, because … as you say … and it makes total sense … it would incriminate them.”

  “Yeah. Why else would she leave it with the solicitors?”

  “So they try and find it and have to kill the copper chappie and his wife … because he has it. Now that can’t have been the same person who ran Devika off the road, because they would have got the letter.”

  Charlie knew what Carl’s drunken ramblings were getting at. It was something he’d gone over in his mind himself. There was one killer responsible for the deaths of Caroline and Kyle and another killer responsible Devika’s death. The first killer then killed Naylor and his wife so as to retrieve the letter. Of course it was just conjecture, but in his drunken state it was conjecture that was making sense. The biggest problem was proving any of it, something that has so far proved illusive.

  It was just after ten when they decided to leave The Black Horse. They were very drunk. Carl had a driver and despite Charlie insisting he was okay to drive, he made him get in his Bentley, promising he’d send someone to pick up his car in the morning.

  Carl’s driver saw Charlie into his apartment and made sure he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Charlie drank a pint of water, managed to get half of his clothes off before collapsing on the bed.

  It was just after four in the morning when Charlie awoke with a start. During his intoxicated sleep his mind had been going over and over his conversation with Carl. What had awoken him was an image of a smashed up police car. A BMW that had received extensive damage in some kind of crash. Where was the image from? Why had it come to his mind now?

  Then he remembered. He’d seen the wreck of a car the day he visited Naylor after Devika had been killed. He saw it in the yard at the back of the police station. At the time he just thought the car must have been involved in some high-speed chase. He’d never connected it to Devika’s fatal accident.

  But what if that car had been the car he’d heard crashing into her over the phone? What if it was a police car that had driven her off the road? What he needed to find out is when the car was damaged and who was driving it. If it was a police car that ran Devika off the road, then one huge piece of the jigsaw would be in place.

  Charlie made his way into the kitchen and took a carton of orange juice from the fridge and gulped down half of it. For the first time Charlie thought he could see a way forward. That way forward depended on whether he considered Detective Inspector Jack Wood to be trustworthy or not. He did believe him to be just that; he just had to hope he was right.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The following evening Charlie was taking photographs at the large charity ball in aid of raising money for cancer. What bit of cancer, he wasn’t sure and he didn’t really care. He’d almost been forced here by Carl. He’d go through the motions and head off home as soon as he felt he could.

  At this particular event there were a host of soap stars and a smattering of ‘A’ list films stars. Charlie took the shots of them arriving, on the red carpet, in front of the sponsor board and as they raised their glasses of champagne. He was as efficient and unobtrusive as normal. Quite a number of the ‘celebs’ asked how he was and showed sympathy that he felt was actually genuine, well in some cases.

  Although his work was of the usual standard, he couldn’t get the events of Beck le Street out of his head. As much as he tried to focus on some tuxedo-clad ego, his mind kept coming back to Devika and his mother. It also kept coming back to what Carl said about there being two killers.

  Earlier that day he’d spoken with Wood. He asked him about the crashed BMW and what he knew about it. Wood knew nothing. Police vehicles crash all the time was his line, but he promised to look into it for him. Charlie believed he would, but had no idea how long it would take the Inspector.

  The speeches were underway, punctuated with videos of children designed to pull at the heart strings of the diners and also at their wallets, when Charlie felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He surreptitiously slipped his phone out and looked at the name of the caller: WOOD MOB. The return call was sooner than he had dared hope. Moving to the back of the huge ballroom, with the chandeliers now dimmed so the spotlights were more effective on the speaker, his retreat was hardly noticed. Whispering into his phone he answered the call: “Inspector?”

  “Is this a bad time?” asked Wood picking up on Charlie’s hushed tones.

  “No … it’s fine,” lied Charlie.

  “I made enquiries about the BM.”

  “And?”

  “The accident did happen the night Devika was killed.”

  Charlie knew it … he knew it. It was a police car that had driven Devika off the road.

  “The accident was logged,” continued Wood. “The car reported they were in pursuit of a vehicle they believed to be involved in the robbery at a petrol station.”

  “Did they say the make of the other vehicle?”

  “A Porsche Cayman.”

  “A fast get away car.”

  “A very fast get away car.”

  “This petrol station robbery …”

  “It happened an hour earlier …”

  “And a witness said a Porsche was used as a get away car?”

  “No. They didn’t
even mention a car. In the report I read, the cashier said it was a couple of lads, scarves tied round their faces who threatened him with a gun. He handed over the money and they ran off. There was no one on the forecourt at the time, so that’s the only version of events they had.”

  “So what made them chase this Porsche?”

  Wood gave a little cough. He was giving himself thinking time. He knew the line Charlie was going down and he also knew his answers would re-enforce Charlie’s belief that at least one or maybe more of his police colleagues were probably crooked. Nevertheless he felt he had to tell the truth.

  “They thought it was acting suspiciously.”

  “How do Porsches act suspiciously?”

  “The driver and his passenger were acting suspiciously,” Wood clarified.

  “How?”

  “That was never specified.”

  “They just linked it to the petrol station robbery.”

  “You’d have to ask them what their thinking was,” Wood said with a tone of acceptance.

  “And I can do that?” asked Charlie. “I can just go and ask a copper why he behaved like he did.”

  “I can’t stop you. But I also can’t guarantee what his reply will be.”

  “You can’t ask him for me then?”

  “That might be awkward.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Not my case. The driver and his colleague are not under my aegis.”

  “But you know their names.”

  “Yeah … I know their names.”

  “Can you tell me them?”

  There was a pause for Wood knew this would be an act of total betrayal, because like Charlie he knew these officers were lying.

  “They were PC Ryan Ridley and Sergeant Paul Armstrong.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s not a pleasure,” Wood muttered rather despondently before hanging up.

  Charlie knew whatever Wood’s faults were, corruption was not in his make-up and the thought of bad apples on his force were hard for him to bear.

  Charlie looked back into the Great Ballroom where the speeches were coming to an end. He wandered back into the thick of it, deciding what his next move should be regarding the now two named police officers. The applause was sounding for the end of the speech. Then the Speaker, who was about to leave the stage and return to her table, suddenly stopped. She was a woman in her forties who clearly spent many hours a week in the gym. She was bedecked with jewellery and Charlie guessed her dress cost at least two thousand pounds. She went back to the microphone.