Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  Dot Frost paused, a look of concern registering. “Danny? Everything alright?”

  I looked at Nick, glanced back at Dot, and smiled. “It’s fine.”

  “Ah,” a slight smile, some recognition, perhaps, flickered across her face, and she nodded. “Get some rest. And remember: Anything you need…”

  “Thanks Dorothy.”

  “Are you OK?” Nick, repeated.

  I was about to repeat the as well as can be expected bit when he shook his head.

  “Don’t bullshit me,” he said softly. “Don’t tell me you’ve told Reid all there is to tell, either. There’s something bothering you.”

  I sighed. “He was just a waiter,” I said.

  “And now he’s a dead waiter, and we need to find out who killed him.”

  “That’s what’s bothering me,” I said. “Like Reid said: He was just a waiter. Like being a waiter wasn’t something worth being. Like it would have mattered more if he’d been just a nuclear scientist, or just an Investment Banker or a Football player.”

  “I think the point is that we can think of more reasons why someone would want to kill any of those people than why anyone would want to murder a waiter. Unless his waiting skills were really crap. Spilled soup? Cold wontons?”

  His attempt at humour left me cold. I knew he was trying to cheer me up, but I didn’t want to be cheered up. “He was actually a good waiter,” I sighed. “He really cared about doing a good job. Couldn’t stand to see anyone being lazy or less than correct.” I stopped myself before I mentioned Elaine and her half arsed attempts at sabotage.

  “So who did he have a go at?” Nick asked. “Who was ‘Less than correct’?”

  I shrugged. “Nick… I’m tired.”

  “Can I come over after my shift?” He pressed. “There’s something wrong. I don’t know what it is, but I want to help.”

  I smiled at him. Nick and I had started out shakily. I hadn’t known if I was ready for a romantic relationship; for any sort of relationship, truth be told. But he’d kept making his case, kept turning up, and finally I’d caved in, and, for the past six months, even though we saw each other irregularly, and – to be honest – I’d never even seen inside his flat, I’d been happier than I might have believed I’d ever be.

  But this latest murder at The Marq had shaken me. I kept trying to get my life on track, and it just kept derailing.

  I was stood in the hallway, listening to Nick making soothing sounds to me, whilst internally having a mini pity party for myself, thinking things couldn’t really get much worse, when the universe decided to point out how naive I was.

  Nick said he’d be finished at about seven, and would come round to The Marq for about seven forty-five, and I was just agreeing and thinking of maybe making a chicken salad when another copper appeared.

  “Fisher,” this slim destroyer of worlds said, as he passed us by, “Your wife’s been on the phone. Says it’s urgent, and you need to call her back ASAP.”

  Then he was gone.

  Nick froze, his green eyes – emerald green with flecks of blue and grey through them – widened momentarily, then winced shut; his mouth – those plump red lips I’d wanted to kiss with all my might a moment before – opened into a wordless “Oh,” and his shoulders slumped.

  “Wait,” I smiled nervously, “he…” I gestured after the already long gone copper. “Did he..?” I looked from Nick to the back of the already almost vanished copper, none of the past few seconds seeming to make any sense at all. “What did he say?”

  “Listen, Danny, it’s not what you think.”

  It was my turn now for my shoulders to slump. But just for a moment. I was becoming an expert at rescuing the shreds of my self-respect and dignity from romantic disaster; but I still wanted this to be not what I thought. I still, desperately wanted to have misheard the copper. Your life called would have been acceptable, if nonsensical. You’re rife to be balled would have worked too.

  I straightened up, looked him square in his green duplicitous eyes, and said “Oh? Well what is it, then?”

  “Its…” his shoulders slumped again. “It’s complicated.”

  I ran.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I’m not proud of it. The voices in my head were loudly exhorting me to punch his fucking lights out, but my dignity and logic pointed out that we were standing in a police station, and wondered whether – betraying, two-timing fuck or not – attacking a copper in a cop shop was really a wise move.

  The voice in my head that sounded like Caz, meanwhile, said “All men are bastards. God I need a drink.”

  So I turned on my heels, and tried to stride purposefully and directly down the corridor and out of his life.

  I got halfway down the corridor before he caught up with me, put a hand on my arm to stop me, and said “It’s difficult, but you’ll understand.”

  That was when I turned, furiously, on him. “I already understand everything,” I spat.

  And that, I’m afraid to say, was when I let go of my dignity and ran, down the corridor, and out of the station, and down the steps on to the pavement where what can only be described as a phone box in a black suit halted my progress.

  “Mr Bird,” the giant said, the peaked cap on his head shading his eyes and making his aviator sunglasses somewhat redundant, “Allow me to offer you a lift home.”

  I was so drowned in my own misery that I didn’t even bother to try pulling my arm out of his gentle, yet firm grip.

  I knew who this was – or, more precisely, who this person worked for, and so I allowed myself to be lead a few meters on from the police station – far enough away to pretend that the long sleek dark Daimler was not waiting for someone to leave the station, but close enough to make that pretence obvious.

  Last time Chopper Falzone had had me picked up from the Nick, the collection had been done by one James Christie, a compact snarling ball of nasty who, shall we say, was no longer in Mr Falzone’s employ, and the vehicle of choice had been a stubby clapped out little Ford. This time, the employee – his bulk, in contrast to Reid, consisting totally of muscle – was almost deferential, and the vehicle, as I say, somewhat classier.

  I wasn’t fooled. Falzone was, after all, the man that even The Sun had described as London’s Al Capone, which I knew irked Chopper. He’d climbed to the top of a dangerous tree by being violent, ruthless and conniving. As polite as his chauffeur had been, the charm offensive, if I didn’t say or do exactly what he wanted, could very quickly turn into my hanging from my thumbs in the stock room of the Pound Shop.

  I had been made so deeply miserable by recent events that I no longer cared what happened to me, but was still somewhat disconcerted, when the rear passenger door of the Daimler was opened, and I was ushered inside, to find the said Martin Falzone waiting for me on the back seat.

  “Hello Danny,” Chopper smiled, his little brown eyes sparkling welcomingly, as he patted the seat beside him. “Want a choc ice?”

  He dipped into a cooler at his feet and extracted a foil wrapped ice cream on a stick.

  I gaped, slumping onto the seat, and he took my silence for rejection. “Suit yerself,” he said, tearing the wrapper from the ice cream and plunging the thing into his mouth.

  Outside, the street had been an inferno, but in here – thanks to the almost silent air conditioning – the car was almost chilly. Which explained why Falzone was wearing a three piece suit, and not even breaking a sweat.

  “Got an awful sweet tooth,” he said as the driver – hidden behind a smoked glass screen - put the car into first, and slid away from the kerb. “The wife’s always telling me that I’ll get diabetes. Would be about right, if I ended up getting carried off by fucking sugar, considering the number of nasty bastards who’ve tried to do the job so far. But who could resist a nice sweet ice cream on a day like today. Feels like the end of the fucking world out there,” he gestured vaguely at the world beyond the smoked glass windows, and I wondered how often Chopper Falz
one actually experienced the world “Out there.”

  “Thank Christ,” he smiled, “For Choc Ices, and air con. So there’s a few more inches on my waist, and a few less Icebergs. Who cares? Never liked Polar Bears anyway. Nasty fuckers.”

  I said nothing. The monologue hadn’t seemed to require a response. Besides which, there were never a few inches more on Chopper’s waist; he was notorious for remaining at the fighting weight he’d carried when he’d been a featherweight contender, and for dressing – at all times – as though he were in a fashion shoot.

  “So,” he gestured at the cooler once more, “You sure you won’t join me?”

  Even if I’d fancied a choc ice, to be honest, my stomach was now tied in knots, and the thought of me spewing cocoa-streaked vanilla ice cream all over his handmade brogues didn’t bear thinking about, so I shook my head. “No thanks, Mr Falzone. I’m not really hungry.”

  He shrugged. “Fair enough. Like I was saying,” he said (though he hadn’t in fact been saying anything beyond eulogising frozen desserts) “I’m grateful. That you kept Elaine and I out of this during your little chat,” he gestured behind us, at the now distant Police station.

  How could he be so certain, I wondered, that I’d left them out of it? Did Chopper, I wondered, have the place bugged? Or did he have an inside man who’d report to him on whatever he wanted reporting on? Neither option seemed outrageous, but both still managed to be rather disconcerting.

  “It’s appreciated,” he clarified, and I, apropos of nothing, made what I hoped were acknowledging noises.

  “Not a problem,” I said, wondering at that point, whether I should tell South London’s most violent criminal that his dear darling granddaughter was mental.

  “Unfortunately,” he continued, pausing as he shoved the choc ice into his mouth, sucked noisily on it, and slowly – almost flirtatiously – withdrew it to disclose that he’d sucked off all the chocolate coating, “We still have the problem of a violent nutter on the loose in my pub, and the fucking rozzers, once again, crawling all over one of my businesses.”

  There was, I knew, room for only one violent nutter in Chopper’s world, and no place whatsoever for what he charmingly referred to as the rozzers. “Mr Falzone,” I said, “I have no idea what happened yesterday, but I’m sure it was just a passing crazy.”

  I wasn’t of course, but suggesting otherwise – that I, via my hiring choices, or the type of customer I’d actually sought out – had brought this difficulty to his door – was not, I figured, at this stage, a wise approach.

  Besides, the third option – that the homicidal loon had been one foisted on me by the old man sat at my side– was even less likely to endear me to him.

  “Is she safe?” He asked, in a South London version of Laurence Olivier’s famous Catchphrase.

  “Safe?” I replied, feeling, despite the almost sub-zero temperature, a cold bead of sweat run down my back.

  “Lainey,” he clarified, using his pet name for the piranha he’d lumbered me with. “Is she safe? That’s the only assurance I want from you, Dan. My little girl is a treasure to me, and if anything ever happened to her…”

  The threat lay between us, as he sucked the last of the ice cream from the stick, locked eyes with me, and snapped the wood cleanly in two, throwing the broken halves back into the cooler.

  “She’s safe, Mr Falzone,” I answered. “Elaine was working the bar all afternoon with Ali and,” I almost used Ray and Dash’s joint nicknames the ASBO twins, but thought better of it at the last minute, “My nephews.”

  “Nephews?” Chopper raised an eyebrow. “How old these boys are?”

  “Um,” I searched my brains, “Seventeen.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “There’s different types of danger, Dan.”

  “They’re OK,” I said, rushing to defend them, as I imagined the grief that would befall them if Chopper ever decided they weren’t.

  “They better be,” he said. “I like you, Dan. You’re smart; respectful. That’s why I let you employ Lainey.”

  I boggled at this, but, channelling Caz, chose to nod like a duchess instead.

  “She’s young. Easily influenced. And I want her to have good influences. These boys,” he changed topic, “They good boys?”

  “Oh yes, yes,” I stammered, wondering how quickly I’d be able to spirit them out of the country, and what I was going to tell their parents if Chopper took a dislike to them. The boys? Oh, they’ve decided to become missionaries in Bora Bora. No, I don’t think that’s anywhere near Ouagadougou. Why do you ask?

  “They faggots?” he asked, before shaking his head in annoyance. “Sorry. Sorry, Dan. No offence meant.”

  “None taken,” I responded, deciding that Choppers use of offensive pejoratives was, by and large, one of the least of his crimes.

  “I meant, y’know, they like you? Cos shirt lifters I got no problems with where Lainey’s concerned.”

  I pondered informing Chopper that I’d never lifted a shirt in my life, though several had been discarded carelessly on my bedroom floor, but decided that a smart mouth was not required.

  “No,” I said, definitively, “They’re not,” I searched for the word, then settled on “They’re straight.”

  Chopper sighed. “Shame. Bent would’ve been safer. But you’re keeping an eye on them, right? No monkey business?”

  I recalled Elaine’s threat to them yesterday, and felt that monkey business was unlikely.

  “They’re OK,” I assured him. “She’s OK.”

  “OK.” He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “If you say so.”

  The car slowed, and I realised we were outside the pub.

  Chopper dismissed me with a casual wave of his hand. “Tell Lainey her Nannu sends his love. And Danny,” he said, as I moved to open the door, “Take care of her. This killer – or either of them boys - turns out to be anywhere near her, there’ll be a price to pay.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  And left the car.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The fact that All Men Are Heartless Bastards had long been a central tenet of Caroline Holloway’s world view. Bastardy, of course, wasn’t just a trait amongst men. She held the same true of some females, particularly the ones who were politicians, PR agents, and certain editors she’d dealt with in her time.

  And the Bastardy, she freely admitted, wasn’t always a bad thing. In much the same way as suggesting that all Lions were Calculating Carnivorous hunters, the knowledge was simply factual, and the sooner one accepted the fact, the sooner one could get on with living.

  But I had to admit that her reaction to my news of Nick’s deception took me aback somewhat.

  Expecting a purse lipped I told you so, I got, instead, a look of disbelief, and an “are you sure?”

  “Sure of what?” I asked. “That he’s got a wife, or that he made no attempt to deny it.”

  “Both. Either. Whatever.” She shook her head, as though to clear it. “None of it makes any sense.”

  I sighed. “I think it sort of does. He’s always been a bit distant on detail. I know hardly anything about his life. His family. His history. I’ve been seeing a bloody ghost.”

  “But he seemed,” she searched for the words, found none, and threw her hands up in dismay. “Jesus. So what did you do?”

  “Do? Why, I offered to go shopping with the wife for her fall wardrobe, of course. What d’you think I did? I ran, Caz. I put my foot down and I got as far from the fucker as I could.”

  “But what I don’t understand is why he never mentioned her?”

  I choked. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Is the Pope an old man?”

  “Caz, why do you think he never mentioned her?”

  “Well, what I mean is: he couldn’t have thought that you’d never find out. I mean, a wife – believe me, dear heart – tends to pop up sooner or later. Without fail. So what was he playing at by not mentioning her?”

  “I don’t know,”
I shrugged. “Maybe,” I brightened up, “She’s got a fatal illness, and he figured she’d be dead before he had to tell me about her?”

  “That’s what I love about you,” Caz said, pouring a large gin and waving the tonic over the top of the glass, “Your positive outlook, and love for all humanity. Oh,” she slid the glass across the table to me, “There’s some more bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Let me guess: This heatwave really is the end of the world, and the whore of Babylon’s been spotted riding a dragon down Shoreditch high street.”

  “Sweetheart, that sight’s visible almost every night of the week. No; the Standard’s been in touch.”

  “They’re not coming round?” I guessed, and Caz sadly shook her head.

  “Said something about how reviewing the Caesar salad on page ten when the latest homicide is still all over the front page might not look too good.”

  I sighed. Quite frankly, the no-show of a hoped-for reviewer in the midst of everything else that was going on was not that big a disappointment to me.

  There was a cough, and a gentle knock on the doorframe, and we both turned to find Mike Green standing in the doorway. He was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans that showed his solidly muscular calves, the olive skin glistening slightly, and a pale blue t-shirt that stretched enticingly across his chest. “Sorry to disturb,” he said consolingly, and I couldn’t help wondering how long he’d been standing in the doorway.

  “Just came over to check in with you both and see if there was anything I could do to help.”

  He gave me a hug that was somewhere between comforting and disconcertingly exciting. Did I imagine it, I wondered, or did Mike hold the squeeze a little longer than was strictly necessary?