Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  I whistled. “What happened?”

  “Nothing much. The police had no body, no signs of foul play, and only circumstantial evidence. They tried hard for a year and then – the web says – the insurance company put the boot into them. They didn’t want to pay out, and they wouldn’t have had to until 7 years had passed, except – in their eagerness to kick off a murder investigation – the cops got a judge to declare Sophie Benson legally dead after 2 years. Which meant – even though they’d got nothing of any note in those two years – the insurers would have to pay Kent out.

  “So the case is brought against Kent, and – as you’d predict – it collapses. There’s no proof he murdered the wife. The insurers pay out. And Kent settles into the role of man about town. He seems to have become a bit more respectable since – none of his business ventures have gone tits up lately.”

  “And here he is, about to marry a millionairess.”

  “Except someone’s trying to put a stop to this by raking up the past.”

  “What do you think?”

  Ray ran his fingers through his hair. “Honestly? I don’t know what to think. Do I think he killed her?” He considered this further, then shrugged. “No. It just doesn’t fit. He’s smart. If the people who called him a conman when the shit was hitting the fan about Drastic band were right, then he’s set up all the cons so that he was clearly dirty but untouchable. Why would he murder his wife, create a missing morning – and make no attempt to cover it up, or to create an alibi – and make it so obvious that something was wrong. The whole thing was so botched, I can’t imagine it’s anything more than what it looks like: She either fell – or jumped – overboard.”

  “What about the missing lifeboat?”

  “He claimed – later – that they’d taken it off for repairs at the end of the previous summer, and lo and behold, it turns up in one of their outhouses, deflated and dusty.”

  “So if he’s innocent, who’s trying to stir up the past now?”

  “Top of my list would be Julie Roth.”

  “The supposed original creator of the Drastic Band.” I considered this.

  “She swore revenge.”

  “She might have killed Sophie,” Caz suggested.

  “Possible,” Ray agreed, “But if she did, then she’s out of the frame for the poison pen letters.”

  I nodded, “I can’t see her wanting to bring the whole thing back up if she’s guilty of the original murder. So, if not her, then who else? Who’d want Sophie remembered and avenged?”

  “Her parents?” Dash offered.

  “Dead,” Ray answered. “The father died a year into the Drastic millions. Heart attack. Still: Least he got to see his girl making good. The mother died three years later. Stepped in front of a number 43 bus, and was dead before she made it to King Georges.”

  “Any siblings?” Caz asked.

  “None I could find.”

  “Right, then,” I said, “On the assumption that she didn’t murder Sophie, start looking for Julie Roth. Is she still in America, or did she recently make a trip to London. Dash: I assume the letters are coming from the UK?”

  Dash nodded. “I went round Olivia Wright’s yesterday to collect the ones she hadn’t already binned, then spent the day legging it all over London talking to mates in the sorting offices.”

  That explained the sunburn.

  “They all came via Mount Pleasant sorting office, which sorts mail for the EC postcode area, the N postcode area, the W1 postcode district and the WC postcode area. Half of London, in other words. Could have come from anywhere in the city.

  “There are eight letters and a package they got of printouts from the web. Various news stories of the wife’s disappearance.

  Dash held up one of the letters. It was the standard Ransom demand style – all blunt threats and cut-out letters from magazines. “They pretty much all say the same thing: Kent doesn’t care for you; he’s a gold digger who will rip you off and leave you dead.”

  “So, nothing complimentary then?”

  “Well, one or two of them do point out that she’s young, beautiful and deserves so much more than,” he flicked through the pile, ‘An aging wife-killer who only wants your money.’”

  “Nice,” I murmured. “What about the envelopes: Handwritten?”

  Dash shook his head, “All printed labels.”

  I sighed. This hadn’t really got us anywhere.

  “There is one thing,” Dash said uncertainly. “The spelling.”

  My nephews were a pair of identical twins, except when it came to their intellects. Ray was smart, but Dash – God bless him – was more, as his teachers used to say, intuitive, which was a polite way of saying not very bright.

  Dash held up one of the letters. “It’s this one. He doesn’t love you. He only cares about the colour of your money.”

  I looked at the letter. And saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Well, it’s the You, innit,” Dash said.

  “What’s the matter with You?” I asked.

  “Nothing. What’s the matter with you,” He answered, and Caz rolled her eyes, her rate of fanning speeding up so furiously that several of the letters were wafted across the table.

  “Boys,” she said, “We’re basically a spit take away from a Marx brothers. Get to the point before I expire.”

  Dash shrugged. “Not Y-O-U You.” He attempted to clarify, whilst doing no such thing. “I mean the letter ‘U’ in the word ‘Colour.’”

  A light began to dawn. “I take it Julie Roth is American?” I asked Ray.

  “No idea,” he answered, “You didn’t ask me to dig into her.”

  I smiled at his brother. “You should get heat stroke more often, Dash,” then turned back to Ray.

  “Do some digging. I need to know if Julie Roth is American. Cos whoever wrote those notes spelled Colour in the English way – an American would have dropped the ‘U’. And if these letters were written by an English person, the search comes closer to home.”

  “And we’re looking at Kent and Olivia’s immediate circle,” Caz said, sitting up straighter.

  “Exactly,” I smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Sorry.” Elaine hung up the phone and looked sheepishly at me.

  We were standing in the hallway, the last of the lunchtime punters were beginning to drift out of the bar, back to offices and shops, the drone of conversations slowly diminishing, and I was on my way out, having finished the lunch service.

  “Alright, Elaine?” I was feeling a little brighter. The Nick situation was still hanging around me like a fog, but the developments in the poison pen case as well as my determination to press on in search of Dave Walker’s killer had helped the day feel a little more positive.

  “Course it’s alright.” Elaine snapped back. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  I paused. “No reason. Listen, Elaine,” I joked, I don’t mind you using the phone, so long as it’s not to call Australia or anything.”

  Her lip curled. “Mate, it’s the twenty first century. I’ve got a mobile. I don’t need to use your shitty landline. Fact, I don’t need anything from this craphole.”

  I glanced at the phone, her hand still resting on the receiver.

  “That was a wrong number,” she explained.

  I let it go; I’d clearly heard a mumbled conversation as I’d been coming down the hallway; something more than a I’m sorry, you have a wrong number. But, right then, I didn’t care.

  “Well I’m going out,” I advised, sweeping past her, “Y’know” In case anyone needs me.”

  “I’ll update fucking Interpol,” she shrugged, sucking her teeth and heading off to the kitchen. “Fucking loser.”

  I made a mental note to dock her wages for insubordination, then realised that – on Chopper’s instructions – we weren’t paying her, and considered for a moment whether this fact might not be linked to her not so subtle workplace issues.

  I skipped out the back door, and
round to the front of the pub, then crossed the street, the heat of the pavement burning through the soles of my All Stars, and headed up to Number Fifty Three.

  From inside, I could hear the high whine of a buzz saw, and a regular banging as the builders got on with refitting Mike Green’s shop. The door was open, a steady stream of airborne sawdust and an oven-like heat streaming from the interior along with the tinny noise of a radio blasting pop music, and a stream of obscenities from what sounded like a plumber with issues.

  “Sodding pump aint gonna fit there,” he was saying. “You do that and the bastard thing’ll cave in.”

  “Hello.” I knocked on the open door, and, raising my voice, called again. “Anyone home?”

  “Sorry mate, we’re closed,” came a voice from within.

  I was just about to say that I was looking for Mike Green when he appeared through the dust. “Danny! Nice to see you. What can I do for you?”

  I smiled, stepping into the store. “Just thought I’d pop over and say hello.”

  On the opposite side of the room, the plumber was wrestling with what looked like an enormous Espresso machine, trying to fix it to a counter on the back wall, whilst hooking up the various water supply pipes.

  “That looks scary,” I said.

  Mike smiled at me, then gave me a hug, and put his arm around me.

  “Welcome to ‘Greens,’ he said ‘Fashion for the discerning man.’ And what does a discerning man want when he’s choosing next seasons’ perfect suit more than a nice blast of Espresso. If Colin can ever get the bloody machine plumbed in. How are you doing? What with the,” he made a gesture intended, I assumed, to suggest the bludgeoning of one of my temporary staff.

  I shrugged. “Well as can be expected, I think. So it’s a menswear store. The mystery is solved.”

  “No mystery,” he smiled, “I’ve always wanted to run a clothes shop. Was my dream as a kid, though I could do without trying to do a refurb in the middle of a heatwave.”

  “When you due to open?” I asked.

  Mike laughed, a full open laugh, and spread his arms wide, the movement straining his T-shirt across his chest. “Sometime in the next century, it feels like. Seriously?” He smiled, putting his arm back around my shoulders and guiding me back towards the door of the shop, “Due to be ready by the end of August so I can open in Mid-September. I’ll put something aside for you.” He stepped back, looked me up and down, “What are you? A 38 waist?”

  I blushed, “I’m a 34,” I said, deciding I was off carbs. For life.

  Mike smiled, “Well, Mr 34, what are you up to this evening? Fancy a pint?”

  I shook my head, gesturing up the street, “I’ve got a pub to run.”

  “You’re blowing me out?” He asked. “Nobody ever blows me out.”

  “Sorry,” I said, and I really was. “Maybe some other night.”

  Mike smiled, and nodded, “Some other night would be great,” and, sensing that I was being dismissed, I made my excuses and left.

  The abrupt ending of the conversation – the entire way, in fact, that Mike had taken me physically and steered me from the shop in such a way that I’d seen nothing of the interior suddenly struck me as a little odd.

  He’d seemed so excited and proud of the shop the day before, and yet here he was, eager not to show me around, to be rid of me.

  He’s got a lot to be getting on with, I rationalised as I strolled back towards the Marq.

  And yet, when I looked over my shoulder, rather than getting on with whatever he had to do, Mike was standing in the doorway of the shop, his arms crossed.

  He waved at me.

  I waved back and, puzzled, returned to the pub.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Caz, have I put on weight?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” Caz finished adjusting her boobs, spritzed them with Jo Malone Avocado and Guava mist, and eyed me up and down. “Darling, you’re sylph-like. Positively emaciated,” she opined, dropping the scent back into her handbag.

  I spread my arms wide. “What waist size am I?”

  “You’re a thirty three thirty four,” she said immediately, “Though if we’re talking Versace, you’d be a forty three, but don’t take that personally. Why do you ask?”

  “You sure about the waist size?” I asked.

  “Sweetheart, there isn’t a woman alive who has eyed up more men in trousers. I know a thirty-three thirty-four when I see one.”

  “Just wanted to be sure. Oh, and Caz: The left one’s dropped. Again.”

  “Shit!” she jiggled her boobs. “This is the last time I wear high street underwear. It couldn’t support helium. So, how long are we planning on waiting here?”

  Here was the The Nifty Nosh, Café and Sausage Bar (I kid you not) in a street in west London that was bordered by the Talgarth road, Olympia and various railway sidings. Earlier that day, we’d visited Fillip and Troy, the massage therapist and actor, who lived together “But not,” Troy had been keen to make clear, “Together,” in a flat in Archway, “It’s actually Highgate borders,” Fillip had stressed, as though saying the word Highgate enough would move the property, or change the geography of London itself.

  As we’d sat in their tiny dim kitchen, Troy had pulled out his phone and started flicking through Grindr. “Ignore me,” he said, “I’m doing research for a role.”

  Fillip had tittered, “Yes, dear; we know exactly what roll you’re researching for,” and a spot of mild bickering had ensued before we’d managed to pull them back to the point in hand.

  From the two, we’d learned little other than that, as Troy put it, “Walker was a miserable old bugger at the best of times, but he didn’t deserve murdering.”

  This was a fact we were all agreed on.

  From Fillip, we’d gleaned the fact that – after Desmond Everett threw a drink over Anthony, Fil saw Anthony behaving very furtively in the hallway.

  “He was supposed to be drying himself up,” Fillip had disclosed, leaning in as though he were gossiping over a fence, “But he looked to me like he was looking for someone back there.”

  At this, Troy had looked up from his Grindr research, and said, “Well that James Kane was the same. Poking around the kitchen looking for – he said – a glass of water; having just walked out of a bar with a whole crate of the stuff,” before giving us a nod and a wink, both of which were heavy with purpose, and telling us that the address we had for Darryl O’Connor was out of date. “Oh she’s moved up in the world,” he’d explained, scribbling out the new address. “All that modelling and,” he raised an eyebrow, “Personal training, seems to be really paying off.”

  We’d already ascertained that Darryl wasn’t at home, and I’d suggested that, rather than hang around outside his flat awaiting his return, and risking heatstroke, we’d retire to the Nifty Nosh for a milk shake and a salad.

  I’d been standing at the bar, halfway through the Milk shake (Banana Peanut butter, since you ask) when waist size had popped into my head.

  “Oh,” I nodded through the window, and dropped a tenner on the bar for our drinks. “Looks like he’s home.”

  O’Carroll was walking towards us, his gym bag slung casually over one shoulder, a bright red baseball cap – the peak pointing backwards – jammed onto his head. His eyes – which might have been shaded by the baseball cap if he’d been wearing it properly – were covered, instead by a pair of wayfarer sunglasses.

  “OK,” Caz said as we hustled out, “How d’you want to play this?”

  “Well, I’ll ask some questions, and you just back me up.”

  She stopped dead. “That’s it? I mean: That’s your plan?”

  “Caz, he’s a muscle Mary with half a brain cell. I’m not expecting much.”

  “Oh dear, sweetheart, you really need to get that Gaydar recalibrated,” she smirked, readjusting The Girls, and making towards O’Carroll’s flat.

  The Himbo had already mounted the stairs to his front door, and was inserting a key in
to the lock by the time we’d crossed the street. Caz called from the pavement, and he turned, a frown on his face.

  He looked down on us, and the scowl deepened. Then, a smile slowly spreading on his face, an eyebrow was raised above the wayfarer frames, and the glasses were removed.

  It was only later, of course, that I realised his vantage point allowed him a clear and uninterrupted view of Lady Caroline De Montfort’s cleavage.

  “Hi Darryl,” I stepped forward, and the black look returned.

  “You? What d’you want?”

  “A few minutes of your time,” Caz answered for me, moving her shoulders in such a way that her persuasive charms were hoiked even further upwards.

  “What about?” he demanded, and I thought: we’d like to talk to you about global warming, Jesus and the price of property in Kuala Lumpur. What the fuck do you think we want to talk to you about?

  But instead, I smiled in what I hoped was a calming fashion, and said “We wanted to talk to you about Dave.”

  The shifty look crossed his face, and –thought it might have been my imagination – he glanced surreptitiously around, as though to ensure nobody had overheard my remark.

  “You’d better come in, so,” he said, opening the door.

  The flat was on the third floor. There was no lift, and O’Carroll – heavy looking gym bag still slung casually over his shoulder – took the steps two at a time, as though he were out for a Sunday stroll across the bogs of Connemara. If there were bogs in Connemara. And if they were hilly instead of flat.

  Whatever: Darryl bounded upwards, and, behind him, Caz and I trudged, every landing feeling like we’d achieved another plateau in a Himalayan ascent.

  “I am not,” Caz intoned at one stage, “A fan of stairs.” The phrase should have been comic, but, in the airless stiflingly hot stairwell, the scent of cabbage and takeaway Chinese food seeming to leach from the 1970’s papered walls, I knew exactly what she meant.