Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  Here, boxes were piled in the corner, piles of old DVDs sat atop a pine dresser, and a bed, stripped of bedlinen, sulked in the corner. The shutters were completely closed, casting the room in twilight.

  We searched fruitlessly under the bed, and were on our way to the guest bathroom when something chimed in the back of my head.

  “Wait,” I said, and the two women froze on the spot, looking expectantly at me. “The rug,” I said, turning and heading back to the living room, Caz and Miss Hastings following, until we all stopped, colliding into one another, in the doorway.

  “What are we looking at?” Caz whispered, then added, “And why am I whispering.”

  Miss Hastings shushed her loudly, and looked expectantly at me.

  The coffee table sat on a large Persian rug – all reds and oranges and moth eaten enough to suggest it had come from whatever country pile Dopey Des had been raised in. And, on top of the rug, a designer coffee table – all angular and metallic, and totally at odds with both the rug the sofa and the rest of the room – sat testament, I suspected, to the fact that Desmond was one of those people with more money than style or taste.

  “Look at the Sky remote,” I whispered. “It’s on the arm of the sofa, within easy reach. Look at the kitchen sink: Dishes waiting to be done. Now, look at the coffee table. What’s on it?”

  The ladies recited the contents of the table: “A magazine. A couple of remote controls.”

  “A bowl of pot pourri,” the last from Miss Hastings in a tone that suggested her view of Pot Pourri wasn’t far removed from her view of crystal meth.

  “Now look where the coffee table is,” I said. “It’s on the other side of the room, nowhere near the sofa. Everything on it is well out of reach. Why would Desmond – a man who clearly had a lazy streak – put his coffee table out of reach of the place he sat?”

  We stepped into the room.

  “He wouldn’t,” Caz said.

  “He didn’t,” I answered, going to one end of the table, and indicating that she should help me lift it.

  The table to one side, I kneeled down, and rolled the rug back, and heard Miss Hastings’s “Oh, the poor boy.”

  The carpet beneath the rug was stained almost black with blood that hadn’t entirely dried, so copious was the amount. It glistened dully in the sunlight filtering into the room through the half-closed white shutters, and, as another idea formed in my head, I stood, and, without saying a word, walked back into the bedroom, kicking aside the pile of clothes and, with the tea towel from the kitchen, tugging gently at the door of the wardrobe.

  The door moved slowly, then flew open as the corpse of The Hon Desmond Everett, his face whiter than bones, pitched out of its place of concealment amongst the bedding from the guest bedroom, and landed, half-in and half-out of the wardrobe, his arm flung outwards as though pleading for my help.

  And in his hand, half visible, the chain dangling loosely around his wrist, was a small gold locket. One I’d seen before.

  “Miss Hastings,” I called over my shoulder. “were you telling the truth earlier when you said you’d called the police?”

  “Young man,” Miss Hastings responded, reaching the bedroom doorway behind me, and stopping dead, “I always tell the truth.”

  And, as if on cue, we heard the sound of a car pulling up in the mews outside.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  It was late that night by the time Caz and I got back to The Marq, and Ali was just chasing out the last of the stragglers with cries of “You might not have homes to go to, folks, but we have, so thanks for your company, but it’s time to head off into the night now. Thank you.”

  She paused, and, seeing that there were still one or two who hadn’t started moving towards the door, bellowed even louder: “I’ll be turning the lights on full strength in five minutes, so unless you want that number opposite you to see what you really look like in bright light, I’d get moving, boys!”

  A chorus of outraged squawks ensued, and the rest of the sparse clientele supped furiously up and started heading towards the door.

  “Oh look,” Ali announced to the ASBO twins, “The wanderers return. Thanks very much for leaving us to run this place tonight without so much as a bowl of Velo-tee to hand out for dinner service.”

  “Don’t start, Ali,” I answered, hauling my tired arse onto a bar stool as Caz walked directly behind the bar and, having filled two glasses with ice, waved one at Ali and the twins, received affirmative nods, and pulled out three more glasses.

  Ali ran round my side of the bar, growled “Move it, Maureen” at a tall skinny gentleman who’d been half passed out at the opposite end of the bar, manhandled him out of the pub, and locked the door.

  “What’s happened?” She asked, as Caz slid a half pint of gin, barely touched by tonic water, my way.

  And I told them.

  Afterwards, the only sound was the jukebox tinnilly trilling some old Stock Aitken Waterman masterpiece in the corner.

  “Fuck,” Dash said, at length.

  “Quite,” Caz said.

  “So have they arrested this artist?” Ali asked.

  “Well, she’s probably being brought in for questioning,” I said, “But I doubt they’ll charge her.”

  “Why the fuck not?” Ali demanded.

  “Because,” I sighed, “she’ll have an alibi, or there’ll be insufficient to no DNA evidence, but mostly because she didn’t do it. She’s innocent.”

  Ali snorted. “Like innocence ever stopped them charging anyone.”

  “True, that,” Caz deadpanned, toying with the slice of lime from her gin. “So, what makes you so sure she didn’t do it?”

  “The very thing meant to make us think she did do it: The locket. Monica Vale has a locket with a dodgy clasp. It keeps falling off her, but it’s so important to her that she knows, immediately, if it’s dropped off. So, do you really want me to believe that she could skewer Desmond Everett, watch him bleed to death, go into the bedroom, strip the bed, wrap him up, drag him into the wardrobe, rearrange the furniture in the living room, and – at no point – fail to notice that the locket was missing?”

  “Adrenaline?” Caz offered. “I mean: she has just stabbed a man to death. Clearly reason was not top of the agenda.”

  I shrugged. “You might be right. But you know what this looks like to me?”

  From somewhere in the back of my mind, a bell began to toll. An idea was forming.

  “We’re waiting,” Ali said, jolting me out of my reverie.

  “It looks,” I said, “like gilding the lily. Like someone who decided that killing Desmond Everett wasn’t enough: They had to hide the body, delay discovery, then – when it was discovered – ensure that suspicion was pointed at Monica Vale.”

  “But why would anyone want to do that?” Caz asked.

  I sighed, “Because whoever did this has a taste for drama and no idea of when to stop.”

  Ali looked at Caz. “He’s doin’ that thing again, isn’t he?”

  “Least he’s not playing the violin and smoking crack,” Caz responded, and then had to clarify the point to a bemused Ali, who clearly thought I’d taken up both activities, though which one – the drugs or the noise from a novice violinist – was most upsetting to her was unclear.

  “Ray,” I said, changing the subject, “Did you get anywhere with that bit of business I asked you to run?”

  Ray, wordlessly, dipped down under the bar, dug around in his messenger bag, and, standing again, slid a sheet of paper across the bar. “Pretty much what you suggested,” he finally said. “sorry.”

  I smiled sadly, slugged my gin, and slid off the stool. “Par for the course, mate. Well, no time like the present, I suppose.”

  “Where you goin’?” Ali asked as I headed towards the door.

  “Just got to see a man about an inferno,” I said, as Caz reached for her handbag. “No,” I held a hand up, “Give me a few minutes, OK?” I asked, glancing at Ray, who nodded. “I just wa
nt a few minutes alone. Pop over in a bit. Just in case.”

  Ray glanced wordlessly at Dash, who lifted a bottle of wine from the bar and held it out to me. “Just in case,” he said, miming clubbing someone.

  I took the bottle, and nodded thanks at Ray.

  The four looked wordlessly at each other. In the background, the jukebox continued to play tinny pop music. I let myself out into the street, the heat – even at this hour – bouncing off the walls, and crossed the road.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  There was no sign of life at Mike Green’s shop, but I banged on the door again. “Mike? Hey, Mike? You in there?”

  Eventually, a thin crack of light appeared through the plate glass window, and I heard movement from within. I banged again. “It’s Danny.”

  There was a scratching sound, and then the sound of a lock being undone, a chain released, and the door cracked open.

  “Danny.” Mike appeared at the crack, his face in half-light, his whole body seemingly pressed against the door. “What’s up?”

  I smiled, in what I hoped was a friendly way. “You living in here now?” I asked.

  “Just,” he glanced back over his shoulder, “Catching up. On some paperwork. Busy, y’know.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I can imagine. Everything OK?”

  “Busy,” he said again, his voice a monotone.

  I held up the bottle of wine. “But you’ve got time for a drink, surely. With me?”

  There was a moment of silence, as though he were debating the prospect, then the door opened, and he stepped back. “Sure,” he was breezy again, his usual self, “Come in the back; it’s less dusty there.”

  He turned and began walking through the darkened shop. I stepped in, and pushed the door closed behind me, but used my thumb to flick the latch, so that the lock didn’t engage.

  He put no lights on, so the shop was in almost full darkness, but even still, I could see them lined up against the walls. I drew no attention to the tables and chairs, and followed him through to the office at the back, where his deceit could no longer be hidden.

  We were standing in a kitchen, with a gas hob, shiny stainless steel work tops, cupboards for ingredients, and two huge fridges.

  I smiled, as though surprised. “Hey,” I said, “nice kitchen.”

  He turned towards me, and my smile faltered.

  Mike Green – smiley positive, excited Mike Green, who had left a grim life behind in the North to come south and open his dream ‘menswear’ shop – looked dreadful.

  His skin was ashen, his eyes dull, puffy and encircled by rings so red that he looked like he’d been crying for days. His skin was ashen, and his hands were visibly shaking.

  “I’m,” he faltered, plastered on a smile that barely registered as one, and never even approached reaching his eyes, “I’m thinking I might not open the clothes shop. Might do something with food. I mean, the kitchen’s here, so, y’know…” he faltered, then, seeming to steel himself, smiled, nodded at the bottle in my hand, “Glasses?”

  I shook myself out of my reverie. “Yeah,” I smiled, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of wine, and, after he pulled from one of the cupboards two pristine red wine glasses, poured an inch or so of Shiraz into each. “Santé,” I toasted him, and sipped from my glass.

  He looked at his, as though trying to make sense of a universe that had gone out of control. “I… clothes, y’know. Not really my thing.”

  “No.” I nodded. “Not your,” I paused, as though searching for the right word. “Not your passion,” I finally finished. “Right?”

  “Yeah.” He brightened, swirled the glass, lifted it, inspecting the ruby red liquid, as vivid as blood, swirling in the glass, held the lip to his nose, inhaled, his eyes closing, and sipped slowly. “That’s good,” he announced.

  “Ali’s got a good supplier. So what is?”

  He paused, confused, as though trying to get his thoughts together. “Is?”

  “Your passion,” I pressed. “You told me that you’d always dreamed of owning a menswear shop. If that’s not what you always dreamed of, what is?”

  “A restaurant,” he finally said, his eyes not meeting mine. “I always wanted a restaurant. Not a huge mega place, just something more like a café bar that does great food. Somewhere the locals can enjoy everything from a great bacon sandwich to a bowl of Chicken Chasseur.”

  “And that’s what this is gonna be?” I gestured over his shoulder, back into the shop. “I saw the tables. The chairs. I sort of guessed when I saw the coffee machine going in. I mean, it made sense, the idea of a menswear shop that offered espresso. Nice USP. But I never saw any clothes rails, any hangers, anything beyond a state of the art Gaggia. Then, today, I had a friend of mine check with the council. All those builders, there had to be a planning application. This shop is zoned as retail catering. You’ve applied for a liquor licence too.”

  He smiled sadly. “You got me. I reccied the area, saw that they were badly in need of something decent, food wise. I mean, there was the pub, but really: greasy pasties, and sweaty ploughman’s. How much of a threat could a grim Victorian boozer be? I should have gone in for lunch.”

  “So you leased the place, started work on the refurb, then discovered the pub was doing decent business with food.”

  He sighed, smiled sadly again, sipped his wine, and nodded. “It was one of the electricians. Went in every day for lunch. Had the gazpacho. Raved about it for days. Got me,” he paused, sipped again, “concerned.”

  “So you started trying to sabotage the kitchen,” I said, remembering fagash in Olivia Wrights punchbowl, a dead pigeon in the fridge, and an anonymous call to the health inspectors.

  “It was business,” he said flatly.

  “It was sabotage,” I answered, equally flatly. “And it wasn’t necessary, Mike. It’s a pub. The food isn’t that great.”

  He laughed. “Yes. Yes, Danny, it is that great. And it’s got attention. The Standard, the likes of Monica Vale, the buzz around it all. It’s everything I didn’t want it to be. And it’s going to get better.”

  “It’s a pub, Mike. I spend half my time running around town trying to sort out my car crash of a life. The food is a side-line, and everyone knows that. This,” I gestured behind me, “This will be a proper restaurant. It’ll be everything The Marq isn’t, and we could have lifted each other up.”

  “Yeah, well,” he smiled, and this time the smile nearly reached his eyes, before they teared up, “I’m not sure I want to continue. I’m thinking of going back up north. Not sure I have the fight left in me, to be honest.”

  “Mate,” I stepped over to him, felt him stiffen as I hugged him, “It didn’t have to be a fight.”

  At this, he finally laughed, but it was a sound laced with bitterness. “Yes it did, Danny. I lied. About a lot of it.”

  “I figured,” I said.

  “I grew up in care. I grew up in houses where you took what you wanted, or you had everything you had taken away from you. I went to families that either wanted me for the money I’d bring in, or just wanted some perfect son. I got used to putting on the act – I don’t care, or I care deeply; whichever they wanted. But it still didn’t work.

  “One way or another, I was always back at the homes. But I had a plan. I had a dream, and I was good at saying and doing what needed to be done to get where I needed to be. I got the money together for this – Jesus, the things I needed to do to get the money for this.” He shuddered, and emptied the Shiraz. I refilled his glass, three inches deep this time.

  “Then you realised The Marq was – what? Competition?”

  “Like I say, Danny, it’s take, or have everything you’ve ever wanted taken from you. I like you, you know. I really like you.”

  “And yet,” I said, my wine untouched, “When everything failed – the sabotage; the call to the council – when you’d reached desperation levels, you nearly burned me to death.”

  He choked. “What?”

 
“The fire last night. Someone shoved burning rags through the back door. We thought it was an attack on The Marq. But this wasn’t someone who wanted to burn the pub down. If that’s what they wanted they’d have started the fire in the bar – they’d have set fire to the front door.”

  He shook his head, his lips moving. But no sound came from them. Behind him, I saw the shop door open silently.

  I shook my head. “This wasn’t an attack on the pub. The pub’s at the front. This was an attack on the kitchen.”

  Ray, Dash, Ali and Caz appeared in the doorway. So much for catlike tread, I thought.

  Mike’s voice cracked. “You weren’t supposed to be there,” he whispered. “You said, that day, that you were going to go home and stay with your parents.”

  I nodded. “I know. I know, Mike. It got late, I was tired. I decided to stay. But you thought you’d be torching an empty building, destroying the kitchen. Even if the bar was able to open, the food element would be over.”

  “It just,” he whispered, unable to look me in the eye, “sort of spiralled.”

  I nodded. “Where is she, Mike?”

  He suddenly became aware of the mob standing in the doorway, and started, knocking over the glass, and, amongst squawks and general noise, grabbing for a tea towel and dabbing at the spilled wine.

  “Mike.” I reached a hand out, and stopped his dabbing. “You’re a dreamer. You’re not a killer, and you’re not a kidnapper. You were setting the fire, she was tip toeing around the alley trying to find the vodka she’d hidden earlier. She stumbled over you, and you had to shut her up. Where is she?”

  “It just,” he whispered, his eyes – crazed now, like an animal caught in a trap, looking desperately for an escape, looked into mine, darted away, seeing me, not seeing me, knowing that all was lost, “It just spiralled.”

  “Oh Jesus, Mike, please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid.”

  He laughed, finally. “Stupid? The most stupid fucking thing I ever did was come here and try to restart my life. Like I get to restart.”

  “Mike,” I tried again, holding a hand up to restrain Dash, who’d made a move forwards, “where is she?”