A Good Day To Die Read online

  Andrea’s street was quieter and a bit more upmarket, being made up mainly of three-storey townhouses, most of which could have done with a decent exterior paint job. Hers was about thirty yards down on the right-hand side, and was one of the more ramshackle residences.

  I had to ring the bell several times before an early-twenties white guy with a dreadlocked mane of naturally blond curly hair answered. He must have been getting on for six foot six, but was as lean as a rake. He had a large ring through his nose, and a smaller one through his right eyebrow. The expression on his face was suspicious, but it didn’t sit that easily there. I guessed he was quite a friendly sort to the people he knew, but maybe a little earnest. He was dressed in a light green T-shirt with a photo of Che Guevara on it, and combat trousers of the same colour, while his feet were bare. I’d have put money on the fact that he was a vegetarian, and that he was better educated and from a family higher up the social ladder than either his garb or current location would suggest.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m here to see Andrea Bloom.’

  He looked me up and down carefully, like a man examining a fake designer shirt on a cheap market stall. Even after all this time, I must still have had the demeanour of a copper, and I doubted that any members of the law-enforcement fraternity were very popular round here.

  ‘I don’t know any Andrea Bloom.’

  I could tell he was lying. It wasn’t difficult to spot. ‘Yes, you do,’ I told him. ‘Is she in?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  I was beginning to get tired of this question. ‘It’s personal. Is she in?’

  ‘She’s at work.’

  ‘And where’s her work?’

  ‘I’m not telling you,’ he snapped.

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll come in and wait for her, then.’

  I pushed past him and stepped into the hallway. The carpet was threadbare, but the general décor a considerable improvement on Delly’s place. I turned left and walked into a small sitting room with a cheap-looking TV in the corner and a profusion of different coloured beanbags on the floor. I found a chair and plonked myself down.

  He came stomping in after me. ‘I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but you can’t just come walking in like this.’

  ‘Tell me where I can find Andrea and I’ll walk right back out again,’ I said, making myself comfortable.

  ‘I want to know why you want to see her. She’s my girlfriend.’

  He added this last with a hint of pride in his voice and I felt a bit sorry for him. ‘I want to talk to her about her relationship with Jason Khan and Ann Taylor.’

  Something happened then. His body tensed, and a perceptible flicker of fear crossed his face like a storm front. He knew something.

  ‘Andrea hardly knew them,’ he said, talking far too fast. ‘I don’t think there’s much she can tell you. Now if you give me your card, I can—’

  ‘I promise you I don’t mean her any harm. I’m a private detective. So, please, why don’t you just make it easier by telling me where I can find her?’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ he said, then left the room.

  I stood up to follow him, taking my time, keen not to spook him any more than he was already. But very interested, nevertheless, in his reaction to the mention of Jason Khan and Ann Taylor.

  I hadn’t taken more than two steps when he suddenly reappeared. Only this time he was carrying a gleaming kitchen knife with an eight-inch blade. He waved it at me as menacingly as he could manage, the tension in his features telling me that he liked this situation even less than I did, which, given that I was standing only three feet from the end of the blade, took some doing.

  ‘Put that thing down,’ I said, taking a step back, reluctant to go for the gun and ruin any chance of a meaningful discussion with either him or his girlfriend. ‘You use it and you’ll be going to prison for a long, long time.’

  He stepped forward, gaining in confidence. ‘I want you out of here now. Andrea’s got nothing to say and she doesn’t want to see you.’

  ‘I think you should let her decide that.’

  He took another step forward, waving the knife for effect. ‘Out.’

  I shrugged. ‘All right, have it your way.’ I went to go past him and he moved to the side. As we came level, I lunged forward and grabbed the wrist of his knife arm, twisting it away from him. He didn’t immediately let go so I balled my other hand into a fist and slammed it down on the upturned forearm. He cried out in pain and the knife clattered to the floor. I kicked it out into the hallway, then forced the arm behind his back and pushed him down to his knees.

  He tried to struggle so I pulled the arm higher up his back, and he quickly stopped. I put my mouth to his ear. ‘I repeat: I am a private detective. I mean your girlfriend no harm, but it’s important I speak to her. Two people have been murdered and she may have information that could help one of the dead men’s families. Please. I need to know where to find her.’

  ‘How do I know you’re not going to hurt her?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why should I?’ I asked, genuinely interested in his answer.

  But he didn’t tell me why. Instead, he asked me to let him go.

  ‘Are you going to tell me where I can find her?’

  ‘I’ll come down with you. If you want to talk to her, you’ll have to do it with me present as well.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ I released my grip and let him stand up.

  ‘I’ll need to phone her,’ he said, starting to walk into the hallway, but I pulled him back by the neck of his Che Guevara T-shirt.

  ‘Use mine,’ I told him, handing over my mobile and picking up the knife. ‘And please don’t try and get her to disappear for a bit. I’ll just come back.’

  He nodded, looking shaken, but didn’t take my phone. Instead, he produced his own and dialled the number. When she answered, the two of them conducted a hushed conversation, with him standing in the corner of the living room next to the TV, his back to me. I couldn’t hear everything that was said, but the gist of it was that he’d heeded my warning and was trying to persuade her to meet me.

  When he’d finished, he shoved the phone into the pocket of his combat trousers and told me that she’d join us in a café they both knew in twenty minutes. ‘But you’re wasting your time. She doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said, ignoring his hostile stare.

  Twenty years in the Met had left me immune to that sort of look.

  The café was called the Forest, and it was a ten-minute walk further north in the direction of Stoke Newington, which we made in near silence. I did introduce myself, however, giving him one of my flashy new business cards, and also got his name, which was Grant. He didn’t really look much like a Grant. More a Nigel or a Tim. Not that I told him that.

  When we stepped inside the door, it was eleven thirty-five by my watch, and there were about a dozen people in the place – mostly young, studenty types similar to Grant. A basic but colourful mural of a woodland scene took up most of the available wall-space, and sounds-of-the-rainforest type music was being piped from the speakers at each corner of the ceiling. A menu behind the fat woman at the counter offered ‘Healthy Vegetarian Fare’, but I got the feeling she preferred to eat at Burger King.

  ‘I’m not stopping in this place,’ I told Grant. ‘Let’s wait for Andrea outside.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asked, but I’d already walked out the door.

  ‘It’s horrible. And too busy. Let’s go to a pub.’

  He mumbled something under his breath but didn’t argue, and we stood in the cold for a few minutes until I saw a look of recognition cross his face as an attractive black girl of about eighteen, with her hair in braids, approached. She was dressed in a three-quarter-length purple leather coat and embroidered flared jeans, and her manner was cautious, as if she expected to get arrested at any moment.

  Grant stepped between us and explained who I was and why we were outside.
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br />   ‘I’d rather talk somewhere a little more intimate,’ I told her, putting out a hand. ‘My name’s Mick Kane, and I appreciate you coming.’

  ‘I don’t know if Grant’s told you,’ she said, reluctantly shaking my hand and watching me with very large and very beautiful brown eyes, ‘but I honestly don’t see how I can be of help.’

  ‘I did tell him,’ put in Grant.

  ‘Well, if I could buy you both a drink and just ask a few questions, then at least I’ll feel like I’m doing my job.’

  ‘OK,’ she agreed, with the same reluctance she’d put into the handshake, ‘but I haven’t got a lot of time.’

  I told her that this didn’t matter and suggested we try the pub opposite.

  Nobody argued so I crossed the road, and after a couple of seconds they followed.

  27

  Five minutes later, we were sitting at a corner table in the lounge bar of the pub across the road, the only customers in the place. I was on one side with a double orange juice. They were on the other: Grant with a pint of Stella, Andrea with a mineral water.

  ‘How did you find me?’ she asked.

  ‘A friend of Jason’s said you knew his girlfriend Ann.’

  She nodded, before asking in a voice that was more mature than her years suggested what it was I wanted to know.

  ‘Anything that could point to why Jason Khan was murdered.’

  ‘I can’t really help you. I knew Jason, but not that well. I knew Ann better. But why are you involved? There are plenty of police on the case, aren’t there?’

  ‘There are, but my client’s concerned that things aren’t progressing.’

  ‘And your client is . . . ?’

  I smiled. This one was no fool. I told her it was Asif Malik’s uncle, and she seemed to accept the answer. She then told me that she couldn’t think of any reason why Jason would have been murdered. ‘I can’t see how he would have got himself involved with anyone big enough or nasty enough to have bothered killing him. He was just a smalltime dope dealer and thief. He thought he was one of the big boys, but from what I could see, he was just a loser.’ She shrugged, as if there wasn’t anything else she could add of any relevance.

  I decided to change tack, and asked how she’d known Ann.

  She relaxed visibly. Grant too.

  ‘I first met her a couple of years back,’ she said, fiddling with her glass. ‘I’d been in foster care for ages before that, but then my foster mum got cancer and she couldn’t look after me and my brother any more. We got split up and I got put into a care home in Camden while they tried to find another family for me. Ann already lived there, and she showed me the ropes and looked out for me. We just became mates. I liked her because she didn’t take shit off people, but she was nice underneath as well, you know what I mean?’

  I did. That had been my take on Ann as well, although I couldn’t admit that to Andrea. I motioned for her to continue, keen to let her talk at her own pace.

  ‘I was at Coleman House – the place in Camden - about six months and when I left and went back into foster care, me and Ann kept in touch. My foster family were living up in Barnet so it wasn’t that difficult to get down and see her. We used to go out drinking, smoking a bit, having a giggle. But to be honest, I got sort of tired of all that. I didn’t want to piss my life away. I wanted to do something a bit different. You know, get a job, get a life, go back to college. I met Grant ...’ At this point, she put her hand in his, and he pulled one of those yearning expressions you sometimes see in crap romance films. Somehow it endeared him to me. It’s nice to see a bit of young love. ‘Me and Ann drifted apart for a while,’ she continued, ‘but recently we’d started seeing more of each other again. She was beginning to grow up herself, and thinking of changing the way she lived her life.’ She sighed. ‘But it was all too late, wasn’t it? Always is, for girls like Ann. You know, a lot of people wrote her off, and I bet quite a few of them think she got what was coming to her, because she did have a real temper. And she didn’t like doing what she was told, either. But I tell you this: she was a good sort, she really was. She meant a lot to me.’

  The mention of Coleman House brought back memories for me too. Memories of my last days in London, and how they’d ended in violence and murder. How a brief affair – a potential relationship – had ended before it had even begun. The woman had been Carla Graham and at one time she’d managed Coleman House. I think I might have even been in love with her. The image of her in my mind was unwelcome. It reminded me of events I’d rather not have remembered, both for my own part in them and for other people’s.

  I had my notebook out and made a point of writing down the details of Andrea’s testimony. When I’d finished, I looked her in the eye and asked if Ann had committed suicide.

  ‘That’s what the police said, isn’t it?’ she answered, trying to sound casual. Avoiding my gaze.

  ‘Yeah,’ added Grant. ‘And they ought to know, right?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘I think she did,’ said Grant, with far too much in the way of conviction. ‘She’d had things hard in recent months. And then with Jason dying, I think it all just proved too much, you know?’

  Andrea sighed. ‘I think Grant’s probably right. It seems the most likely way it happened.’

  ‘Did you both make statements to the police?’

  Neither of them said anything for a moment. Grant looked furtive. Then Andrea spoke. ‘They never asked, and because they didn’t seem that interested in what had happened, I never approached them. My experiences of the police haven’t been that great over the years. I tend to avoid them when I can.’

  ‘From what I’ve gathered during my investigations,’ I continued, ‘Ann Taylor was a tough girl who’d been in care for many years. Statistically, people with that type of upbringing, or lack of it, tend to be the least likely to commit suicide. It’s because they’re tougher than most of us, more used to the hard knocks that life has to offer, so they don’t get brought down so often. They’re already there. Would you agree with that assessment of Ann, Andrea?’

  ‘She was tough, but she had a vulnerable side, too. She hurt the same as anyone else, you know.’

  And she had done, I remembered that. She’d cried in front of me once, three years earlier, when she thought that a friend of hers from Coleman House, who’d gone missing, was dead.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Ann alive?’ I asked.

  Andrea hesitated, and I saw Grant glance at her, trying to catch her eye.

  ‘About a week before she died, I think. Something like that.’

  ‘Before Jason was murdered?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You didn’t go round to offer your condolences after his death?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  I didn’t believe her. She was lying. So was he. The question was why. ‘But she was your friend,’ I said. ‘Someone who’d shown you the ropes when you first went into Coleman House. Who’d helped you when you needed her help.’

  This was the cue for Grant to butt in angrily. ‘I don’t like the tone of your questioning,’ he snapped. ‘We’re only here out of the kindness of our hearts. We don’t have to talk to you, and I don’t think we’re going to any more. Come on, Andrea.’ He started to get to his feet, and she moved in her seat as if to follow.

  ‘If you leave, I’ll go straight to the police and give them your names. I’ll also hand over the evidence as to why I don’t think Ann committed suicide. Then they’ll come looking for you, only next time you’ll have to talk. And if there’s anything you’re hiding, they’ll find it.’

  They both stopped moving.

  ‘If you talk to me I’ll do everything in my power to protect you as sources. No one’ll ever know I spoke to you and you won’t be bothered again.’

  Grant sat back down. Andrea shuffled in her seat. For a few seconds there was an awkward silence.

  I was going to ask them a
gain whether they thought Ann had committed suicide, but then I remembered something from my first meeting with Emma. ‘I understand that Ann had recently been receiving treatment for psychiatric problems. Can you tell me about that?’

  They looked at each other again. Nervously.

  ‘How much do you know about it?’ asked Grant, after a pause.

  ‘Very little,’ I said, ‘but I can find out more, easily enough. Why don’t you make it easier and tell me?’

  It was Andrea who spoke. ‘She got referred to a psychiatrist about a year ago, after she’d got arrested for GBH. It was part of her bail conditions.’

  ‘GBH? That’s pretty serious. What did she do?’

  ‘It was when she was working the streets. She used to do that before she got nicked. She had a bedsit in Holloway she took the punters back to. One night one of them gave her a load of trouble. He tried to get her to do stuff she didn’t want to do, so she pulled a knife and let him have it across the face. Then she chased him out of the bedsit and cut him a couple of times round the back of the head. He needed about eighty stitches.’ There was an unmistakable pride in her voice as she recounted this story. It was clear that, eighty stitches or not, the punter had got what was coming to him. It surprised me hearing her talk in a manner that so readily condoned violence. She was an attractive, well-dressed girl, and clearly intelligent. It was easy to forget that she’d probably had a few hard knocks herself over the years.

  ‘So what did this psychiatrist have to say?’

  ‘She reckoned she was suffering from some sort of schizophrenia. Ann told me she even wanted her sectioned, but that didn’t happen. What they did was put her on a psychotherapy course.’

  ‘And did that help?’

  Again she paused. ‘Yeah,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘It did. The jury found her not guilty because of diminished responsibility.’

  ‘And that was that? She was released?’