A Good Day To Die Page 9

  Still, journalists aren’t interested in presenting the bare facts. They’re interested in stories, and it seemed from my trawling of the Internet over the past few weeks that Ms Neilson had been very interested in this particular one. She’d written a further three articles for the paper concerning the murders. One was simply an account of Malik’s life and career, but the other two examined possible motives for his killing. In the main, these centred round Malik’s work for the National Crime Squad, which had seen him involved in investigations into a heroin-importation gang and an organized paedophile ring, although he’d also made enemies in the North London criminal underworld during the two years he’d spent in Scotland Yard’s SO7 unit, prior to joining the NCS. Not surprisingly, then, there was no shortage of suspects, but in the most recent article, published the previous week, Ms Neilson had concentrated on one criminal gang in particular, who, she said, had some questions to answer. She described the gang’s leader as a shadowy thug who’d been responsible for a number of murders, but didn’t name him. Instead, she implied in a none-too-subtle manner that he might be getting some inside help from within the team investigating the murders. ‘Just what were Malik and Khan meeting about?’ she’d demanded in the last paragraph. ‘And why are more than a hundred full-time detectives still asking that question? Perhaps there are those amongst them who don’t wish to find out.’

  The ugly head of police corruption. I didn’t suppose the feisty Ms Neilson had endeared herself to the investigating officers with articles like that, but then it wasn’t her job to cosy up to them, and in a time when police officers could be unmasked as hitmen, it wasn’t such an outlandish accusation either. And unlike anyone else, bar the ones who’d organized it, I knew there was an inside man. Someone who’d passed on the message that Slippery Billy was under suspicion.

  There’d been plenty of articles in the nationals about what had happened to Malik and Khan (although none had contained quite the same polemic as Ms Neilson’s), but as time passed and other news stories jostled for position, interest had begun to fade, particularly in the absence of any significant new leads. The articles had got shorter; the editorials praising the sacrifices of individual police officers in the face of lawlessness had disappeared; life had moved on.

  The police wouldn’t give up, of course, but five weeks with no arrests is a long time. And now that the man they’d been on to had disappeared into thin air before they could even question him (there’d been no mention of Billy West anywhere in the media), morale would be dropping fast and resources thinning out as officers were moved to newer and easier cases.

  But Emma Neilson was still interested and that was good enough for me. It also helped that she didn’t work for one of the bigger papers. It meant she’d be easier to track down and hopefully less suspicious of my motives. I might have had the advantage of knowing who’d organized the murders as well as whose finger had been on the trigger, but I needed to find out some background on the story, and she was the ideal person to start with.

  Once upon a time, I could have phoned the North London Echo and spoken to my old mate Roy Shelley, but now he’d gone, and as far as he was concerned, so had I. There was no way we’d ever be renewing our acquaintance, which was a pity, and one of the oft-forgotten disadvantages of running from the law and into exile. All your relationships are killed instantly. Both my parents were dead, but I still had a brother down in Wiltshire who I hadn’t spoken to in the whole time I’d been away, and would probably never speak to again either. We’d never been that close, but it still seemed a waste.

  I phoned the Echo and asked to speak to Ms Neilson, saying my name was DI Mick Kane of the NCS. The bloke on the other end sounded suitably impressed but told me that she wasn’t there. Apparently she wasn’t expected in until Monday.

  ‘Lucky her,’ I said. ‘How come you drew the short straw, having to man the phones on a Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘The management seem to like her,’ he answered, with just a hint in his tone that he didn’t share their admiration. ‘And she’s better looking than me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ I told him. ‘They’re all better looking than me.’

  We both had a bit of a laugh, and with small talk over and trust established, I asked him if there was a mobile number I could reach Emma on. ‘It’s important we get hold of her. It’s to do with the murder inquiry she’s been covering in her articles. I’m part of the investigating team.’

  ‘Er, sure, I suppose so. Hold on a moment.’

  I waited while he put me on hold, and a few seconds later he was back on. He reeled out her number, then asked if she was in any trouble. He sounded like he’d be quite pleased if she was, and I wondered what he had against her, and whether it genuinely did have something to do with her looks. If so, she’d definitely be worth meeting. More likely, though, it was down to the fact that she was better than him at her job.

  I told him she wasn’t in any trouble, thanked him for his help and hung up, immediately dialling the number he’d given me.

  Three rings later and a female voice answered. ‘Emma,’ she announced chirpily against a background of street noise. Her accent was upper middle class and educated, with a faint northeasterly brogue. I guessed she hailed from one of the wealthier areas of Yorkshire or Humberside.

  ‘Hello, Emma. You don’t know me but my name’s Mick Kane. I’m a private detective.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you. Can you speak up?’

  I repeated myself loudly. At the same time, the street noise faded somewhat.

  ‘God, that’s better. Sorry, I’m on Regent Street doing a bit of shopping. What can I do for you, then?’

  ‘I’ve been retained by DCI Asif Malik’s uncle to look into the circumstances surrounding his murder, and the murder of Jason Khan. I know that the police are still investigating, but my client’s getting concerned about the lack of progress. I understand you’ve taken an interest in the case yourself, so I was hoping that we could meet up, perhaps on neutral ground, to discuss your take on things.’

  ‘How did you get my number, Mr Kane?’ Her tone was firm but not hostile.

  ‘I’m a private detective; it’s my job to find out these things.’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to the police?’

  ‘You know what it’s like talking to them. There’s a lot of professional rivalry. They won’t tell me anything. Listen, I’m happy to pay for your time.’

  She paused for a moment and I could almost hear her thinking down the other end of the phone. ‘I’m meeting friends in the West End tonight, but not until nine o’clock. I can meet you round here at eight?’

  ‘Sure. Whatever’s convenient for you.’

  ‘There’s a pub on Wells Street called the Ben Crouch Tavern. Just off Oxford Street, at the Tottenham Court Road end. I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘How will I recognize you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m forty, I’ve got a suntan, and I look as if I’ve just been beaten up.’

  ‘Oh. And have you?’

  ‘I have. I’ll tell you about it later.’

  ‘Now I’m intrigued. I’ve got long, curly hair, by the way. Light red. And I’m thirty-one.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find each other. Thanks for your help, I’ll see you later.’

  We said our goodbyes and rang off. I looked at my watch. Ten to five. Plenty of time.

  13

  I walked down to the Marble Arch end of Oxford Street via Edgware Road and went into the first decent-looking menswear shop I saw. Inside, I bought myself a whole new winter wardrobe to add to the coat I’d got earlier, including a leather jacket, a couple of sweaters and a pair of black CAT boots, all from an enthusiastic teenage assistant who took absolutely no notice of my weather- and fist-beaten features and kept telling me that every item I put on suited me perfectly. I wasn’t complaining. It’s never a chore receiving compliments, even if they are commission-based, and it meant
I was only in there about twenty minutes. They also sold Swiss Army knives, and I took one of them too, figuring it would probably come in useful at some point.

  Having got rid of the best part of five hundred quid on gear that I was unlikely to use again once I returned to the sun, I made my way back in the direction of the hotel. The streets were busy with late-night shoppers, and there was a festive mood in the chill air which helped to improve my mood and made me yearn a little for a return to life in the big city. Even the beating I’d received earlier felt like a nostalgic throwback to a long-ago past when I’d worn the uniform of the forces of law and order and had spent my working days fending off abuse from the public I was paid to protect. In the end, though, I knew it was all bollocks. The reality was that London was a dark, overcrowded and increasingly foreboding place – at least for those without the wealth, the penthouses and the fashionable parties – a place of street robbers, and drugs, and seething sink estates; of police officers who no longer had the resources or the motivation to police; of politicians who talked up the statistics but ignored the fact that the problems were multiplying like bacteria; and where those who did stand up and place themselves in the firing line – men like Malik – ended up getting shot down.

  Tonight, though, it was possible to forget all this. Tonight, families ruled the streets and Christmas carols blared out of open shopfronts. Smiling dads carried their babies in those kangaroo-style pouches you sometimes see; mothers, some of them laden down with shopping, shepherded their overexcited offspring and tried to keep them off the road and out of the path of the seemingly endless stream of red buses rumbling by in both directions. It was what Christmas was all about: rampant consumerism, and spending some quality time with the family. I began to feel a bit jealous, remembering my Christmas Day the previous year, just after we’d bought the lodge. The cook, Teo, had been off sick (with food poisoning, rather worryingly) and I’d had to sweat away in the kitchen preparing the food for our guests, while they’d got drunk out the front and Tomboy entertained them with his wit and bonhomie. Until, that was, he’d been forced to retire, incoherent, to his house up in the hills. It hadn’t exactly been memorable.

  As I turned the corner onto Edgware Road, I saw three kids of about sixteen across the street who’d surrounded a smaller kid. They had him in the entrance to an alleyway between a restaurant and a shop, and were making him empty his pockets. I watched as he handed over a mobile phone and some money, his face a picture of humiliation as he tried to catch the eye of the many shoppers walking past. But the shoppers kept going, either oblivious to the scene being played out only feet away from them, or choosing to ignore it; hoping that by shutting their eyes to what was going on, it would somehow stop it happening to them. It wouldn’t. Let a criminal commit a small crime unchecked, and he’ll commit a second, larger one the next day, and be a lot bolder when he does it. These shoppers reminded me of the peace-loving people in H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine – the Eloi, I think they were called – who accepted that some of their number would always be killed and eaten by the stronger, more aggressive Morlocks, and simply let it happen. And like the Eloi, these shoppers would one day find that steering clear of trouble was no defence when trouble came calling.

  I stopped and went to cross the road, but muggers tend to be swift workers and, having got hold of his mobile and money, they’d disappeared up the alley by the time there was a break in the traffic. The kid gazed about him in some distress, probably wondering why the adults who told him how to behave were such hypocrites, and then disappeared up the road, running fast, before I could catch his eye. Poor bastard.

  I watched him go, wondering what I would have done if I’d caught up with him. Comforted him? Given him forty quid for a new phone? Told him to buy a knife? Probably all of those things. He’d learn a lesson from this, anyway. When you head onto the streets, you’re on your own, so you’ve got to be prepared and ready to protect yourself. I’d made a similar mistake that morning, and it had almost cost me a lot more than humiliation and lost innocence. I wouldn’t make the same one again. I hoped the kid wouldn’t either.

  I’d just turned into London Street and was only about a hundred yards from the hotel when my mobile rang. I put down my bags and checked the screen, immediately recognizing the number on display.

  It was Tomboy.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t phone you earlier,’ he said with the same sort of forced breathlessness that I used to put on when returning calls later than I should have done. ‘I’ve been up to my eyeballs, working like a dog. Everything all right?’ The placating tone in his voice told me he knew it wasn’t. I wondered whether he’d spoken to anyone here since the incident that morning.

  ‘How long have I known you, Tomboy?’

  ‘You’ve heard from Pope, then?’

  ‘That’s a good question, I’m not sure. I met a bloke who was roughly the same age, eye colour and build as the Les Pope you described. But I’m beginning to get the impression they weren’t one and the same. Describe him again.’

  ‘Fuck, mate, it’s been a long time.’

  ‘Is Pope good-looking?’

  ‘Was this geezer?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m asking,’ I snapped, stepping into an alleyway away from the traffic noise, and thinking that I’d really been slipshod not getting this sort of information earlier. It could have saved me a lot of trouble.

  ‘Well, I don’t think anyone’s ever called him good-looking, as such. He used to dress well, mind. Savile Row suits and all that.’

  ‘Did he have a thin face or a fat one?’

  ‘Well, fattish really.’ The face of the Pope I’d met had been more on the slim side. ‘He weren’t a fat bloke, particularly, but he weren’t thin either.’

  ‘Well, in that case I haven’t heard from him,’ I said, convinced now that it hadn’t been the same man. ‘But I’ve heard from some of his friends and they weren’t too interested in talking. Why did you let on that I was coming over? You must have known it would land me in a lot of shit.’

  I heard him sigh at the other end of the phone. The line was remarkably clear. It didn’t sound much like he was in the Philippines. Or maybe I was just getting paranoid.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, I really am,’ he said, ladling on the contriteness. ‘What’s happened, then?’

  ‘Suffice to say that your friends wanted me out of the picture, and they went about it in a very direct manner. If they’d had their way, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. In fact, it’s unlikely I’d have been talking ever again.’

  ‘Listen, I had nothing to do with any of that. Believe me on that one, please, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  He coughed, and I heard him take a lug of a cigarette. The line was that clear. ‘I phoned Pope. That’s all I did. I phoned him ’cause I wanted him to have a word with you, tell you what he could about everything, and, y’know . . . smooth things over a bit. Then persuade you to get back on the plane so we can all get back to normal again. Which is what I want to happen.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that now. Your talking to him almost got me killed. You must have had some idea that would happen.’

  ‘I didn’t, I promise you. I thought he’d just have a word.’

  ‘Where can I find Pope?’

  ‘I don’t know. He used to live up somewhere in Mill Hill, but that was years ago. He’s probably moved now.’

  I exhaled loudly, concluding that he was telling the truth. ‘Why did you do it, Tomboy? Did you think I’d thank you for grassing me up? I thought you’d retired from that game. Obviously I was wrong.’

  ‘Fuck you, Mick, I was just trying to protect both of us. Pope’s involved with some heavy-duty people; I told you that before you decided to go off on this fucking adventure. If I’d let you go straight after him, you’d definitely have got killed, and then they probably would have started looking for me.’

  ‘Ah, that’s the real reason, isn’t it? You
’re watching your own back, never mind mine.’

  ‘Listen here, I’ve built myself a decent business over here, and when you came over, on the run from just about everyone, did I turn you in? Did I? Did I fuck. But I could have done, you know, and I’d have made a few quid doing it, too, but I didn’t, and the reason I didn’t was because you was a mate of mine, and you treated me all right back in the old days. So don’t give me all that about being a grass. I was trying to help you out again.’

  ‘It didn’t work.’

  ‘And I’m sorry about that, but I did it for your own good. All right? And I’m going to tell you this for your own good, too: get the fuck out of there. Get on a plane and get back here. While you still can. Because otherwise you’re gonna get into stuff you really don’t want to.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Just do it, Mick. Not for me. For you.’

  And he hung up before I had a chance to say anything else.

  I shivered. The cold was beginning to bite. For some reason, I felt guilty for being angry with him. He’d played the injured-innocent card like he played most situations in his life: with just the right amount of acting skill to sound genuine. He was right, too. I was getting myself into a dangerous situation. But there was no way I was changing course now.

  Not before I’d even started.