A blueberry burst in his mouth as he pondered whether Zara and Chloe found him attractive. He never paid them; they said they’d enjoyed it for what it was.
He looked in the wall mirror and stroked his pencil thin moustache. Maybe he should check out a tanning salon, give himself a bit of colour. He’d looked like a ghost next to the girls.
The ringing mobile interrupted his mental rerun of their time together, the caller ID telling him it was a private number.
‘Councillor Elgin speaking.’
‘John. It’s Billy Skinner.’
‘How have you got my mobile number?’
‘You left it in your jacket pocket when you were entertaining Zara and Chloe,’ Skinner’s voice was friendly, pleasant. ‘Easiest thing in the world for one of them to pass it outside and have someone ring one of our numbers.’
‘That’s theft.’
‘We didn’t steal your phone we put it back,’ Skinner laughed. ‘Can you steal a number? Anyway, business. I need a favour.’
John Elgin felt a creeping panic in the pit of his empty stomach.
‘I’m in no position to grant favours, and certainly not to you.’
‘Not to me?’
The voice that had sounded harmless was suddenly laced with aggression.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ Skinner snarled. ‘You come into my establishments, avail yourself of all the facilities, accept them for free, on-the-house so to speak, and then give me the bum’s rush when I ask for a favour.’
John Elgin’s forehead was suddenly leaking a sickly sweat.
‘What do you want?’
‘That’s better John.’
There was a pause. Elgin waited, the beginnings of a headache thrumming like a drum roll at his temples.
‘I want a few planning applications approved, new licensed premises.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Elgin spluttered. ‘There’s a committee...’
‘John, John.’
Skinner’s speech was slow, precise, a teacher explaining to a child.
‘Listen. You enjoyed yourself the other night. We enjoyed watching you.’
John Elgin dropped onto one of his kitchen chairs. His hands were shaking.
‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch John,’ Skinner said. ‘You had your fun. Now it’s pay-back.’
‘But I can’t.’
‘You will,’ Skinner’s voice was mild again. ‘You don’t want your Pussycat performance going on the Internet do you?’
The shaking in Elgin’s hands had spread to the rest of him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘All those mirrors in the Green Room,’ Skinner turned the knife. ‘Cameras, John, cameras. You get turned on and so do they.’
Councillor John Elgin, the factory worker who had talked his way up the political ladder, was speechless.
Billy Skinner laughed into the stunned silence.
‘I knew you’d understand,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch to give you a list. Let me down and you’ll be going viral on YouTube faster than you dropped your fucking trousers.’
Elgin heard the line click and stared at the mobile in his trembling hand, the sound of Skinner’s laughter still rippling through his head.
Was there really a film?
The sickness in his stomach told him he couldn’t chance it.
And there was no way he could allow it to get out.
Chapter Seven
There was something grimly unique about the sight and smell of a burned body. Victims left lifeless by knives, bullets and beatings often looked like they were sleeping but this one did not, a blackened, shrivelled thing with a smoke-heavy stench that thrashed even mortuary disinfectant into submission.
Sam winced at the gunshot-like-crack that echoed around the room as the dentist used bolt croppers to force open the jaw. She looked at the dentist, a young man used to taking impressions to repair the living not identify the flame-blackened dead.
Bev had traced Jeremy Scott’s dental surgery by a ring-round process of elimination. Sam felt sorry for the dentist. Maybe the senior partners had tricked him into doing it; he was the building site apprentice sent to buy a tin of tartan paint or the bubble for a spirit level. A piss-taking reception, Sam feared, awaited him back at the surgery.
Two hours later and they had their confirmation. The body was Jeremy Scott and he had been very much alive when he was set on fire.
Sam stepped outside. The fresh air was welcome, but sometimes the smell of death hung around you for days. She felt she would be tasting this one for weeks.
Opening the passenger door, she spoke to Ed.
‘We need that house to house team out there,’ Sam said. ‘Let’s see if we can get a definitive last sighting of Jeremy Scott. If it is something to do with that television prize, somebody has put a bit of time and effort into it. How has a retired schoolteacher landed an enemy like that?’
She was still talking as she fastened her seatbelt, telling Ed to get Bev working on the victimology.
‘I want next of kin, associates, habits and beliefs,’ Sam rattled off. ‘We won’t go public with his name until next of kin have been notified but there has to be something in his background. Retired teachers don’t normally attract that sort of enemy.’
Jill Brown’s mouth dropped when she opened the front door, her fingers instinctively tightening around the handle.
‘There’s nothing to worry about Jill,’ Ed said. ‘I’ve seen Curtis. Just thought I’d pop round.’
Jill relaxed her grip, her knees bent just enough to notice and she blew out hard.
‘Thank God. I dread your lot knocking on my door, and when I saw you…’
‘I didn’t mean to scare you Jill.’
‘I know Ed. Come in, come in, how was he, Curtis?’
She was already walking down the hall of her 1930’s semi. Ed followed her into the kitchen.
‘No better, no worse Jill to be fair. He’d found a dead body.’
‘Oh my God, one of his friends?’
She turned away, gripping the Belfast sink with both hands and shaking her head.
‘Listen to me, talking about his friends as if everything’s normal. Talking about his junkie mates is what I mean.’
She flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘Where did it all go wrong Ed?’
They had known each other since school and Ed could close his eyes and see her back then, giggling and pretty and safe from the things that would soon enough unfold.
‘Lot easier wandering around the school yard looking for somewhere to smoke and hoping for a snog than bringing up kids,’ he said gently.
‘A lifetime ago,’ Jill poured hot water into two mugs. ‘Who did you want to snog anyway? Mandy Reeve?’
‘She was bonny,’ Ed smiled. ‘There was Mandy, Evie and you, the three everyone fancied, including a few of the girls I suspect.’
‘Was that even around in our day Ed?’ Jill paused, thinking about it. ‘I never saw anything but whatever way you go...anyway I’m sure you didn’t come around here to talk about all our yesterdays.’
Ed felt a dart of sadness as he put the past away, the image of the schoolgirl he wanted to kiss suddenly gone.
‘No. I was just wondering when you last saw Curtis?’
She brought two mugs of tea and sat opposite Ed.
‘He came round wanting cash a few months back,’ Jill told him. ‘He normally surfaces when he wants money. I made him have a bath then took him into town. I bought him some new clothes and a mobile.’
‘Probably the one he rang us on when he found the body,’ Ed said. ‘You haven’t asked about it.’
Jill stared at her tea and then back at Ed, her face drawn.
‘I’m not sure I want to know. It could be him next Ed. Any day I think the police will be at the door telling me he’s gone, dead in the gutter or some squat.’
She sipped her tea and made no effort to dry the tears that began to flow.
; ‘This wasn’t an addict Jill,’ Ed said, a hand on her arm. ‘He found a dead body in a garage. It’ll be in the media soon enough. The body was burned.’
Jill’s eyes opened wide.
‘Oh my God and you think Curtis has something to do with it?’
‘I doubt it,’ Ed told her. ‘It’s just if he visits and mentions it he may tell you more than he told us. He may remember something.’
‘And you want me to tell you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘No problem. Do you know who it is?’
‘Not yet, not for sure,’ Ed said. ‘It might be a guy who lives in The Avenue though.’
Jill’s eyes snapped wide again.
‘Really? Small world.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I used to take Curtis there for his piano lessons.’
‘Private tutor?’
Ed remembered the shiny black piano in Scott’s house.
‘That’s right,’ Jill said. ‘Curtis was quite good. Not a prodigy or anything, but decent. He hated it though. Any excuse not to go. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him, but at the time...’
She turned away from Ed and finally wiped her eyes.
‘Can you remember his name?’ Ed asked. ‘The teacher?’
‘Why?’
‘You know me, ever the detective, asking questions just seems to be habit. No reason other than that.’
‘I can’t,’ Jill said. ‘It was years ago. Curtis would have been 11 or 12 and he only went for a few months. Seemed a nice enough chap from what I can remember.’
John Elgin ordered a pint of lager. Fuck the diet. Harry Pullman appeared as he took his first mouthful.
‘Councillor Elgin. To what do I owe this surprise?’
‘Drop the ‘councillor’ bit Harry,’ Elgin said, wiping the foam from his mouth. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate without your sarcasm.’
‘Hey, just having a laugh with an old mate. Two pints of whatever John’s drinking sweetheart.’
The dark haired barmaid nodded and went to the Peroni pump.
‘What’s up then?’ Harry Pullman said, leaning against the mahogany and resting his foot on the bar’s footrest. ‘More bother with the other half?
Elgin took a long pull on the Peroni already in his hand and closed his eyes as he drank.
‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Oscar, the grandbairn, and now Billy Skinner.’
‘Skinner?’ Harry spat out the name. ‘What’s he done now?’
John Elgin gulped more of his pint, hand shaking and the glass rattling lightly against his teeth.
‘I think I’m in the shit.’
Harry paused, picked up his own pint, sipped, and put the glass back on the bar.
‘Can’t be that bad can it?’
Elgin looked down, face slate grey and sallow.
‘Let’s sit down,’ Harry said and led the way to a quiet corner away from the bar, the seats against a wall and a view of anyone approaching.
Harry leaned in close. ‘What is it? You’ve obviously come in here to tell me.’
‘Skinner wants me to pull some strings to get his new planning applications and licences through,’ Elgin’s voice was barely there.
Harry shook his head. ‘And he’s got you in his pocket how exactly?’
‘Don’t use that phrase,’ Elgin said. ‘I’m not corrupt, I’ve just been a fool. He reckons he has a tape.’
Elgin drained his first pint and reached for the second. ‘Jesus, if this gets out Harry…’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about John.’
Elgin glugged his way through half of the lager.
‘He says he’s got me on tape having sex with two of his girls. Says he’ll put it on YouTube if I don’t play ball.’
‘And you obviously have had sex with two of his girls?’
Elgin nodded.
‘Where?’
‘One of his rooms. The Green Room.’
‘Have you seen the tape?’
‘No, but I’ve no doubt he’s got one. Why would he lie?’
‘People like Billy Skinner can’t lie straight in bed but I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right,’ Harry said, keeping his voice low. ‘I’ve seen the cameras. He uses them for his homemade pornos then flogs them under the counter. Looks like with you he saw a chance for a little bit of blackmail.’
‘Jesus...’
‘So you don’t want to go to the police?’ Harry said.
‘What do you think?’ Elgin sounded broken. ‘I’d have to tell them about the tape. They’d go to see Skinner. He’d deny it, but upload it anyway, and who can trust the police not to leak it?’
‘So what’s your thinking?’ Harry asked. ‘I’m guessing you’ve got something in mind.’
Elgin drained his pint then watched Harry raise his arm and signal to the barmaid for another Peroni.
‘These applications are going to be approved,’ Elgin said. ‘I can approve them for Skinner in exchange for the tape but what’s to say he won’t be back wanting something else and telling me he’s got copies or…’
‘...Or?’ Harry waited.
‘Or I tell you his plans and you step in and seek planning permission.’
A small light blinked on in Harry’s head, not big or bright but an instant reaction, a chance acknowledged.
For now he kept the faint glow to himself.
‘And how do I do that exactly?’ Harry said now. ‘Billy Skinner’s not just going to let me take over.’
Elgin shrugged: ‘He’s your problem. But if a problem’s removed…’
Harry looked at the councillor and marvelled again at the human being’s inbuilt drive for self-preservation.
‘Finish your pint,’ he told Elgin. ‘The special’s lamb hotpot if you’re hungry.’
DC Bev Summers walked into Sam’s office.
‘I’ve traced Jeremy Scott’s nephew,’ she said. ‘I think he might be the only relative. Certainly he’s the only beneficiary in Jezza’s will.’
Sam laughed. She had a mental picture of Jeremy Scott and ‘Jezza’ couldn’t be further from the mark.
‘Where does he live, the nephew?’
‘Conifers,’ Bev said. ‘No answer on his home phone, but he’s at work in town. I’ve spoken briefly to him on his mobile.’
‘You have been busy.’
‘All hail the electronic age,’ Bev mock curtseyed. ‘We’re meeting him in twenty minutes. He’ll be on the pier. Said he would rather speak to us in the fresh air.’
‘Does he know?’
Bev shook her head.
‘He knows something’s up just from getting a police call out of the blue but nothing yet,’ Bev said. ‘We’re meeting him at quarter-past-one and it’s not fair to keep him waiting.’
Bev drove through the light traffic.
‘I saw Gone Girl last night, Ben Affleck and the lucky Ms Rosamund Pike.’
‘Any good?’ Sam asked.
‘Yeah and there’s something about going to the pictures by yourself, especially when Mr Affleck’s up there.’
Sam swivelled to face her: ‘I thought you were seeing that Colin bloke?’
‘Not anymore,’ Bev said. ‘Nice lad but bored your tits off. Give me Ben anytime. Or Rosamund come to think of it. Or even both at the same time.’
Sam smiled. ‘Jesus Bev!’’
‘Ha you’d love it,’ Bev smiled back. ‘But maybe Ben wouldn’t quite make your dream team. Maybe it would have to be Rosamund and a more mature type, maybe a certain DS we both know...’
Sam still hadn’t thought of a comeback by the time they pulled up behind a Nissan Leaf and watched Alistair Scott climb from the driver’s seat.
Introductions over as they walked towards the pier, Sam judged the time was right.
‘Alistair I am sorry to have to tell you that your uncle, Jeremy Scott, is dead,’ she said. ‘We’ve launched a murder investigation.’
In Sam’s experience - and she
had broken grim news many times - her words were often met with silent shock not weeping and wailing. The tears came later.
So Alistair Scott’s reaction, wordless and blank, wasn’t anything she hadn’t expected.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ she said. ‘The Surf Shack sells decent stuff.’
Alistair nodded and finally found a voice.
‘I suppose there’s no mistake? It’s definitely Jeremy?’
‘It is,’ Sam said. ‘Sorry.’
Bev walked ahead and ordered three coffees.
‘Were you close Alistair?’ Sam asked.
‘Not really. I saw him all the time when I was a kid, less so after my parents died. He was my dad’s younger brother. Murdered where? In his house?’
‘No, not at his house,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll get a Family Liaison Officer to sit down with you and tell you everything, but that will be better done in the comfort of your home. Do you have to go back to work?’
‘No that’s the beauty of being your own boss.’
‘What is it you do?’
‘Property developer,’ Alistair said. ‘Build houses, find estate pubs that are closing, buy them up and sell the land to supermarkets, you know Tesco Extra, Sainsbury’s Local, that type of thing.’
‘Okay,’ Sam told him. ‘In that case we’ll have this coffee and then Bev can go home with you. She can be your Family Liaison Officer. Do you have children?’
Alistair took the coffee from Bev.
‘Thanks. Not living with me. There’s just me at home; too many hours, too many temptations. Not sure why I’m telling you this.’
‘It’s okay,’ Bev told him. ‘We’re cops. See it all the time in the CID.’
‘What can you tell me about your uncle?’ Sam asked now.
‘Not a lot really. He wasn’t one of life’s loveable characters, bit of a misery in truth. My mother never liked him. Music teacher, retired and as I’m sure you know, a suspected child molester although he was acquitted at court.’
Chapter Eight
Pussycats was never at its best during the day...no light show, no music, no shadows to hide the stains on armchairs and carpets, no painted nails and slender legs caressing the golden poles, the only women in the place carrying mops and buckets.
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