Death Of A Devil

by Derek Farrell

  “I did that fucking cut!” Mo Halliwell, who had arrived, unnoticed, behind the two women, thundered, and all eyes turned. “You got a word to say about that cut, you take it outside.”

  “Jesus,” Lilly rolled her eyes, “its Scarface’s mother. Alright, Maureen. You still running that ghastly barbershop?” She glanced at me and dropped her voice. “You do know that they’re all just here for one thing,” she said.

  “To see if whoever has the stones turns up?” I suggested.

  Lilly inclined her head, “That and for a good old bellow of Jerusalem. They love a sing-song, this lot.”

  Mo – unaccompanied, I noted, by the put-upon Rene – shoved the two women out of the way, and leaned over the coffin, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “G’night, Jimmy,” she murmured, choking on his name and reaching a hand out to stroke the corpse’s cheek. “And don’t you worry, we’ll get the fucker what did this to you.”

  “Oh, please,” Lilly muttered as Eve gasped, shocked, seemingly, by the profanity.

  “You,” Mo whipped up, her eyes flaring and, rather than turning on either of the women she turned on me, “and me,” she said, punctuating each word with a jabbed finger, “is gonna have words after this. I don’t know what you and that stuck-up bitch said to Rene, but I’m gonna fucking deal with both of you after this is done.” Then her eyes suddenly widened, her mouth stopped working and her face went, first grey, then a colour I can really only describe as puce, as she focussed over my shoulder.

  “Well, well, well,” Caz, coming up behind me, muttered in my ear, “now that’s an interesting development.”

  Through the door of the crematorium had walked a visibly-shrunken Charlie Chatham, his eyes sunk in his head, his walk shuffling. Supporting him, tall and straight, was Rene Halliwell, her slim form wearing a pair of black skinny jeans; a long black silk shirt, hanging almost to her knees; and a pair of shiny black heels, the toes of which were open, exposing her nails painted glaring scarlet.

  Rene, like Lilly, had opted for a hat, though this one was a wide brimmed black affair that spoke less of gipsy gloom and more of matador mourning.

  She looked a million dollars. Chisel Chatham, next to her, looked half dead.

  “The fuck is going on here?” Mo hissed, storming across the crematorium.

  “There ought to be popcorn,” Lilly murmured, in tones of pure delight. “If you’d warned me,” she said, nudging me, “I’d have done a finger buffet.”

  I looked around the church. Apart from the deceased; the vicar, who was busy on his iPhone while he waited for the full audience to turn up; Caz; Lilly; Eve and the trio currently engaged in a sotto voce argument in the doorway, not one other person had turned up for the funeral.

  And then, as I watched, Chopper Falzone, accompanied by the shade-wearing Cyril, entered the crematorium, unnoticed by the others, who were all, by now, either engaged in an argument or eagerly observing said argument.

  Chopper nodded politely to me and gestured at Cyril, who removed the shades and stepped to one side, ushering Chopper into the rear pew and following him in with the air of a secret service agent who’s been told the floral tributes are full of ninjas.

  Mo’s body language, meanwhile, was – unsurprisingly – aggression incarnate, while Rene, for once, seemed to be fronting her nicely; smiling condescendingly at the older woman, refusing to be drawn into a verbal argument and simply waiting until her mother-in-law stopped talking before opening her mouth.

  Most times, she got a few words out before Mo went off again and Rene would simply smile beatifically, adopting the air of the Mona Lisa in stretch jeans, and accept the onslaught.

  Charlie Chatham looked as though he’d been fed a selection of pharmaceuticals, his awareness of the unfolding argument clear but his engagement, his ability to calm either the close-to-raving Mo, or to defend the woman by his side, limited.

  Mo’s voice rose, suddenly, “Al’s gonna cut your fucking face off with a Stanley blade, you dappy tart.”

  Lilly chuckled. “Always classy, Mo.”

  “I think,” I said, moving towards the trio, Caz by my side, “we might want to shut this down before it gets out of hand.”

  But there was no need to shut it down because as we approached the trio Rene leaned forward, her eyes glittering fiercely; put her lips close to Mo’s ears, but not so close as to completely obscure the words she uttered; and, with one sentence, shut Mo Halliwell down.

  “You say one fucking word, Mo, and I’m gonna tell Al all about Jimmy and what you did with him.”

  Mo’s face blazed furiously, her jaw working desperately as though a torrent of words was still being generated, but something – some sense of self-preservation, some knowledge of the danger inherent in saying any more – was muting the volume.

  “Slag!” she spat, her face freezing as, behind Rene and Charlie, a couple of uniformed Bobbies appeared, one of them handcuffed to an arm of Ali.

  “Lord,” Caz gasped, “I know she’s feisty, but she’s hardly Hannibal Lecter.”

  Mo turned, like a vampire who’d just spotted a couple of garlic salesmen framing a purveyor of fine crucifixes, and fled to the far side of the room, shoving herself into a pew so fast that it rocked.

  This caused the vicar to look up from his Candy Crush, and lose a level. I clearly saw his lips mouth a word I never expected to see a vicar mouth at a funeral, before I turned back to a clearly exhausted Ali.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Have we met? Only I ain’t seen you in so long…”

  I reached out to hug her and the two coppers bristled, but I went for it anyways. “I’ve been busy,” I whispered to her, “but I think I’ve got us to a good place.”

  I pulled away, and there were tears in her eyes and a sad smile on her lips. “Thanks for sorting Carlton,” she said. “Silly bugger would have insisted he’d done it to cover me.”

  “There’s a lot of it about,” I said pointedly, as, behind Ali, Nick arrived, another uniform with him.

  “Yeah, well,” Ali sniffed, “I may not have killed him, but I wish I’d killed him. Years ago. I might have had a life if I had.”

  “Or done life,” I said.

  “Your Majesty,” Ali nodded, offering a fond smile to Caz. “You been keeping an eye on this one?”

  “Always,” Caz smiled back. “I’m doing my best, but I can’t keep his pub going like some people.”

  “Well,” Ali smiled sardonically, “it’s genetic, innit. Some of us is just born to serve.”

  I wandered over to Nick. “No Reid?” I asked, referring to Nick’s superior, who was what some people might have described as an unreconstructed old-school copper. I preferred the phrase pig, in every sense of the word, though Nick continued to insist that – despite being a sexist, homophobic, aggressive twat – Reid was actually not all bad.

  “He’s got piles,” my beautiful man said, his green eyes flashing as the light through the high up stained-glass windows caught them, a failed attempt to suppress the smile on his lips causing the dimples on his cheeks to flare briefly. “Excruciating, apparently.”

  I plastered what I hoped was a look of grave concern on my mug. “Oh dear,” I sighed. “Please send my regrets. To the piles.”

  Nick shook his head. “You’ll go to hell for that, you know.”

  “Oh, mate,” I said, “if that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done then I’ll argue that judgement.”

  “How are we doing?” Nick jerked his chin at the assembled – Mo on one side of the crematorium, pressed up against the wall and staring fixedly at the box on the dais at the top; Chisel and Rene in the third row on the opposite side of the aisle; Lilly Ho and Eve Stewart in the row behind them, but at opposite ends of the bench, as though needing to be close, but dreading having to communicate with each other.

  “We’re nearly all here, I think. Listen, is that,” I nodded at the cuff on Ali’s wrist and at the two stern-faced copp
ers, “strictly necessary.”

  Nick frowned. “Honestly? I don’t think so. But rules is rules and if DI Reid can’t make it here in person, he’s going to make sure that he’s here in spirit,” and he clapped me on the shoulder and nodded at Ali. “I’ll get Mrs Carter settled,” he said, “and hopefully we can sort this mess out soon enough and get her back to normality.” He nodded at Ali’s escort and they, Caz alongside, wandered up the aisle to the front pew.

  The other copper seated himself quietly and firmly in the back row, nearest the door, and the piped music continued to play – someone using a pipe organ to do to Hymns Ancient and Modern what Jack the Ripper had done to his victims; because nothing says, ‘Anglican funeral for someone nobody liked,’ like a bunch of eviscerated devotionals performed in a perfunctory manner by someone who’d once dreamt of being the next Billy Joel.

  And just as I was pondering on strange approaches to religious beliefs, the light was blotted by the gargantuan figure of Green. Tim Boyle’s manservant, wheezing slightly, like a mammoth with incipient emphysema, filled the doorway, scanned every inch of the space and then stepped deferentially to one side to allow his master – all Saville Row tailoring and creepy sobriety – to enter the room.

  “Danny.” Tiny Tim approached me, clasping my right hand in both of his and giving me such a look of bottomless sorrow that I had to remind myself that I wasn’t even remotely related to the deceased.

  “Thank you for letting me know this was happening today. A chance to say a final farewell to a man who, whilst he wasn’t always an easy man, was still a good friend of mine. In the old days.”

  The last sentence, clearly designed to make clear that Boyle was nothing like the dead man now, wasn’t lost on me.

  “Well,” I said, apropos of laughing in his face, “I’m sure he’d appreciate your coming to say farewell to him.”

  Tim nodded. “Indeed,” he intoned, his eyes scanning the space now to see who was present. At length, he jerked his head, indicating to Green that he had decided where to sit and the wraith-like figure and his giant one-man protection unit, processed slowly up the aisle to sit just behind Mo Halliwell, who turned, scowled at them both and refocussed on the coffin, until, a moment later, realising who the newcomer was, squawked, “Fuck me, it’s Tiny Tim,” and turned around to offer her hand to him.

  Tim shrunk back momentarily and was finally forced to shake the proffered hand, murmuring some meaningless words and gaining, for his efforts, a whispered rant from Mo (including gestures towards Chisel and Rene that suggested Mo was describing plans she’d been formulating since taking her seat).

  Boyle blanched, nodded and swooped into his pocket, extracting a mini bible, which he opened and began, pointedly, to focus on.

  Carlton was almost last to arrive, coming into the space with a degree of timidity which was offset by the tall, confident stride of Tara, who stood alongside him.

  He was wearing a dark pinstripe suit in a style which I had previously heard described as ‘Defendant chic,’ whilst Tara had plumped for a floor-length woollen coat; high-soled Doc Martens; her hair dyed, today, a deep plum and combed sleek and straight; and a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses. She looked like Doctor Zhivago meets Clark Kent via Tank Girl, and I hugged her, before turning to Carlton

  “So,” I said, nodding at Tara, “you two are hitting it off.”

  “Jesus,” Tara rolled her eyes as Carlton blushed. “We’re friends. Why does everyone your age have to imagine that any two people who are hanging out together are romantically attached?”

  “Two things,” I smiled back, through gritted teeth. “One, I’m thirty-five. And two, because everyone likes a happy ending.”

  “What’s wrong with happy middles?” Tara asked, then nodded to the top of the room. “I assume that’s your mum, Carlton.”

  Carlton had already spotted Ali and took Tara by the hand. “Come and meet her,” he said and Tara hesitated, looking at me for a moment.

  “She’ll like you,” I said, thinking, as they went up the aisle and Carlton embraced Ali – who had shot to her feet, yanking the two coppers with her – that I wasn’t, perhaps, the only one around who wanted happy endings.

  Dash ambled into the church, his brother a step or two behind, both of them wearing tight-fitting black t-shirts and jeans, making it even harder to tell them apart.

  “Not in the property,” Dash said, cryptically.

  My face fell. “The other place?”

  Ray smiled, and I beamed back. “Get in,” I muttered, then remembered where I was.

  “Okay,” I said, clearing my throat, “I suppose it’s time to get started.

  FORTY-TWO

  “Good afternoon,” I began, the microphone causing a shriek of feedback that led the vicar to jerk his head again and leap to his feet.

  “No, it’s alright Reverend, you’re not up yet. I’ll give you a shout.”

  He slumped back into his seat, as Lilly Ho snorted, “Love, it’s hardly Wembley Stadium. The mike’s a bit overkill.”

  She was right; it was. And so was the fact that I was standing atop the dais like I was about to perform a panegyric over the corpse. So I switched the microphone back off and descended the steps.

  “I thought,” I said, “as we’re all gathered here, that it would be a good time to talk about some of the things that have been happening ever since a corpse was discovered behind a false wall in the cellar of the pub I run.”

  My words generated a flicker of interest in the room: eyes shifting to look at other eyes; frowns becoming scowls; even the vicar glanced up from his phone, turning around in his seat and making eye contact with both the copper at the back and the bulky figure of Cyril, as if to say, ‘Did one of you bastards shove a stiff behind this poor man’s stud partition?’

  “Things like what?” Lilly Ho – still loving the opportunity to stir shit up – shouted out.

  “Two murders, for a start,” I said, thanking her silently for the call-and-response. “Three, if you count the fact that the body behind the wall had a bullet in his head as well.”

  “I hope you’re not including him as a murder,” Lilly answered, nodding at Jimmy’s coffin. “Cos whoever topped that scumbag was doing a social service.”

  “Why don’t you shut your yappy mouth?” Mo Halliwell suddenly snarled from across the room.

  Lilly Ho stood to her feet, stared pointedly across the room, removed, from her clutch purse, a Chanel lipstick and applied it smoothly and evenly, all the while staring daggers at Mo Halliwell. Recapping and dropping the lipstick into her bag, she responded, “I’ll shut my yappy mouth when you shut your flabby thighs,” before sitting down and gesturing, as though she were the dowager empress and I Marco Polo, for me to continue my dissertation.

  I glanced nervously at Mo, half expecting her to produce a shiv from her boot and lunge at Lilly, but instead the older woman merely sat, her mouth continuing to move in impotent fury as her eyes blazed at me.

  ‘This,’ she seemed to be reminding me, ‘is all your fault. And I never forget a slight.’

  “Billy Bryant,” I continued, “was, as I was saying, the first to be murdered. He was killed shortly after he and his gang – the Old Kent Road Massive – had carried out an audacious robbery in Hatton Garden.

  “Audacious means cheeky,” Caz exclaimed loudly, and several of the mourners sighed in relief at the translation.

  “The gang had used a con artist known as Gary the Ghost to persuade a BT engineer to turn off the alarm systems at a certain diamond merchants. That done, they’d made off with several million in diamonds, none of which were ever seen again.”

  “This is all, of course, allegedly,” Tiny Tim piped up in his best Uriah Heep impersonation. “I mean, nobody who might have been involved in the Massive has ever confessed any involvement to the police and nobody here is guilty of any such crime.”

  He stared pointedly at the back of Nick’s head, and back at me.

  I sighed.
“Okay,” I said, “whatever you say. But what is a cold, hard fact is that some time shortly after that robbery, Billy Bryant arrived at The Marquess of Queensbury public house in Southwark.

  “The pub was in the middle of a refurb and had been closed to the public, but Bryant had – it’s been suggested – acquired the keys to the place from Jimmy Carter, and had intended – we’re lead to believe – to stash the takings of that robbery somewhere safe.”

  “Only someone killed him and made off with the stones,” Lilly Ho piped up and Charlie Chisel, finally surfacing from his narcotic fug, turned in his seat to cast an accusatory eye across the assembled.

  “Which of you did it?” he demanded plaintively. “And why Alex?”

  “Oh, Charlie,” Eve Stewart leaned forward and pressed a hand on Chisel’s shoulder.

  “Why?” Chisel demanded of the crowd, as he fully surfaced, his face twisting furiously.

  He stood, genuine fury in his eyes, and turned on the gang assembled there for Jimmy’s funeral. “Why? Why did you kill him?”

  “Why, isn’t entirely easy,” I said, “but you’ll understand. Soon.”

  “Understand?” He shook his head, as though I’d said a word he’d never heard before and dropped back into his seat.

  “So, Billy’s dead – the gang assume he’s done a runner with all the proceeds of the robbery, a search is conducted but no sign of Billy can be found and so life, eventually, returns to normal.

  “Jimmy himself ends up vanishing, and he only returns when Billy’s body turns up and he surmises that, if Billy didn’t take the stones, then whoever killed him must have.”

  “Genius,” Lilly snarled.

  “Jimmy was a good man,” Mo shouted back, at which Rene threw back her head and laughed aloud.

  “Mo, love,” her daughter-in-law cackled, “you need help.”

  “Don’t fucking speak to me you tart,” Mo shot back.

  “Look,” Rene – despite instructions otherwise – responded, “I get that you’ve spent your life stuck with these bastards, but you got to stop making excuses for them. Jimmy was a lowlife, your son is a scumbag, his dad was a fucking mentalist, Tiny and his fuckin’ gargantuan boyfriend there,” she gestured at the duo, “are – despite the nice bit of schmutter – still fucking lowlife gangsters.”