So where was it? Where did his stake money come from and where did his winnings go? And was this related to what Dawn had hinted at? If Cameron had loaned money to students when he was at university, was he still doing that now? Illegally, Tom had to assume. There was certainly no record of him on the Financial Services Register.
The only bit of news they had was that one of the team had gone back to the casino earlier that evening to ask more questions about the redhead seen with Cameron, this time speaking to the dealer at Cameron’s favourite blackjack table.
‘I always assumed she was a tom,’ he’d said with little interest.
‘A prostitute? So Cameron Edmunds was her client?’
‘Nah, I don’t think so. He just liked having something pretty by his shoulder. She probably made more money massaging his ego than she did massaging any other part of him.’
Tom wasn’t sure if this helped or not, but it sounded as if Cameron might have been a source of funds to the woman, so even if they traced her she was unlikely to bite the hand that was feeding her. It was probably another dead end, but she seemed to be the only lead they had.
He had just decided it might be worth risking a whisky as it was doubtful he would be called out again, when his phone rang.
‘Tom, it’s Becky. Sorry to disturb your evening, but there’s been another murder. I’m at the scene, and I’ve got a feeling it’s related to the Derek Brent/Cameron Edmunds case.’
Tom tucked his phone under his chin as he walked out of the kitchen to pick up his keys from the table in the hall. Thankful he hadn’t started on the whisky, he headed towards the door.
‘I’m on my way. Where are you?’
‘Believe it or not, in another car park. This time it’s under a posh block of flats off Whitworth Street. I’ll send you the address.’
Tom slammed the front door behind him and hurried to his car, switching his phone to the car’s speaker system. ‘What do we know?’
‘The victim is another man in his mid-thirties. No identification on him.’
‘What else?’
‘It looks like he was hit with a blunt object. Jumbo’s here with his team, and they found a broken exhaust pipe under one of the cars, which looks like it could have been the weapon. That suggests it might have been opportunistic, rather than planned. The car park’s fairly quiet at this time of night apparently. The victim looks as if he could handle himself, but even the toughest guy can be felled with a heavy bit of pipe.’
‘Why do you think it might be related?’
‘The location – we don’t get many bodies in car parks – but also the state of the body. Jumbo says it looks as if he was hit from behind first, and once he was on the ground his head was beaten to a pulp. Then – probably after death, although the pathologist will have to confirm that – another injury was inflicted.’
‘Go on.’
‘Both of his kneecaps were shattered. It’s a completely different MO, but what does it remind you of?’
What had Dawn Edmunds said? That Roger Jagger’s speciality was kneecapping. Although typically that form of injury was from a gunshot to the knee, when he had pushed Dawn she had said she thought Jagger’s weapon of choice was a hammer.
Had Jagger done this? Was this one of Cameron Edmunds’ loan shark victims? Or had Edmunds and Jagger worked out who had tried to kill Cameron and sought retribution?
Maybe. Maybe not. Right now, though, Tom was more concerned with the fact that two bodies had turned up in different car parks within a period of three days. Was this the start of a killing spree? Would there be more?
40
By the time I take my place at the poker table, I feel in control. I wipe all other thoughts from my mind and concentrate on the game. I know what’s at stake. I need to be devoid of feeling. Only the game matters.
I am relieved to see that Ju-long is playing. He is possibly the worst player I’ve come across at this casino, but he is clearly wealthy. He raises when there is no chance of him winning, and he is responsible for about thirty per cent of my income. Maybe I can do this – win Cameron his money – if I keep my concentration.
There are five of us. Ju-long is two places to my left and between us is a man I haven’t seen before. He’s sweating and keeps wiping his face with a handkerchief. I’m hoping that’s a good sign. To my right is a young man, probably no more than twenty. He seems relaxed and confident, and I don’t like that. He’s been here a few times recently, but not at my table so I’m not sure what to expect. To his right is a woman, late middle age, who looks as if she has smoked too much over the years. Her dark red painted lips have deep lines above and below them, but she’s gone for a buy-in to match Ju-long and has a big pile of chips. It’s a no-limit table, and I guess the stakes are going to be high. Just what I need.
One advantage of competing against poor players is that they often raise on weak hands, bluffing in the hope that other players will fold. I’m usually prepared to call their bets or even raise if I believe my hand has a reasonable chance, and it means the pot grows quickly.
I’m certain Ju-long has no idea how to calculate the odds of winning, but the others at the table are unknown factors, so unless my hand is strong, I’m going to take it carefully. I have too much to lose – probably more than them. The downside is that I can’t bluff Ju-long. He rarely folds and will bet high on a weak hand, but I can’t risk doing the same.
The woman places the first bet – the small blind – and the young man follows with the big blind, and the hole cards are dealt. I lift the corners of my two to peek without risk of anyone seeing what I have. The jack of hearts and a four of spades. Nothing special. I could fold now, but the blind is low and it’s not much to lose, so I call. The man to my left leans back with a sigh of frustration and folds. Ju-long, as expected, calls. He never folds before the flop. But he hasn’t raised either.
Only one player has folded. The three flop cards are dealt. They do nothing to improve my situation. I’m not going to bluff. I don’t know some of these players, and I want them to believe I play straight and only bet when I think I can win. That way it will be easier to bluff later – if Ju-long takes a break. The odds of me winning this hand are too low, so I fold and watch the others as the rest of the cards are played. The young man folds on the turn so it’s between the woman and Ju-long. He has a glint in his eye and I know he has a good hand. Not brilliant, though – he fidgets when it’s anything better than a straight. There is a pair of sixes on the table, so I guess he could be hoping for two pairs. As could the woman.
He raises, and the woman calls. The final card – the river – is dealt. It’s a king, and I see his shoulders drop. It’s not what he was hoping for. I watch the woman carefully. I need to understand her body language, but she doesn’t give much away. She bets, and despite the fact that I know Ju-long hasn’t got a good hand, he doesn’t fold. He raises, and she folds. She’s exactly the kind of player he likes – she adds consistently to the pot but doesn’t have the nerve to go all the way. She will lose a lot tonight.
As play continues, I stick to my policy of watching and learning, remaining conservative with my bets. I’m winning, but not enough. I’m up about five thousand in the last hour, but it’s time to push ahead. I decide to play one more hand and then take a break to centre myself again, to make myself believe I can do it.
The cards are dealt. I have two aces and I feel a shiver of excitement. I focus on holding my hands still, my face neutral.
I bet high, hoping my show of confidence will encourage some players to fold and increase my chance of winning. The man on my left shuffles in his seat for a minute or two then takes a sip of his drink, but finally he calls.
Ju-long raises, but it tells me nothing because his betting is erratic and unpredictable. The man on my left groans, and I’m sure he’s going to fold next time round. That’s good.
The woman calls, as does the young man. That’s a disappointment – I would rather be rid of one
of them before the flop – preferably both of them – but it adds to the pot, and I need that. Without hesitation I re-raise. As expected, the man on my left lets out a grunt of irritation and folds.
I have a feeling that this is my moment and it’s all I can do not to lean forward eagerly and rest my elbows on the table. But I don’t. I sit back and force my shoulders to relax.
It’s Ju-long’s turn to bet. He looks at his cards, and then round the table at each player, one by one. I don’t know what he’s going to do. He narrows his eyes as he stares at me, but I don’t blink, and I don’t look away.
Finally he calls, as does the woman. She must have two good cards, although at this stage of the game there is no such thing as a sure-fire winner. The young man folds. We are down to three players, and that’s better odds for me.
The pot stands at £7000. I need more. Much more.
At the flop the three community cards don’t improve things for me – the jack of hearts, seven of diamonds and king of hearts. I don’t react, but Ju-long’s eyes have lit up. There are two hearts on the table, and I wonder if that is what’s exciting him. Or maybe he’s made a couple of pairs. I watch him carefully.
The woman checks, as I was sure she would, waiting to see if I make a continuation bet. I push chips to the value of £4000 onto the table. I am certain Ju-long will match me, but I don’t want the woman to make it to the turn without at least adding substantially to the pot. If she folds, it will just be me and Ju-long.
Despite his apparent excitement, Ju-long only calls. With any other player, that might tell me something, but in his case it doesn’t. To my surprise, the woman calls too. One of them, I’m sure, has hearts and I feel a beat of alarm. I can’t lose this hand. I’m running out of time.
The turn comes. It’s the ace of hearts, so I now have three of a kind. It’s okay, but tonight I feel certain it won’t be enough, especially as there is now another heart on the table.
I sense disappointment in Ju-long. He didn’t want that card and he’s fiddling with his chips, lifting them and letting them drop, clattering together. The sound sets my nerves on edge and I wish he would stop.
The woman checks. Maybe she has a flush or a straight. Either would beat my three aces. I check too.
To my surprise, Ju-long bets £5000. Is he trying to bluff us? I know he didn’t like the card at the turn. I have to trust my instincts, and I have beaten him many times before in similar situations. I concentrate on my breathing. In, out, slowly. I can do this.
If I’m to have any hope of winning the money needed to meet Jagger’s demands, I have to take a chance. A sudden image of my childhood home flashes into my mind to remind me what I’m playing for.
Focus, I repeat over and over in my head.
The woman calls. I’ve not seen her be this rash with her betting before, and I still haven’t got her measure. She is sticking with us but I’m starting to see an edge of unease in the way she is clenching and unclenching her fingers. There is no certainty of a win in her mind, and if pushed far enough, I’m sure she’ll fold. Ju-long is a different matter.
Looking at the cards on the table, I attempt to work out what he might be hoping for. Thank God he’s so transparent. He was excited by the flop but not by the turn, so it can’t be hearts, which is good as a flush would beat my three of a kind. Maybe he too has three of a kind. But I have the aces. All I know for sure is that he is confident, but not so confident that he has gone all in.
I’m already in for six grand on this hand. If I call, I will be in for eleven. I’m going to have to push this as far as I can, or quit while I still have enough money to carry on playing.
It’s a risk I’m prepared to take so I push my chips forward.
There is now over thirty thousand in the pot, and only the final card to go.
The silence round the table is intense. Even the two men who folded are riveted.
The card is dealt.
Not one muscle in my face or body reacts as I try not to stare too long at the table. The river card is the seven of spades! There’s already a seven on the table, so together with the three aces I have a full house. Only three hands can beat me. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I can’t believe that no one else can hear it.
Ju-long is fidgeting, and that’s not a good sign. Does he have a straight flush – maybe even a royal flush? An unbeatable hand. He could have been bluffing with his lack of excitement at the ace of hearts, but I doubt it. Maybe he too has a full house. But I remind myself that I have the aces.
I glance at the woman. She’s watching Ju-long, perhaps by now understanding that he won’t fold. I think she’s deciding how far she’s prepared to go, because he will keep pushing. Can she trust that she has him beaten? She checks, biding her time.
It feels like anyone’s game, but I don’t believe her hand is as good as mine. I’m guessing she has a flush, but not a straight flush. A good hand, but she’s wondering if it’s enough. It’s not, and I’m no longer worried about her. But Ju-long is a different story.
It’s my turn to bet. The odds of anyone having better cards are slim. There is only one thing for me to do and I must do it quickly, before I lose my nerve. Because this is all or nothing for me.
‘All in,’ I say, as I push the whole of my remaining stack forward. Eight thousand pounds.
There’s a gasp from the man on my left, who really needs to learn to be less vocal. Ju-long doesn’t take his eyes from my face, and for a moment he looks puzzled, as if he can’t imagine what I’m thinking. There is a flash of doubt and in that moment, I am certain I have won. He hesitates, then pushes his chips forward.
The woman shows her feelings for the first time. This is a step too far for her, and her face drops as she folds. She has lost eleven thousand pounds.
The winnings will give me the money for Cameron and my fund will be there for the next time I play. Because I know there will be a next time. If I lose, I’m finished.
It’s time for the showdown and I pray I haven’t misread Ju-long as our cards are flipped.
41
The scene in the car park was exactly as Becky had described it, the attack on the victim every bit as vicious. It was going to be hard to identify him from his face alone.
‘What do you think?’ Tom asked.
‘Someone hated this man with a passion. Whoever killed him didn’t just want him dead, he wanted to vent a lot of pent-up anger on him.’
Becky was right. The victim would have probably been dead after one or two of the blows to the head, but the assault had continued long after that.
‘And then they had a go at his legs.’
Tom leaned against a pillar that had already been processed for evidence and folded his arms. Becky said her first thought had been that this could be one of Jagger’s victims. But if this was someone who had failed to make a payment, what sense did it make to kill them? Unless this was a message to someone else.
‘No identification on him?’
‘Nothing – not even a phone, a receipt or cash. Maybe it was all taken by the killer, but you’d have thought they’d leave the normal rubbish people have in their pockets. Clean as a whistle.’
Jumbo walked over, and unusually for him, he was frowning.
‘What do you make of the legs, Tom? We’ll need it confirming by the pathologist, but I’m fairly certain the injuries were inflicted after he died. One of the bones has broken right through his jeans, but there is no blood at the site, which suggests his heart had stopped beating.’
‘I was wondering about that. It seems a strange thing to do after death, doesn’t it?’
‘Unless it’s a message, yes. I agree.’
‘Ah, but what kind of message? Two murders – both in car parks. The first was execution style, and the ten-pound notes suggest it was some form of retribution. This appears to have been more spontaneous, but equally violent, the broken limbs suggesting either a revenge attack or – as you say – a message.’
&nb
sp; Becky turned to look at the body again. ‘I know the only slightly tenuous link is the fact that both murders were in car parks, but I can’t get away from the idea that both are connected to Edmunds.’
Tom pushed himself off the pillar. ‘It could be dangerous to assume a connection right now. It might blind us to other possibilities. Having said that, it should be one of our lines of enquiry. I assume we’re checking that this guy isn’t one of the residents?’
‘Yes,’ Becky said. ‘Lynsey’s up in the foyer with some uniforms. It’s all in hand. And obviously any of the residents could be a suspect too.’
‘Okay. If Dawn Edmunds is to be believed, Roger Jagger is a vicious bastard with a particular fondness for smashing people’s kneecaps. Let’s take a look at victims of unsolved attacks in the last couple of years, with particular emphasis on injuries to legs or knees, see if we can link any of them to either Cameron Edmunds or Roger Jagger. Also, check if any of them didn’t make it home last night. And let’s get a fuller picture of those two bastards. Whether Dawn’s assessment of her husband is accurate or not, there’s a lot about Edmunds that doesn’t stack up, and he or his sidekick could be responsible for this poor guy’s death.’
42
It takes me a few moments to take in what I am seeing in front of me. Now I understand why Ju-long wasn’t excited by the ace of hearts. He wasn’t making two pairs, a flush or even a full house, as I was anticipating. I would have beaten any of those with my ace-high full house.
He had something else. He had been dealt two sevens, and with the cards on the table he has four of a kind.
Ju-long has won.
I struggle to take it in. I can feel the other people at the table watching me. They know I have lost a lot of money, but they have no idea what it means to me. Jagger will be waiting. What will he do when I can’t give him anything – not a single penny?
The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers Page 18