The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

“Yeah, maybe I got the wrong flat.”

  “Clay, you never went anywhere,” she said. “Look, unless we ask the police, we don’t know what happened. It may be completely different to the way you remember it – dreamt it. Yes, it’s horrible you’ve had these dreams – but they don’t mean anything. These dreams could be wrong. Maybe we should go back, maybe I can talk to one of the young constables. You know, play the role of the amateur detective – the way I look, I’ll have him buying into me in no time. What do you think? I can easily find out what really happened.”

  “I don’t want to go near there again.”

  “You won’t have to. Just wait here and I’ll do it.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not a good idea. He might recognise you.”

  “What? Who?”

  “The Detective Inspector. I think he’s already suspicious of me, and if he recognises you then he’ll be suspicious of you too.”

  “Clay, what are you talking about?”

  “The Detective Inspector. I saw him yesterday when I passed Raymond’s place, and he saw me. He was outside as we walked up now. Maybe he saw me across the road. If he did, he’s bound to have seen you too.”

  “The same guy?” she asked. “But that was South London, this is North?”

  “Maybe they’ve connected them already.”

  She sat back, her hands away from his. She clearly thought she’d found a way out of this, but now her path through was blocked by an immovable object - Clay. He felt sorry for her as the flash of disappointment registered on her face.

  “If he’s seen you with me,” Clay said, “then he’s going to ask some questions – and do you really want to explain what we’re doing up here today?”

  She didn’t even shake her head.

  The café was quiet. It was mid-morning and the early day rush had gone, the lunchtime crowd was still an hour away, and this wasn’t the kind of place you went for nice elevenses. As such it was an event when the door opened – especially for the good looking Greek guy, who clearly hoped some single, vivacious red-head would walk through the door.

  When it did open, it signalled the entrance of a small pale ginger girl – ginger rather than red, as Belinda would no doubt have pointed out. She looked worn and tired, as if she’d been crying. If she’d been an actress, she’d have actually over-played the crying part, as she had puffed-up eyes, bloated red face and a crumpled paper tissue for real emphasis. Maybe she had come for a sit down away from the sunlight, somewhere shaded that better suited her mood. She didn’t get very far.

  She took a step in and saw Clay and Belinda and then stopped. She wasn’t a pretty girl – eyes too far back in her face, a snub nose, greasy skin. But then maybe her looks weren’t helped by the shock that overtook her. She suddenly shook from her feet to her face. She stared at them, terrified.

  Clay and Belinda stared back with a shared expression of bemusement.

  There was no vague emotion for this girl – instead there was terror, fear, a tremble in her legs that consumed her whole body. She was clutched with horror, and when she actually regained movement she bolted away. She turned and stumbled into a run and was gone.

  “Who was that?” asked Clay.

  “I’ve never seen her before in my life,” she said.

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. I don’t know anyone like that.”

  “Well, she seemed to know you.”

  “Maybe she knew you, honey. You get nuts in these parts, remember that.” She finished her coffee. “What do you want to do now? Shall we go home?”

  “Can we go see Toby first?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to see him, I’d like to talk to him.”

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Not the whole thing, I don’t think he’d believe me. But I want to see him, I guess I think of him as someone I can trust.”

  She held his hand again. “Can you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you always trust me?”

  “Of course.”

  He trusted her and loved her and would be hers always. He clutched her hand.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They took the bus to Toby’s flat in Camden.

  When they’d first known Toby, he’d lived in a small apartment in a converted Victorian house in Noho. He’d been proud of his home – or rather proud of his location. He’d smugly remind you where he resided on a regular basis. He’d lived with Tess, who’d moved in with him in the first giggly passion of romance (and because, he later suspected, she was fed up with her crappy place in Battersea.) However, when they broke up – or, as he would describe it, when she met that obscenely rich stock-broker with the large cock – she somehow manoeuvred it so she kept the flat and he moved out. She persuaded him to leave the home he’d found four years before he met her, to gather his stuff and take a white van ride elsewhere.

  And so in his depression Toby ended up in Camden, or in that lovely area of tight terrace houses, kebab shops and on-the-corner prostitutes that made up the border between King’s Cross and Camden. He’d been there seven years now and gave the impression of hating every fraction of every second of it. However, despite the bile he spluttered on the subject, he still hadn’t moved. He could have moved, he probably had the money for that, but it was like a man in any rut – once he’s gone to the trouble of shifting his TV, sofa and all his comfortable pillows down there, then it becomes very much his rut.

  Clay and Belinda sat silent on the bus, holding hands but not looking at each other. She gazed out of the window and he stared around the other passengers, and saw death reflected back at him. He felt sorry for these innocent people, who sat so carefree and worry-less on a sunny day, having to share a trip with a man who’d seen the things he’d seen. He superimposed a dead face, a dead body over all of them. Their blood spurting out, their bodies toned and muscular until he sunk the knife in. He held Belinda’s hand tightly; it made him feel calmer.

  It took four rings of the bell before they heard movement the other side of Toby’s front door. Finally there were a few grunts, the sound of something falling over (an occasional table being staggered into perhaps) and then an attack on the locks. In that neighbourhood it was sensible to have a collection of sturdy locks (Toby had five) and it sounded like – at that morning hour – he’d charged into them with fury.

  At last the door opened – on the chain – and his worried, hung-over, miserable face glared out at them. He shot them both a mean look and then slammed the door. He slid the chain off and opened it again, his back already towards them as he staggered up the hall wearing just an old T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. He vanished into the kitchen, leaving Clay to shut up the bolts. Belinda – who’d never seen Toby’s home before – took Clay’s hand nervously and followed him to the lounge.

  Toby was a man who had everything in its place, and that place was several large piles strewn across his floor. There was a book pile, a bill pile, a magazine pile, a pile of clothes (that had been worn once but were still clean enough to be worn again), a pile of small plates (the bottom of which really needed to be washed up) and various miscellaneous piles.

  Clearing off one of the two battered armchairs, Clay suggested that Belinda sit in it. She lowered herself, resting one buttock gently on the corner. Clay cleared the other chair and sat safely back into it. And the two of them waited, facing Toby’s couch – his home within his home.

  Finally, he returned, carrying an epic mug of black coffee, and collapsed to the couch without spilling a drop.

  He took one long slurp and then stared from Clay to Belinda and back to Clay again. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Nick Turnkey has been murdered,” said Clay.

  Toby took another swig of coffee. “What?”

  “We’ve just been round and there are police and...” He stumbled over his words. “It looks like a tribute to Raymond�
�s house yesterday.”

  “Jesus!” Toby said. “This is terrible news! I’d never met anyone who was murdered until yesterday and now I’ve got two in a row. Fucking hell! That’s depressing. Did you talk to the police? Did they tell you what happened?”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to,” said Belinda. “I was too upset by the whole thing. I couldn’t believe what was happening and I didn’t want to go over there and – I don’t know – be part of it.”

  “But you’re sure he’s been killed?”

  Clay nodded. “We’re sure.”

  “Christ fucking Almighty!” He poured the coffee backwards, blessed with an asbestos mouth. He wiped his lips with the back of a hand. “I can’t pretend I liked the man. He was always a prick and his performance last night was quite appalling – but yes, you can think you’re never going to see someone again without necessarily wishing them dead.” He nursed the mug. “What were you doing there, anyway?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Clay.

  “If Nick hadn’t been murdered and was alive and well and answered his front door to you two this morning – I feel confident he’d have a surprised look on his face. What did you go and see him for?”

  Clay looked quickly to Belinda.

  “It was my idea,” she said. “I wanted to get an apology from him. To make him say sorry to Judy, to make him get down on his knees and beg forgiveness from Abigail. She’s terribly upset about what he came out with last night.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have thought that given her highly superior position he could do anything to upset her.”

  “You’d be surprised at how sensitive she is.”

  “Evidently.”

  “So we went over and he wasn’t there any more,” said Clay. “Some bastard had killed him. I’m thinking it’s probably the same bastard who killed Raymond.”

  “What?” said Toby.

  “What?” echoed Belinda.

  “Well, the two of them – okay, they weren’t friends, but they knew each other. They were both murdered in their homes at night and their homes were fired up afterwards. If these are random unconnected killings, that’s a lot of coincidence, isn’t it? Besides,” he said, “the same detective who was at Raymond’s yesterday was there today.”

  “Which detective?” asked Toby.

  “The one with the silver hair and nice suit. The one who looks like he’s trying to be a detective.”

  “Oh, the Welsh guy.”

  “You’ve spoken to him?”

  “No, the police officer I talked to yesterday told me about him. A rather nasty piece of work was my impression. He apparently never smiles, never gives the inkling he’s likely to smile. I suppose if they run a good cop – bad cop, he doesn’t get to choose which one he’s going to be.”

  “I think he’s running both cases because they know they’re connected,” said Clay.

  “Jesus yet again!” Toby threw the mug back and finished off that coffee with a drawn-out gulp. “It’s hardly the sunshine bus when you come to visit, is it? Learning that a serial killer is picking off my friends and acquaintances is not a cheery thought with which to start the day, or indeed to be given at any point of the day. Fucking hell! Do you want a drink by the way?”

  Toby was justifiably proud of his skills with the coffee bean, but they both declined. It was an odd feeling – even in that hot weather and with all the stress Clay was carrying, he wasn’t thirsty. Or rather he was, but it was a strange kind of anti-thirst which made him almost too thirsty to drink.

  “You know,” said Toby with a smile. “I think it’s you, Clay.”

  Belinda stared at him, shocked. “What?”

  “Clay in the drawing room with the candlestick and kerosene.”

  “Why do you think I did it?” asked Clay.

  “You’re the unknown element, aren’t you? The prodigal son returned to his old friends – who suddenly start to die. Maybe on one of those voyages around the High China Seas or wherever you’ve been, you contracted some murderous brain fever which now possesses you.”

  “It’s not Clay,” said Belinda. “He was with me both nights.”

  “I know it’s not Clay.” Toby’s smile faded. “He couldn’t kill a man any more than I could, but you have to admit that without the character witnesses he’d probably make the police lists. Do you have any idea who it might be?”

  “How would we know?” asked Belinda.

  “I’m sorry, I’m new to this game. Until ten minutes ago I didn’t know there was a serial killer in our midst. You’re a lot further down the track than I am, and so I was just wondering how far you’d got.”

  Clay shook his head. “Not that far.”

  “No idea then?”

  “If I did I’d have no hesitation going to the police,” said Clay. “That’s why we need your help.”

  Toby stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’ve been away and Belinda has lost touch, so we don’t really know that much about Raymond’s or Nick’s lives – but you do. We need your help to speak to the right people, to find anyone who had a grudge against them.”

  “And then what, Poirot?” asked Toby. “We wrestle him to the ground, bind him with some twine we keep for just such an occasion, and he confesses it’s a fair cop? What – even if we do magically find the culprit – are we going to do?”

  “Look,” said Clay, “there’ve been two murders in two nights – if there’s going to be another tonight, don’t we want to try and stop it?”

  Toby swung the empty coffee mug around his fingers.

  “Are you sure about this, Clay?” asked Belinda.

  “As sure as I possibly can be.”

  “All right,” said Toby. “I’m in. It’ll beat another day lingering around here. Where do you want to begin?”

  “I don’t know,” said Clay. “Did they have any friends in common?”

  “Well, us.”

  “Friends who liked them both?”

  “Face reality, Clay. Nick was never the world’s most popular person. I’m not sure how many people really liked him.”

  “We’ll start with Raymond, then. Do you know where his ex-wife is?”

  Toby shook his head. “I don’t think I was ever looked upon as a good influence over him.”

  “Who then?”

  “I suppose Jake. I would imagine he’s probably the closest friend.”

  Clay nodded. “Do you think he knows anything?”

  “I don’t know, Sarge. This is the first murder case I’ve been assigned to.”

  Clay tried to smile, but his face was too pained to make any genuine effort. He reached for Belinda’s hand and put out hers to reciprocate, but the gap between their chairs was just too wide to be bridged.

  “Fine,” said Toby. “I’ll take you round to see them.”

  “See them?” asked Belinda.

  “Flower generally lives with him. Will that be a problem for you? Will you and she be able to keep your claws in long enough to make this a bloodless visit?”

  “I’ve no problem with Flower.”

  “Good,” said Toby. “Stay here, I’ll get dressed.”

  He stood up slowly and staggered from the room on feet that were still sleepy.

  Belinda dashed from her seat and sank to her knees in front of Clay. She clutched his hand and kissed it, her face creased into an expression of impassioned plaintiveness. She was upset and worried, but just having her touch him again made him feel so much better.

  “After we go round there, let’s go back to ours,” she said.

  “What? We may not have anything then.”

  “But when will we have something, Clay? Toby is right. We’re not detectives. We don’t really know what we’re doing. Besides...”

  “What?”

  “With these weird dreams of yours, I’m scared you’ll say something you shouldn’t. I’m scared you’ll give away some fact you proba
bly shouldn’t know and then they’ll suspect you. Toby has already asked some awkward questions after all, and he’s only Toby.” She hesitated. “I’m your alibi Clay, but I don’t know if they’ll believe me because – well – I love you. I’d probably say anything you needed me to say at any time, and the police will know that and so whatever is in the script of my statement will get ignored. I don’t want you taken away, Clay. I don’t want to lose you. Please understand, please listen to me.”

  She entwined her fingers into his and he felt suddenly so much lighter inside.

  “I love you too.”

  “Then hear me,” she said. “Let’s not be foolish here, I don’t want the police showing up and handcuffing you. I don’t want whoever it is coming to kill us all because we know too much, when in fact we know nothing at all. I don’t want you arrested and taken away and then this maniac tries to kill us, as who would protect us then? Please.”

  “What about my dreams?”

  “They may be coincidences.”

  “I know they’re not.”

  She stroked her other hand up his leg. She was so beautiful and vulnerable and he loved her so much.

  “You think that,” she said, “you don’t know it. Look, I’m with you on asking some questions, but if Jake and Flower don’t know anything – then what are you going to do? Where are you going to go? Will you wander the streets with a magnifying glass, or will you let the police do their job? We’re so far away from what we know here, we’re in danger of screwing up. Please, Clay, I’m scared for you.”

  She rested her head on his thigh, tears – magnified slightly behind her glasses – contorting her lovely face. He stroked his hand through her hair; his fingers tingled at the touch.

  “Maybe,” he said. “I’m scared, Belinda, I’m scared about what’s happened and I’m scared about what might happen. But then – you’re right – I don’t want to be arrested and I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  “I love you, Clay.”

  He stroked her cheek. “Okay, we’ll see what Jake and Flower say and then we’ll think about what to do.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

  And even though her tears vanished quickly, she still clung to his legs as if he was the only strength in her world – when in fact, if she let go, he’d probably crumble.