Been there, done that. He left the girl at the bar. Took his pint over to a quiet table in the corner. The girl’s eyes followed him, but he gazed past her and out through the pub’s open door at the people walking by and the stars coming out in the night sky.
Then he spotted her. Not the rich girl. The opposite. The kind of girl the rich girl wanted to look like, so she could fit in round here, but whose lifestyle she’d not be able to hack for a day.
The girl who walked in now was the skull-faced girl from Stav’s, the one who’d stripped off her top at Stav’s command. She sat down on one of the knackered leather stools at the bar and fished a packet of cigarettes out of her torn denim bag.
She looked slowly around, everywhere apart from where he was sitting. But he wasn’t buying it. No way was this a coincidence. What was the line from that Casablanca film that the old man always liked watching at Christmas? Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine. Frankie necked his drink. That feeling he’d had someone had been following him earlier on. He’d been bang on right.
‘What you drinking, love?’ he said, standing next to her. Keira. Yeah, Keira. That’s what Stav had called her, right?
The trustafarian girl shot Frankie a look that clearly said, So what’s she got that I haven’t?
A nasty black eye for one thing. Keira’s sludge of dark make-up wasn’t just a fashion choice. Her right eye was cut on the brow. Bruised beneath. Not fresh. Perhaps a week old. She’d been hit and hit hard. Either a present from a punter. Or that scumbag, Stav.
‘You still paying?’ she asked.
She didn’t just mean for her drink. For information. What he’d said he’d pay for back at Stav’s.
‘Sure.’
‘Double vodka then. Straight up.’ She was English. Northern.
He bought himself another pint and took her back to his table.
‘How much?’ she said.
‘A hundred. If I like what I hear . . .’
‘Make it two,’ she said, sparking up a fag and blowing smoke hard at him, letting him know he didn’t scare her one bit.
‘One fifty.’
‘Two, or I walk.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Done.’ He just had been.
‘But whatever I tell you, you don’t fucking tell Stav, OK? Or he’ll fucking kill me.’
‘Fine.’
‘Star,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Her name. The girl you’re looking for. The one who went with him . . . with your brother that night at Stav’s . . . she’s called Star.’
So Jack was there. At Stav’s. His addled memory hadn’t served him wrong. Fuck. Frankie felt his heartbeat race. This could be it. The alibi he was after. What if Jack had still been at Stav’s at the same time he was meant to have been killing Susan Tilley? Then he might not even need to find this Star. If Keira had seen him there with this Star, then she could provide an alibi too. The two of them could put him in the clear.
‘How long was he there with her? What time did he get there? And leave?’
She shrugged.
‘Dunno. I mean, most blokes, when they come there, they go upstairs, don’t they? Or hang about in the bar a bit first and then head up. But her and your brother . . . that night, they went off somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bollocks. ‘What time?’
‘I don’t know. Evening.’
‘But when exactly?’ He stared hard into her eyes. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘It’s important.’
‘I’d tell you if I could, but . . . it’s fucking hard to tell in there, isn’t it? The way all the windows are blocked. You can’t even see if it’s still light outside. And look,’ she said, showing him her skinny wrists, ‘I’ve got no watch.’
Calm. Keep calm. Think. All right. So Keira wasn’t going to provide him with any kind of alibi about where Jack was. But there was still this other girl. This Star. Who’d gone off with him. To somewhere else. Her place, if she had one? What if she’d been with Jack when he was meant to have been at Tilley’s grandmother’s? What if he could get her to talk? Then he still had his alibi.
But . . . fuck . . . what if she was in deeper in this? Deeper than just a trick? What if she was somehow involved? What if she’d gone back with Jack to his place, not just to fuck him, but for something else? Something to do with all that blood?
‘And this . . . Star . . .’ he said.
Keira smiled. ‘I know. Stupid name, right?’ Her smile faded. ‘But she wasn’t stupid. She was sweet. Or at least used to be. Until Stav bought her.’
‘Bought her?’ What the fuck?
‘He owned her,’ she explained.
‘Owned?’
‘Her previous guy. He owed Stav money. Last week. He gave Star to Stav until she paid off his debt. Me and her both.’
‘You knew her before then? Before she started working for him?’
‘Yeah, but not like what you saw tonight – not there – we used to work hotel bars . . .’
Classier, she meant. Probably safer too.
‘. . . before she got so bad with what she was taking.’
‘Which was?’ he asked.
‘You name it. H. Es. Ketamine. Coke. She had this new contact who could get her anything: GHB, Temazepan, MDMA, you name it.’
What the fuck had this girl been playing at? Drugs Scrabble? Frankie had done his fair share of recreational narcs over the years, particularly a couple of years back when it had all got a little out of hand, but he’d never even heard of half of these. That was the trouble with the drugs world. You turned your back on it for a second and it moved on without you. He felt like a fucking amateur now.
‘That night with my brother, did you see her and him taking anything together?’
‘No. But she’s always been sneaky like that. Keeps her gear hidden. Worried cunts like Stav’ll nick it. But lately with me an’ all. Like her new dealer – she won’t even share his number with me – pretends like she’s not allowed.’
‘D’you talk to her? About my brother? After what happened that night?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ No way she wouldn’t have tried, it being splashed all over the papers. It had obviously been big news round at Stav’s as well.
‘Haven’t seen her,’ Keira said.
‘What? Why not?’
‘Not been answering her phone. I’ve checked at her place too, but no one’s seen her. Like she’s vanished off the face of the earth.’
Frankie’s heartbeat started spiking again
‘Why didn’t you tell the cops? After you found out what my brother did – what they said he did?’
She looked for a second like she might laugh, like she couldn’t believe how stupid he was even to ask.
‘Because they wouldn’t have believed me,’ she said. ‘Because Stav would have killed me if I got him involved. How many reasons do you need?’
Anger burned through him. Don’t show it. Don’t shout. Shout, and she’ll leave.
‘But the cops knowing she’d been with my brother that night,’ he said, ‘it could have helped him. Still could. Her being with him then and maybe later . . . who knows, maybe all night that might give him an alibi to help him prove he wasn’t where the cops said he was at the time that girl got killed.’
‘Or maybe it wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘You ever think about that? That the reason my friend’s gone missing might be because of your sodding brother as well?’
What was she saying? That Jack might have harmed Star as well? That was bullshit. Total fucking bullshit. ‘You’re well out of order,’ he said.
‘Maybe. Or maybe if your brother is innocent in all this, then whatever he got himself caught up in, she got caught up in it too.’
Find her. He had to find Star. Find her and he’d find the truth.
‘What else can you remember about that night? Did she say anything to you? About hi
m? About my brother? Anything at all before the two of them headed off.’
‘Just that she’d call. Only she never did.’
‘Her address. Write it down,’ he said, tearing the back off a new packet of cigarettes.
‘She won’t talk to you. Even if you do find her.’
No doubt for the same reason that Keira hadn’t called the cops. Because she was afraid.
‘Just do it.’
She wrote it down.
‘And what about family? Friends?’ Frankie asked. ‘Anyone she might be staying with?’
‘I’m the only friend she’s got.’
‘Her real name then?’
‘Star not good enough for you?’
‘No.’ Too cutesy. Had to be a working name.
‘Tara. Tara Stevens.’
Made sense. Tara . . . stara . . . star.
‘And you?’
‘Forget it.’
‘But what if I need to find you?’
‘Then you already know where to look. Trust me, I ain’t going nowhere anytime soon.’
He nodded. No point pressuring her any more. She was used to dealing with a lot nastier bastards than him and no fucking way was she going to go tell any of this to the cops.
He reached into his pocket and took out his billfold. Peeled off the ten twenties he owed. She took them off him and counted them fast.
‘Thanks,’ he said, getting up.
‘Likewise.’ She folded the cash and tucked it down inside her skirt.
‘And for what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘he wouldn’t have done it. My brother. Hurt her. Hurt Star. Any more than he would have Susan Tilley. And if I find her – your Star – I’ll do my best to make sure that nobody hurts her either.’
32
Frankie walked past the next pub, the one after that too. Had been planning on visiting them both, but now he’d met the girl he’d changed his mind. Had something concrete to go on.
First, though, food. He needed some ballast to soak up all the booze. Luckily, the kind of culinary Nirvana he was after was right there ahead of him at the top of the hill. George’s fish bar. Best chippie in London. No question.
‘Cod, chips, salt ’n’ vinegar, bread and butter, mushy peas . . . and a saveloy,’ Frankie said, as he reached the counter.
He slumped down in an aluminium chair to wait. A TV blared in the corner. Football round-up. Nice. Arsenal had won. Him and Jack and his dad . . . how many great days out had they had watching them play?
He reached for the pile of newspapers and fliers on the table next to him, and leafed through them, reading about new bands he’d not heard of and new club nights he’d not been to. He’d used to be well into the live music scene, much more than his occasional trips now to West End venues like the 100 Club. He’d used to know exactly who was who and what was what and who was over and what was in. Funny to think of it all still going on. He’d got no time for it any more. Too busy dealing with the club, keeping everything a-fucking-float. He felt like an old man now when he read this kind of shit.
He picked up a copy of the Sun. Straightaway wished he hadn’t. His stomach lurched like he’d been punched. Susan Tilley’s name was plastered across the front page. A photo too. Her eyes bored into his. A squirt of ketchup had been smeared across the words beneath. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Fuck. Bollocks. Shit. It said she’d been pregnant when she’d been killed. Pregnant? Jesus. How much more horrific could this get? Whatever hell Dougie Hamilton was going through before, it would be even more hideous now.
There was other stuff too, about how her parents had been killed in a car crash when she’d been a kid, about how the old lady, her grandma, had brought her up ever since. It said how she’d met Dougie at uni here in London, doing law. There was even a quote from an aunty of Susan’s who lived in America, saying how her and Dougie had been planning on heading out there to work.
One bit of good news. Or a hint of it, at least. Word was the old lady might live. No details on the extent of her recovery. Was she talking yet? Was she well enough to be interviewed? His heart raced. Was it possible she might yet be able to put Jack in the clear?
He got up and lurched past the counter, ignoring the shout from the guy serving, telling him his food was ready. He wedged himself into the phone box across the street and fumbled in his pockets for some change and Sharon’s card.
He rubbed his thumb over its embossed contact details. Was that all he was to her? Business? A part of a jigsaw she was trying to solve?
He dialled.
‘Hmmm?’ she answered sleepily on the seventh ring.
‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Frankie.’
‘What time is it?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does to me.’
‘The old woman . . . I just read in the papers that she’s better.’
‘Frankie, you know I—’
‘Just bloody tell me.’
He heard her growl. Actually growl. Like a fucking dog. ‘She’s getting better. Hopefully . . . it’s not yet a hundred per—’
‘What’s she said?’
‘Nothing. Yet. Her jaw’s too swollen and her tongue’s too lacerated from where she bit it when she was hit.’
‘But she will,’ Frankie said. ‘She’ll clear him. I fucking know she will . . .’
‘We don’t know what she saw, or what she’ll remember, if anything. It’s possible, Frankie, that she might identify your brother as—’
‘No. No, it’s not,’ he snapped. ‘And I want to know what she fucking says. I want you to call me the second she—’
‘Frankie? Have you been drinking?’
Fuck. Was he slurring? Or shouting? Shit. He glanced across the road. A couple of people standing eating outside of George’s were staring right at him.
‘I’ll talk to you later.’ He slammed down the phone.
She’d see. As soon as that old lady came round, she’d put the finger on someone else and Sharon would have to eat her words. If . . . if she remembered . . . if she’d seen who’d done it. Sharon was right about that much at least. No fucking guarantee of anything yet.
He clocked a cab pulling up at the end of Golborne Road. A drunken couple half fell into the gutter, her in a big fake fur coat and seemingly not much else. Frankie ran for it. Tara. Star. Yeah, why wait till tomorrow? He had the address, didn’t he? Why not track her down now? No point holding off for the old lady to start talking. Might never happen. The ball was still in his court. Had to grab the fucker by the throat.
He reached the cab just before it pulled away from the kerb. Got in the back and ferreted through his pocket for the piece of card Keira had written Star’s address on.
He told the cabbie the name of her street. Less than two miles away. Fucking fate. Should only take a few minutes to get there. The cabbie tried making conversation, but Frankie wasn’t listening. He pulled his hoodie tighter round his head and stared out the window at the blur of buildings passing by.
Was this a dumb move? Tipping up in the middle of the night. Half-cut. Maybe. Might spook the shit out of Star if she was at home. Or not. Who knew if a girl like Star was even awake enough to answer the bloody door? Fuck it. He had to find her. Find out what she knew. Had to be careful too. Because, yeah, she’d been with Jack, but he still didn’t know what for. Just for sex, then she’d not be such a danger. But if she was in this deeper, if she had somehow helped set him up, he was going to have to watch his back.
The sign for her street flashed past. The cab started to slow.
‘Which number, mate?’ asked the driver.
‘Keep going,’ Frankie said. ‘Right to the end. Drop me round the corner.’
He kept an eye on the building numbers. Clocked Star’s building on the left as they passed. A geezer in a black tracksuit and a baseball cap was heading in through its reinforced glass double doors, carrying something. Delivery bloke, looked like.
Her building was an
old council block. Half its windows boarded up. Dim lights glowed behind tatty, lopsided curtains in a bunch of the others. Trellick Tower and the Westway reared up behind. Someone had once told him at the Notting Hill Carnival that there was a cop shop at the top of Trellick, that they controlled all the traffic from up there during Carnival. He couldn’t help imagining them now peering down at him through binoculars, watching him, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.
He paid the cabbie and got out. Stumbled as he walked away. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Was he too drunk for this? Should he go home? No, sod it. He watched the cab leave. He went into the 24-hour garage on the corner. Gloves. He needed gloves, because if she wasn’t there, then he was going to break in. He grabbed a couple of disposable ones from the dispenser by the petrol pump, then walked back down the street to her block.
Time to crack fucking on. He tried the building’s main door. Locked. He couldn’t just kick it open. There was an offie across the street. Some bastard might see. He made a show of pretending to look for his keys instead. Then stepped back into the shadows. Leant up against the wall. Lit a cigarette.
Softly, softly, catchee monkey. He didn’t have long to wait. A few minutes later, the door to Star’s block opened and a woman stepped out. Luckily she didn’t look back as she walked away. Frankie got to the door just before it clicked shut.
He slipped through into the twilight of the lobby. A scuffed concrete floor. A buzzing strip light hung at an angle from the ceiling. Wires exposed. The air stank of rot. Christ, what a dump.
He checked the piece of paper Keira had given him. Flat 17. An ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign hung on the closed lift doors. Typical. He took the stairs. Two flights up and halfway along the dank, deserted corridor, he found the door he was looking for. The ‘7’ of ‘17’ was hanging upside down with one of its screws missing. And then, the oddest thing . . . he saw a glistening yellow flower petal there on the grimy lino floor.
Pulling on the gloves, he reached out to knock. Then stopped. Think. Make a plan. Decide what you’re gonna say. If she answered, if she seemed all right . . . then fine, he’d keep his hands behind his back and slip the gloves off while he explained himself. Tell her who he was. Let her know he meant her no harm.
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