But if she didn’t answer? Well, then, fuck it. He’d break in. But then? Once he did? What was he hoping to find? Something to tell him where she might have gone. An address book? Phone numbers. Some kind of fucking clue.
He took a deep breath. Dib dib dib. Be prepared. If she was here, but just not answering, then who fucking knew? She might be high as a kite, or slumped, or manic, or with some other junkie, or her dealer, or Lord knew what? All sorts of danger might be lurking the other side of this door. Expect the worst and hope for the best. Now just do it.
He reached out again to knock. Stopped again. Fuck. The door wasn’t even properly shut. It was open. Just a sliver. He nudged it with his toecap, opened it a little wider. Nice and quiet. No squeak. Good fucking karma, or what? He pushed it even wider, revealing a slice of tacky brown carpet and a bare bulb glaring down from a nicotine-brown Artex ceiling above.
He froze. Muffled voices inside. He waited, ready to back off, but then the voices gave way to music. What the hell? Ah. A theme tune. A TV show. Meaning good news. She might actually be in. Might not be off her head, either. Or at least not high. No one ever watched TV when they were properly wrecked. Only on a downer. Or even straight. Good news too. Easier to handle that way.
‘Hello?’ he called out. Didn’t want to spook her by just marching right in on her.
The theme music tailed off. An advert kicked in. Opera music from that Cornetto spoof ad for Boddingtons. Fucking funny, that. Only not now. He checked the door locks. Three of them. Heavy duty. What was the point of all that when you forgot to even shut your door?
‘Hello?’ he called again, louder this time. ‘Your front door . . . it was open, so . . .’
No answer. He stepped right inside. More of them yellow petals and what looked like a florist’s business card lying there beside them up against the wall. Right, sod this. He walked towards the sound of the TV. A Fosters advert now. He peered into a small box bedroom on his right. A shambles. Dresses, underwear, crumpled sheets and a litter of crack-smoking paraphernalia on saucers and plates beside the mattress on the floor. No one there. He checked the shower and toilet cubicle on his left. Empty too.
Only one door left. Dead ahead. Half-open. A single red high-heeled shoe on the floor outside. More yellow petals led up to it like a trail. Follow the fucking Yellow Brick Road. Closer up, he saw the flickering lights of the TV dancing across a white-tiled kitchenette floor as another advert kicked in. Levi’s. Some old blues number.
‘Star?’ he called out again. ‘Tara? Tara Stevens? I’m a friend of Keira’s. She gave me your address . . .’
Nothing. His nostrils twitched. Perfume. He could smell perfume. No, not perfume. Fresh flowers. Whatever those yellow petals had come from.
Another theme tune kicked in. Bloody Beadle’s About. He hated that twat. But what about Star? Maybe she had gone out and forgotten to lock the front door behind her, the dozy mare. What then? Wait? It would probably freak her out even more, her turning back up here and finding him.
‘Hello?’ he said, reaching the door and pushing it open.
He stepped inside. The light was off, but the TV was enough to see by. A big one. Looked brand new and well out of place on the kitchen sideboard beside the piled-up sink of dirty crockery. A huge bunch of flowers on the kitchen table, wrapped in brown paper, a deliveryman’s roster beside them. A plate of beans on toast beside it. Steam still rising off it. Must have just been made – but by who?
Oh, Jesus . . . Frankie saw her then. On the floor. Looking like she was somehow underwater in the writhing shadows cast down by the TV. Curled up on her side like a fucking baby with one red shoe on, the other foot bare.
Her face was split open. Fuck. Was she dead? He took another step forward and saw movement. Jesus. Her blood. It was creeping slowly out across the tiles from the side of her head. Like some kind of fucking cartoon speech bubble that was about to reveal her thoughts.
Then the thought hit him slowly . . . too slowly . . . If her blood was still moving, then it meant she’d only just been attacked . . . and that meant that . . .
Oh, fuck.
He turned. Too late. A grunt. A flash of dark blue. His whole world turned black.
33
Whugh? Darkness. Darkness all around. Where the fuck was he? Move. Just move. Which way was he facing? Christ, which way was even up? Was he on his back? Shit, was this a dream? Frankie started to panic. Felt like he was spinning. In oil, in ink, in black fucking tar.
Calm. Calm the fuck down. It’s OK. You’re breathing. Yes. Fast. Faster than a fucking piston. He reached out. Felt something. Something soft. Like what? Like leaves? No, cloth. Yes. He grabbed. Wouldn’t let go.
Light . . . grey light . . . there, just there . . . a grey fuzziness coming into focus . . . shuddering, like interference on a TV screen.
Shit. The pain. It smacked him. His head. It felt like it was exploding. Oh, Jesus . . . White light exploded in his skull. Hit. He’d been hit. He’d been in enough fights to know.
Bang-bang-bang. Memories. A dark basement. Junkies lurking, watching. Then fresh air. A starlit sky. Portobello. Drink. Talk. Drink. The smell of chips. A taxi ride. Yellow petals on the floor.
A face. Right here. Wherever the fuck this was, this fuzzy, twitching gloom. He saw a face forming in the shimmering, growing light. Something fucking wrong about it . . . colour seeping into its blurry features, washing away the grey . . . first rose, then pink, then red . . . Blood. Oh, shit. The face was covered in blood.
Frankie let go of whatever he’d been gripping. Her dress. The blood-soaked woman’s dress. She wasn’t moving. Fuck. What did it mean? Did it mean she was dead?
He twisted onto his side. Ceiling. Floors. Cupboards. All shuddering in and out of focus. Pissing hell, his head hurt. Look. Look, dammit. Are they here? Whoever done this to you? Shit, are they still here? Gonna finish you off?
No one. Alone. Apart from her. He forced himself to look. A name. Star. Yes, he remembered her. He remembered everything then. Why he’d come here. To talk to her. Get her to admit she’d been with Jack that night. At what time? That’s what he’d wanted to find out. Only . . . Jesus, this was hard; he pushed himself up onto his elbows and knees . . . she’d already been dead – been dying? – when he’d got here.
And whoever the hell had done that to her, they’d still been here as well. A blur of material. He remembered that too. Just before he’d blacked out. Someone had been here. What else? Flowers. Brown paper. A man entering the building when he’d first driven past. A florist’s card. Whoever had delivered them, they’d done this. Done her. Attacked Star, then him. Left him here for dead? And her? Was she?
Her eyes. Dead eyes. Staring up at the fucking ceiling. Wide open, but dark. Without a spark. Finished. Done. And look. Her blood. So much. It had been moving when he’d first seen it, but now . . . now it had stopped. Thickened. Congealed.
Sirens. Faint. Now louder. Incoming. What the soldiers in all them Yank Vietnam movies always said. Imminent. About to happen. Nasty shit coming right at him. Fuck. Get out of here. Fast.
But what about her? What if she’s . . .? Do it. Check her. You can’t just leave her like this. He reached out to touch her hair, to push it back from her brow, like that might make a difference . . . Sweet Jesus. The top half of her head was caved in. Crumpled like a tin. What kind of fucker could do something like this? To another human being?
She had to be dead. Right? He touched her neck. Felt for a pulse. The right place? Fuck, he didn’t know. Didn’t know if he was doing this right. Should he take off his gloves? No. Prints. He’d leave prints if he did.
Sharon. Yes, Sharon. He pictured her. Standing right here like a fucking traffic warden, telling him he couldn’t park, telling him if he did he’d get a ticket. Swabs. Fingerprints. All this and more could damn him.
Shit. Was that what was happening to him? Was he being framed just like Jack? Whoever had done this to him and her . . . had they known he wasn’t
dead, just out? What if they’d called the cops? Knowing he’d be found here? Knowing he’d then take the blame?
More sirens. Louder. Oh, fuck. They really were coming. Here. To this flat. To this room. He had to get the fuck out of here. Now.
Run. He pushed himself up. Felt his stomach contract like he was going to puke. Don’t do it. Bile burst into his mouth, He swallowed it back down. Sharon’s face leapt into his head again. Don’t leave DNA.
He lurched for the door. Caught a half-glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall. Hoodie. His hood was still up. Was he bleeding? Had whatever cunt who’d done this to him hit him so hard that he’d bled?
He half-turned, stared back down at the tiles. No blood where he’d been. No smears. He touched the back of his head again. More white pain. But just bruising? Maybe. Meaning maybe there’d be no DNA for them to trace him. Maybe he still had a chance.
He ran down the hallway, remembering coming in the other way. The petals were still there, but the florist’s business card had gone. Nothing to say there’d ever been anyone else here.
The front door was open. He burst out onto the landing. No other doors open. Or – wait – maybe one? Across the hall. Had it just clicked softly shut? Bollocks. Had someone just seen him?
No time to find out. The sirens were screaming. Horribly fucking close. Cops must have pulled up outside. Forget going out the front of the building. They’d catch him for sure.
Had to be another way. He replayed the taxi journey though his mind. Hadn’t there been an alley to the right of the building? Far enough away from where the cops would have already pulled up?
But which way was right? He turned, trying to work it the fuck out. That way? Here’s fucking hoping. He ran across the hall and into another corridor, sprinting past a whole bunch of doorways, until he hit the fire escape at the end of the corridor. He snapped back the security bar and tore it open.
A blast of cold air hit him. He’d come out the right side of the building. A dark alley below. No one in it. Yet. Sirens shrieking. Blue lights flickering at the end of the alley. A cast-iron double metal ladder led down, but not all the way. Shit. No, that would have been too fucking easy, eh? It didn’t reach the ground, not by a long fucking stretch.
He tried the locking mechanism that would release the second half of the ladder and let it rattle down. Jammed. Fucking rusted. Shitty council skinflint bastards. What the hell was he meant to do now? Climb down that and jump? How fucking long a drop was it? Shit. Might not be able to walk again, let alone run.
‘Just do it.’
He said it out loud. Moved as he did. What other choice did he have? Stay here and he was screwed. Just get out onto the ladder. Don’t think about the rust. Tits. Arse. Piss flaps. He grabbed hold of the top rung and started climbing down. Ignore it – the clanking, the fucking swaying.
He’d got almost the whole way down when he heard the shout. His eyes flicked to the end of the alley. Crap. A uniform. Had he spotted him? Yeah, the bastard was staring right at him. Frankie scrambled down the rest of the ladder. A fifteen-foot drop yawned below.
The cop shouted something that got lost in the wail of the sirens. Hardly mattered. Hardly like he’d be asking him out on a date. Frankie lowered himself quick off the end of the ladder. Till only his hands were gripping the rungs and his feet were hanging in mid-air. The cop was running hard up the alley now. At him. Frankie took a deep breath, then . . . just let fucking go . . .
34
Oof.
Fucking ouch.
Hard to tell who got the bigger shock, Frankie or the cop he landed on. Pretty obvious who got hurt the most, though. All thirteen-and-a-half stone of Frankie hit the cop hard. Without warning. Knocked the stuffing out of him. Frankie rolled off him, leaving him crumpled in a wheezing heap on the ground.
Frankie scrambled to his feet. Shit-a-brick. He felt all right. Nothing broken. Biggest favour a cop had ever done him in his life. Move it. Now. Don’t look round. Don’t look back up that alley. Who knew who was already pounding down it after him? Don’t give those bastards a look at your face.
He locked his eyes on the opposite end of the alley from where the cop had come – and ran. Only looked back when he got there. Couldn’t help himself. Regretted it. Not just one cop after him now, but three. Two blokes and a woman. They’d already reached their mate, who was up on his knees now and pointing in Frankie’s direction.
He ran on, bursting out the end of the alley, knocking some kid flying off his skateboard. Unlucky, kid. Brightly lit shop fronts stretched out into the distance left and right. Hardly any arsing pedestrians. Crap. He’d get spotted the second the cops reached the end of the alley.
Had to keep going. Try and get some distance between them. Find somewhere to lay low. He cut a left. Ran thirty yards down the pavement. Slalomed across the street, nearly getting mown down by a black Range Rover pumping out bass.
Risked another quick glance back as he reached the opposite pavement. Only two cops still chasing. Across the street. Less than twenty yards behind. They darted out into the street. Darted back, a night bus roaring past, horn blaring, nearly turning them both into mush.
Frankie kept running. Might only be two cops now. Soon be more. Not just on foot. In motors. Then he’d be royally screwed. He spotted a side road up ahead. Raced into it. He reached the end and saw the open gates of some kind of industrial estate. Nice. A whole lot worse lit than the streets.
He raced through the gates. Come on, you fucker. You can do this. All that time down the gym. Here’s where it finally pays off. And no more bloody smoking, if you make it through in one piece. And cut back down on the boozing. He was going to make his body a fucking temple. All it had to do was not let him down.
How far ahead of those cops was he now? Had they seen him ducking in here? Here’s hoping not. If they got hold of him now, he was super-screwed. That was the trouble with running. The same as with Jack, he’d look guilty as hell. They’d pin that Star girl’s murder on him for sure.
He ducked into a thin alleyway running between two rows of high-sided corrugated iron warehouses. He heard shouts. Behind. Bollocks. They’d followed him into the estate. He was starting to cramp, getting a stitch. Shit, shit, shit. How far had he just run? His trainers were scuffing hard on the concrete with every step – loud enough for the cops to hear? How far were they behind?
He looked back. No one charging down the alley after him. What did it mean? Had he got away? Or were they circling round, trying to cut him off? When he hit the end of the alley in a couple of seconds, were they going to be already there?
He slowed to a halt, slowly peered out. Another empty bit of road. Shitly lit. A couple of parked-up fork lift trucks. Nothing moved. Across the road was another alley running between more warehouses. A dark hole. A mouth that would swallow him up. Reach that without being seen and he might still have a chance. Had to get the fuck clear before they called in backup. A chopper would do for him. Those bastards had infra-red.
Now. He threw himself forwards. The bit of road was ten yards wide. Had to get across fast. Eight yards. Five. Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . Yes, fucking one. He hit the alley still running hard as he could, but stumbling now, losing it, out of adrenaline.
No shouts behind him, mind. No pounding boots. Fucking yes. Go on, son. One more push. Don’t stop now. He made it to the end. Breathless, weakening. From the drink or being hit, or just not being bloody fit enough. He lurched out into the road beyond without stopping. Slumped down next to a bin to catch his breath. Hands on his knees, he checked right, then left to the end of the buildings he’d just sprinted between.
Nothing. The street was empty. Relief burst inside him. Too fucking soon. A bloody cop. Fifty yards to his right. Ran out into the road. Turning. Looking. Jabbering into his radio. Frankie didn’t move. Made like a shadow. Just crouched there panting. Quiet as he bloody well could. What now? Triple shit. He was out of juice. Couldn’t outrun a tortoise. And triple
bollocks. That cop was walking towards him. All purposeful. Like any second now he was about to break into a run. Had he seen him? More chattering into his radio. More crackling radio static. Was he calling Frankie’s position in?
But no. The fucker stopped. He turned his back on Frankie. Ran in the other direction.
Get in. Frankie didn’t know what to make of it. Didn’t fucking care. He slowly stood. Steadied himself against the black bin. Black, the same colour as his clothes and his hood. Was that what had just saved him? Or had someone else got it wrong? Did they think they’d spotted him somewhere else?
Who gave a shit? Time to ride his luck. Just like the old man had always taught him. He stumbled on. Further west. Keep going. Don’t you quit. Lungs burning, muscles tightening, seizing up from lactic acid. Keep On Movin’ . . . The Soul II Soul song chanted in his head.
He reached the fence. High. Wire. He quickly worked his way along it, searching for a way through. In his head he saw that flash of material again. That blur of motion just before he’d got knocked out. A face? And what about her? What about Star? Not just the fact she’d been murdered, but how she’d been murdered. Hideously beaten by some sicko who’d clearly enjoyed every second of it. Beaten like Susan Tilley. Bludgeoned to death.
Then there, behind a stack of pallets, he spotted a gap, a tear in the fence. He slipped through, breathless, into a quiet residential street on the other side. Hood up, he limped away slowly. On foot. Didn’t let up. No cabs. No buses. No witnesses the cops could later talk to.
He headed south for Hyde Park.
Then Soho.
Then home.
35
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