Frankie woke in a sweat. Still dark. Christ on a bike, what time was it? He sat bolt upright, hung-over, confused. Someone was pounding on the door. Only not the door downstairs which led out onto the street. Closer. Shit. The door leading into his flat.
Hamilton? Was it him? Either of them? Terence or Dougie? Or Shank Wilson too? Had they got wind of him poking around? Or Mo or Stav? Had they worked him out?
He scrambled out of bed. Onto his knees. Delved inside the slit he’d made in the mattress for the pistol.
Then stopped.
Shouting. A woman. But who? Cops? Bollocks. You fucking muppet. How could he have forgotten? Where he’d been last night . . . Blacked out, that’s why. Yeah, the tell-tale bottle of voddie by the bed. Smirnoff red.
Only . . . no, not last night. Tonight. He checked his Sony digicube alarm clock on the bedside table. It was half one in the morning.
Fuck-a-duck. He stuffed the tin containing the pistol back deep inside his mattress. Wedged the sheets in tight. He remembered everything now in hideous detail. Star’s flat. His escape. The sound of that fucking copper in the alley when he’d landed on his head.
He pulled on his dressing-gown over his boxer shorts. Grabbed his baseball cap from where he’d hooked it on the bed post. That lump on the back of his head. He had to hide it. He pulled the cap down. Winced. Christ, it hurt.
More shouting. Yeah, definitely a woman and definitely his name she was calling. Keep your shit together. Whoever it is . . . whatever they want . . . you weren’t fucking there. You’ve been in here all night.
He hurried to the front door and opened it. Blimey. Sharon. He almost smiled. But not with that look of bloody fury on her face. She was in an overcoat and buttoned-down shirt. Here on business.
Xandra was with her. In an old Cure T-shirt and trackie bottoms. Looked like she’d just been torn from her bed. Sharon must have gone for the club’s front door first. Xandra must have let her in.
‘I’m sorry, Frankie,’ Xandra said.
Forget her. Not her fault. Just deal with Sharon. Whatever this is, just front it out.
‘You’d better have a fucking good reason for calling round this late,’ he said.
‘And you’d better have a fucking good explanation for where the fuck you’ve been tonight.’
‘Yeah, I’ve—’ He was going to say he’d been in on his own watching TV. Or a film. Yeah. Tell her Ben Hur. He had it on the shelf. Went on for bloody hours.
But Xandra cut in, ‘He was here with me,’ she said.
Sharon turned on her. ‘What?’
‘Downstairs,’ said Xandra. ‘He was helping me decorate.’
Sharon looked like she was about to call her a liar. But Xandra kept her cool. Held up her hands, palms out. Splodges of white paint all over them.
‘And what about you, Frankie?’ She grabbed his hands, looked them over. Nothing. Not even a spot.
‘I had a shower.’
‘I want to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Alone.’
Didn’t wait for him to ask her in. Just pushed past. He took a shufti downstairs. No more cops in the stairwell. Thank fuck. She was here on her own.
‘Thanks,’ he mouthed at Xandra.
He owed her one. Couldn’t believe she’d just lied for him like that.
She nodded. Turned her back on him. Walked downstairs.
Sharon was waiting for him in the living room. The first time she’d been here. The place was a pigsty. This wasn’t a fucking social call, but he still felt a prickle of embarrassment. Oh, Jesus. It stank as well. As well as picking up a bottle of vodka, he’d got a kebab. Its grisly remains were splayed out on its greasy wrapper on the floor.
‘Was it you?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Who called the station?’ she said.
‘About what?’
‘About a girl. Last night. Was it you who made the anonymous call from a phone box just the other side of Hyde Park from here?’
He shook his head, then felt his pulse race. Bugger. His hoodie. Right there in full view where he’d tossed it over the top of the bathroom door. Covered in filth from that alley he’d fallen into. Idiot. He should have bunged it in the washing machine, like he’d done with the rest of his clothes before he’d showered.
He reached for a tinnie, one of two left of the four-pack on the table. He’d got stuck into them before switching to vodka.
‘Want one?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He cracked it open and took a long swig.
‘The girl at the flat . . . she was murdered,’ Sharon said.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Keep your gob shut. Don’t say anything. Because you don’t know anything about being there. And neither does she. She’d have brought it up already if she did. And she wouldn’t have fucking come here alone.
‘Her name was Tara Stevens,’ she said. ‘Also known as Star.’
‘Never heard of her.’
Her cheeks darkened. ‘The person who called in with the tip-off told us her DNA might match the condom found at your brother’s flat,’ she said.
Look surprised. ‘What are you saying?’ he said. ‘That someone was with Jack at his flat? That night? When he was meant to be out murdering Susan Tilley?’
Her hands screwed into fists. ‘As I think I’ve already made perfectly clear, that’s part of an ongoing investigation and none of your business. What I want to know, Frankie, is if you made that call?’
Push back. Don’t let her see you’re rattled. And remember: you need answers too. ‘None of my fucking business?’ he said. ‘And how do you work that out? Because if there was some girl there with him, screwing him, then that means he couldn’t have been anywhere else, could he? Which gives him a fucking alibi, right?’
‘There’s no such thing as a dead alibi,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘An alibi has to be alive to give evidence.’
And Star was now dead.
‘Fine, then. Proof. Whatever. That condom . . . if it’s got her DNA on it, then it proves she was there. With him. Right?’
‘No, Frankie, it doesn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because even if we do get a match for her DNA and the DNA on the condom, all that proves is she had sex with him.’
‘In his flat,’ Frankie said. ‘Because that’s where this condom was found. On the night he was meant to be murdering Susan Tilley. And you should bloody well sweep the rest of his flat for her DNA. Because she might not have just gone back there to shag him. She might have gone back there to help set the poor fucker up.’
‘For someone who knows nothing about this anonymous call last night, you sure as hell seem to have all its implications worked out.’
Careful. Because, yeah, he had made that fucking call. Tonight. On the way home. From the exact same Hyde Park phone box she’d said. One nowhere near any fucking cctv. Muffling his voice through his hoodie’s sleeve. Because how the fuck else were the cops going to be able to make the link between Jack and Star?
‘He could have had sex with her somewhere else and just kept that condom,’ Sharon said.
‘You what?’ Frankie scoffed.
‘To make us think he’d been there in his flat with someone that night. To try and put himself in the clear.’
‘You’re out of your mind.’
But she was right, wasn’t she? The cops could see it that way if they chose. Should he tell her? Admit he went to Stav’s? Tell her what Keira said – that Star had been with Jack that evening? Tell her that and then they might question Keira. But question her and she might tell them she’d given Frankie Star’s address. Which of course would leave him fucked and suspect numero uno in her murder.
‘Even if he did have sex with her there . . .’ Sharon said.
‘Yeah?’
‘There’s no proof of when that happened. It could have been earlier that afternoon. Or even minutes before he drove across to Susan
Tilley’s grandmother’s house.’
Sharon was still watching him, trying to read him.
‘Did you make the call to the station?’ she asked again. ‘I need to know, Frankie.’
‘No.’
‘Well, answer me this: who the fuck else would want to tip us off that your brother might have an alibi? The only one who believes that he’s innocent is you.’
‘I already told you: it wasn’t me.’
‘Where were you this evening? When you rang me? Earlier on, to ask me whether Susan Tilley’s grandmother had said anything?’ She glared at the beer can in his hand. ‘When you rang me up drunk? I can find out you know,’ she said. ‘I can find out where you called me from.’
Could she? Shit. He’d forgotten about calling her from outside George’s. Did him having done that contradict Xandra having just said he was here? No. He could still say he was there in Portobello when he made that call and then came back here to help decorate. That would still put him out of the picture for having been at Star’s.
‘Portobello,’ he said. Not too near Star’s flat, thank God.
‘Doing what?’
‘This.’ He held up his can like he was toasting her.
‘Who with?’
‘Seeing some old friends.’ The barman in the First Floor Bar. He could say he’d been drinking with him.
‘And you’ve never been there?’
‘Where?’
He’d said it too quick, too obviously carelessly.
‘Don’t play fucking stupid, Frankie. Her flat. Star’s flat? That wasn’t you scarpering off down that back alley the second the cops arrived? Because the description I got, whoever the hell it was, they were the same height and build as you.’
Meaning they’d not seen his face. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her . . .’ A mistake. He knew it as soon as he said it. He’d been too specific. He should have just answered no.
‘And just what did happen to her?’ Sharon asked.
‘I don’t know. Whatever they did. However she was killed. That’s what you just told me just now. That she was murdered.’
‘I should haul you in,’ she said. ‘For fingerprinting and testing.’
‘So do,’ he gambled. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ A punt. He’d had gloves on. Didn’t mean they wouldn’t find something else. Hair. Skin. Christ. Even blood. The bruise on his head. Hadn’t looked like a cut when he’d checked it last night. Just a bloody great welt. But who fucking knew?
He saw doubt flicker in her eyes. Was he finally winning her round?
‘Why the hell would I hurt her?’ he said. ‘If she really could give my brother an alibi, I’d have wanted her alive.’
She did the maths.
‘Maybe . . . or maybe not, because of what you’ve already told me, because you reckon she equally might have had something to do with setting Jack up . . . because then you might have wanted to make her talk . . .’
‘What? And lost my temper? And murdered her? Is that what you’re saying?’
She looked deep into his eyes. ‘No, I don’t believe that. But I do think you care enough about your brother to have gone round there. You’d just better hope there’s no footage of you near her block.’
There wasn’t. Not without his hoodie up, the one that was less than three feet behind her right now. The one he’d be incinerating the first chance he got.
‘No witnesses either . . .’ she said.
He thought about the door shutting in the communal hallway outside Star’s flat. Had someone been there? Had someone seen his face?
‘I want to believe you, Frankie. But I swear to God, if it does turn out you were there, whether you had anything to do with what happened to that girl or not, I’ll do my job. I’ll throw the fucking book at you myself.’
36
Frankie kept a low profile the next day. He did exactly what he’d told Sharon he’d done the night before. He worked with Xandra on finishing painting her room.
Slim helped too, before the punters started arriving. He seemed to be warming to their guest. A bit. In spite of his earlier reservations. She made him laugh, the same as she did Frankie. Slim was still watching her, mind. Frankie had spotted that too. Maybe not so obviously as before, but still doing it all the same. Clearly still didn’t fully trust her. Not yet. Xandra would have to earn that. No different to anyone else.
Frankie felt watched too. Not by Slim. By Xandra, as the two of them kept on at the painting late into the afternoon. Because of how he’d lied to Sharon in front of her. Because of how Xandra had backed him up.
He tried bringing it up with her when they were having a fag break in the afternoon. Just the two of them alone. But she cut him off. ‘You don’t have to explain,’ was all she said. ‘Why ever you did it, I’m sure you’ve got a good reason, and the way I hear it, your brother’s innocent too.’
It must have been Slim who’d told her that about Jack. Or she’d overheard something. Maybe Slim talking to Sea Breeze or one of the other old boys. She was hardly one for watching TV or reading the papers, so Frankie doubted she’d got it from there, and Frankie hadn’t said shit to her about it.
He was glad she knew now, though. It meant him and Slim could talk more openly. Not just about how Frankie had another visit lined up with Jack the next day – one he couldn’t wait for, on account of everything he’d learned about Star – but how everything else was heating up, the war between Riley and Hamilton.
There’d been another killing. A nasty one. Another of Tommy Riley’s foot soldiers had been found. Beaten to death. Left by a bin just like Danny Kale a month ago. Kale’s was the murder that the cops reckoned had led to the revenge killing of Susan Tilley. So what fresh hell was this new one going to lead to now?
The same dickhead journalist as before was stoking the headlines. With an added lurid twist. The new dead man, a street pimp affiliated to Riley, had been found with a torn pair of women’s knickers rammed down his throat. In revenge for the way Susan Tilley’s body had been left? For the underwear that had been torn off her and taken? This was the grubby little question the newspaper hack had left hanging in the air.
Frankie turned in early that night. Was shattered. Relieved, mind, that Sharon and the cops hadn’t turned up. Maybe it meant he really was in the clear for having been there at Star’s. He’d gone the whole day without a drink. Needed the break. Still couldn’t believe the shit storm he’d walked into half-drunk at Star’s last night. Another of his fucking nine lives gone.
Lying in bed, he thought about Sharon. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t help himself. About how she’d been here. In his home. About how angry she’d been. Could his life get any more fucking complicated? He doubted it.
His appointment at Wandsworth Visitors’ Centre was for ten a.m. He got up early. Hit the gym. Knackered himself out good and proper. Left with his whole body aching. He was fucking unfit. For him. Had sussed that much as he’d run through that industrial estate. Needed to sort it out. More regular exercise. Less regular booze. No fucking smokes. Get his life back on track.
Jack’s eyes were burning bright when Frankie sat down opposite him in the Visitors’ Centre. Obvious why. Must have already got wind of Susan Tilley’s grandmother regaining consciousness.
Frankie had picked up a copy of the News of the Screws on the way over. Had spotted it on a newsstand outside the tube station. No more details than what he’d already wheedled out of Sharon, though. Nothing about whether the old lady was yet fit enough to be interviewed. Or what she might have already said.
Good to see some hope in Jack’s eyes, mind. More proof he was innocent, wasn’t it? Because if he was guilty, he’d have been shitting it about the old lady coming round, in case she ID’d him, right? Yeah, screw you, Sharon. You think the old bird’s going to point the finger at Jack? Think again.
‘So is it true then?’ said Jack. ‘The grandmother . . . she’s on the mend?’
‘That’s what the pa
pers say.’
‘That’s what I heard on the grapevine in here as well. I got a good feeling, bruv. I reckon she’s gonna put me in the clear.’
Frankie nodded. He hoped to fuck he was right.
‘How’s it been?’ he asked.
Jack cracked a grin. ‘Perfect. The facilities here are marvellous. Second to none. Gourmet grub and first class accommodation. And as for the staff . . . well, what can I say?’ He nodded at one of the hulking great guards walking between the tables the prisoners were sitting at. ‘They’re attentive to the point of distraction. The Ritz has got nothing on this.’
‘Very witty,’ said Frankie. ‘But I don’t mean this shithole. I mean you.’ He meant Riley – was the protection he’d promised still in place? Any more nutters with Stanley knives taking tumbles down flights of stairs? Any more shenanigans like that?
‘I’m in the pink of health,’ Jack said.
He looked it too. A lot fucking better than the last time he’d see him. The puffy bags under his eyes had shrunk and his sallow skin had faded. The whites of his eyes were, well, white, not bloodshot, better than in years. Looked like the enforced detox was doing him good.
‘I’ve even started working out,’ Jack said.
Frankie’s turn to smile. The amount of times Jack had taken the piss out of him for going down the gym instead of the boozer.
‘With Stan Lomax,’ Jack added.
Riley’s boy, now Jack’s minder.
‘He still keeping an eye on you?’
‘Sticking to me like glue.’
‘Good. And have you needed him?’
‘What?’
‘Any of Hamilton’s boys been on to you?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Not so much as a fucking sideways glance.’
Good news. But surprising. They wanted vengeance so bad, then why the hell hadn’t they at least tried something on? Had to be biding their time. Waiting for the right time to strike.
‘You just make sure you keep Lomax close to you, eh?’ he said. ‘Don’t go dropping your guard. Those fuckers are still out there, OK?’
‘It’s like I told you before, bruv,’ said Jack. ‘Tommy Riley looks after his own.’
Framed Page 20