‘It could just be a coincidence . . .’
‘And what about the fact that Star was found battered to death in her kitchen? Just the same as Susan Tilley’s grandmother.’
‘The wounds might have been superficially the same—’
‘Superficially? They both had their heads caved in. I read it in the paper.’
‘There’s no proof that the weapon used was the same. In fact it’s highly unlikely that it is because . . .’
‘Because what?’
‘Nothing.’
But it clearly wasn’t nothing. She was blushing, embarrassed. Or angry with herself about what she’d been about to say.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘It’s about Jack, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I suppose you’re going to see it on the news tomorrow anyway . . .’
‘See what?’
‘They found his car.’
‘Whose?’ His stomach lurched. ‘Jack’s?’
The same car he’d had since he’d passed his test. A Renault piggin’ 5. The least gangster-ish car in the world. Frankie remembered him buying it. Or him having it bought for him anyhow. The old man hadn’t been in a position to do it. So Frankie had. Had used some cash he’d put aside for going to Ibiza with some old school mates. Hadn’t mattered that he hadn’t gone. His life had already moved on by then, hadn’t it? What with him running the club. Him thinking he could just skip town and go partying in the sun for a week had been nothing but a fantasy. One he’d stamped on, hard.
‘Where?’ Frankie said.
‘Yesterday morning. Near a pub over in Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘What pub?’
‘The Andover.’
‘They got any footage of it? From round there. Any cctv? Anything that shows whoever the bastard was who left it there? And when it was put there?’ Was it after Jack was banged up?
She shook her head, then bit down on her lip. Oh, shit. There was worse to come.
‘They found the murder weapon, Jack. A baseball bat. And her blood. Susan’s blood. It was covered with it. So was the car. And . . .’ Sharon looked down at the table ‘. . . her underwear, Frankie . . . the gusset torn from her . . . it was inside the glove compartment along with Jack’s wallet . . .’
‘And, what?’ Frankie could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘That’s meant to prove something, is it?’ He scratched at his neck. He felt like his skin was on fire. A horrible image jumped into his head. Of Jack being there. Him doing that. No. No. He rubbed at his face. Don’t you fucking believe that. Don’t you even fucking think it.
‘The car was locked, Frankie. There were no signs that anyone had broken in.’
‘So what you’re saying is that my brother is meant to have done all this, then driven back to London and parked his car miles away and made no attempt to clean it up? And instead he – what? Walked? Walked? Called a fucking cab? Somehow fucking made his way back home to his flat and then what? Had a half-arsed clean-up? Before falling-a-fucking-sleep? No. No. It doesn’t make sense.’ He stabbed his finger down hard against the table. ‘It. Does. Not. Make. Sense.’
‘Unless he was high.’
Which was still clearly the line the cops were sticking to.
‘Or. Didn’t. Bloody. Do. It.’
‘I’m sorry, Frankie . . .’
‘Not as bloody sorry as I am. Or Jack will be. When he ends up in prison for life for something he didn’t fucking do.’
He wanted to shout, to scream at her, until she admitted that what he was saying was true. But it wasn’t her fault. He knew that. Even now. Feeling like he wanted to smack someone in the face. She was just doing her job. Right? And risking her job too. Yeah. Breathe in. Breathe out. She’s not the enemy. She’s here, isn’t she? Talking to you about Jack. She’d not just shut him out.
Think. Use your brain. Forget the bloody car. Nothing you can do about that. Concentrate on what you do know. Prove he’s innocent some other way.
‘What about how the killer got in?’ he asked.
‘Where?’
‘Tilley’s grandmother’s house. And Star Stevens’ flat too.’
‘What about it?’
Stay wary. Don’t give away that you were there that night at Tara’s flat. Just stick to what you’ve read in the papers since.
‘In both cases, the victims let the killer in, didn’t they?’ he said.
‘Yes, but plenty of—’
‘And at Star Stevens’ flat there were flowers, weren’t there?’ He was on safe ground here. It had been mentioned in one of the papers.
‘Yes, and one of the lines of enquiry we’re pursuing is that whoever killed her was someone she was romantically linked to.’
‘Romantically?’
‘OK, a client. Someone who got obsessed with her. Who didn’t want to share her. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘And what about at Susan Tilley’s grandmother’s house? Were there any flowers there?’
‘No . . .’ But something changed in her expression as she said it.
‘What?’
‘Nothing . . . no . . .’ She shook her head, slowly, her eyes narrowing. ‘I can’t be certain . . .’
‘What?’
‘Petals,’ she said. ‘Yes . . . I remember . . . right there by the front door . . . near where Susan’s grandmother was found . . . I’m sure I remember seeing something, yes, and thinking it odd . . .’
She looked frustrated. That she might have missed something. Meant she was listening to him too. Wasn’t just dismissing what he was saying out of hand.
‘Has she said anything yet?’ Frankie said. ‘The old lady. About what she saw?’ About what he wanted to hear. About it not – please God – having been Jack. ‘Because she might remember something about this too . . . about the flowers . . .’
‘No. I’m sorry.’ She’d guessed what he’d also been hoping to hear too. ‘She’s still too ill to talk. We’ve not been able to speak to her yet.’
There was still hope there. By God, there was.
‘If someone did set up Jack,’ Frankie said, ‘and Tara was somehow involved, then they could have killed Tara and then Keira. To make sure they kept quiet about whatever else they knew. To keep Jack from having an alibi. To make sure he still got the blame . . .’
Sharon said, ‘This friend of Star’s . . .’
‘Keira.’
‘Do you know her surname?’
Frankie shook his head.
‘I’ll look into it,’ she said. ‘Find out who got pulled out of the river. Find out how she died. Whoever does the autopsy . . . I’ll make sure they’re thorough . . . that they look for all possible causes, you understand?’
That they’d look to see if she’d been murdered. Yes. Frankie nodded. He got it.
She made a show of checking her watch. ‘I’d better get going,’ she said.
They stared at each other.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘For coming. And for this. For what you’re going to do next. I appreciate this.’
‘That’s OK. And this . . . asking questions that might need to be asked . . . it’s part of my job.’
She meant work. Business. That that’s why she was here. All right. Fine. He knew when not to push.
‘Goodbye, Frankie,’ she said.
He nodded. Watched her go. The light of the café’s sign lit up her face all golden for a second as she walked underneath it. Made her look beautiful. Somehow perfect. Like a statue.
Go after her.
Make her stay.
Don’t let her leave.
But it was already too late. She’d already gone.
38
Frankie found Xandra in the service alley at the back of the club the next day, clanking around in the early morning sun.
‘What you doing?’ he asked.
‘Clearing out crap.’ She chucked a broken toilet lid into one of the council bins.
‘Where from?’
‘The basement. The other storerooms d
own there. Thought I might as well. Paint’s drying in mine. Nothing to do there.’ She smiled. ‘Why? What’s the matter? Did I wake you up?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
He’d slept pretty well for him, a couple of nightmares aside. He’d gone to bed feeling down. Done in. Not just because of the madness of the last few days. Because of her. Sharon. Because her leaving him there sitting on his lonesome in the Starlight had left him feeling like shit cubed. More alone than he’d felt in years.
He took the empty wheelbarrow off Xandra, went in, got changed into his blue overalls and started loading it up. She got stuck in too. Hard worker. Good to have around. Slim was still a bit funny about her, mind. Had let slip to Frankie that a tenner had gone missing off one of the punters’ tables the other night. Slim had asked her about it. Not accused her. Asked. But she’d just shrugged, apparently. Not denied. Not like a real thief would. That’s what Frankie reckoned. Slim, though, he still wasn’t so sure.
Over the next hour, Frankie helped her clear out a fine selection of crapola from the club, filling three big council bins with smashed bottles, splintered cues, broken chairs, rusted paint tins, and brushes so stiff with varnish you could have slashed someone’s face open with them.
A right mental thought, that. Frankie shook his head, lighting a cigarette as the two of them stood there in the alley having a break. Jesus. He stared up at the blue sky. All this madness with Jack . . . what he’d seen at Star’s flat . . . that poor cow’s face . . . it was doing his head in. Making him see shit that wasn’t there. Seeping into him. Like some kind of fucking poison. Right down into his pores.
The bad dreams he’d had . . . he could still remember bits of them now. Stressy ones. Him scrabbling round the flat hunting for that gun . . . people pounding at the door. He blew smoke out. Get a grip. He needed to fight this shit. The F.E.A.R. Not give into it. But Christ, it was hard.
What Dougie had done to Mickey was a part of it. Done to his eye. Frankie kept thinking about what Mickey might have told him. About his chat with Frankie? Enough for the Hamiltons to pay Mo a call? Enough for Mo to then work out that Frankie had already done the same? Was he already halfway down the road to Shitsville without even knowing he’d set out?
Or worse . . . what if Mickey had told Dougie – and whoever else had been there with him doing the cutting – about the call Jack had got about that girl the day Susan Tilley had been offed? What if the Hamiltons made the same link to Stav that Frankie had? What then? Because, shit, if that happened, well, then everything started unravelling, didn’t it? They might work out that Frankie had gone to see Tara. They might do their homework better than the pigs and find some way to prove it. Take down both James brothers together. Double the fucking revenge.
Frankie took another long drag on his fag. Quit your worrying. Panic’s gonna get you nowhere. Nothing he could do about any of it. Nothing but wait. The same as with Jack. He was stuck. At a fucking impasse. Waiting to see if the old lady put Jack in the clear. Waiting for Sharon to get Keira a postmortem. Waiting to see if it turned up some connection between her and Star’s death and the night she was with Jack. Waiting for Tommy Riley to try and get him word on this witness. Waiting on his next fucking move.
He ground out his cigarette. Spat on the ground. He hated it, feeling this powerless, this weak. Not who he was. Not what he was about.
‘Right,’ he said, turning to Xandra. ‘What we were talking about yesterday . . . You got me that list?’
‘Sure. Right here.’ Xandra pulled out a folded piece of A4 from the pouch of her paint-spattered denim dungarees. She grinned. ‘We really doing it then?’
‘Yeah, might as well. Crack on, eh? Especially with you still dressed up like you’re auditioning for Dexy’s Midnight Runners.’
‘Hah-hee-hah.’ She handed him the piece of paper.
Her plan. Giving the whole place a makeover. A facelift from the basement up. Seeing as they already had a whole bunch of painting gear up and running, why not, eh? She looked well pleased. Probably because he was putting her sort of in charge. Best move, mind. He sucked at DIY.
Him chatting through his plans a couple of days ago for running a tournament here had given her the idea. When he’d got onto the subject of potential sponsors, Slim had pointed out that one of their first considerations would probably be how the place looked. And looking like it did, like a total khazi, might just put them off.
Xandra had then let slip that decorating had been her family’s old business. Out of nowhere. Kapow. A personal piece of info. Just like that. Which had gone a fair way to explaining how she’d done such a good job of her own room here, of course. She’d not mentioned any of her family by name, though. Nothing about them at all. Maybe they were the problem? The reason she’d run away? He hadn’t chased Sharon up for that social worker yet. Not sure how Xandra would take it even when he did.
‘Right,’ he told her now. ‘I’ll be back in an hour, then let’s hit it, yeah?’
She nodded. Her eyes were twinkling in the sun. She lit another cigarette to hide her smile.
He read the list over on the way to the multi-story. The girl had nice hand-writing. Educated then. No surprise there. She was smart. Clearly knew a thing about commercial scale decorating too, judging by the amount of kit – power tools, brushes, turps, rollers, groundsheets, masking tape, sandpaper and paint – she’d written down here.
The Capri was hardly ideal for work of the picking-shit-up variety. But he managed to fit it all in after he’d done his shop down Wickes. Truth was he wanted to get every last second’s worth of driving out of it before he sold it. Knowing it was going to pay for Jack’s brief only made it feel even more precious.
He parked the Capri out the front of the club behind a freshly waxed black beemer and started unloading the gear from the back. Weird. He heard the clack of a ball being struck though the club’s open door. Laughter too. It was well early for punters. No one ever tipped up much before eleven.
There were two of them inside. Big like barn doors, six footers. Suited. Both clocked him as he came in. He didn’t recognise either of them. Something about the laid-bloody-back way they eyeballed him that rang alarm bells. Either cops or crooks. Bad news either way.
‘Hey, Frankie,’ called out Xandra.
She was kneeling in the corridor which led out past the bar to the back door, scraping away at the old flock wallpaper.
‘Hi.’ He shot her a frown, tilting his head a little to indicate the customers, as he carried the first set of bags over to her.
Xandra shrugged. Didn’t look panicked, mind. Meaning they’d not caused any trouble. Yet. He put the bags down. She looked them over sceptically, professionally. He liked that. She was taking this shit seriously. Good thing too. Costing him another arm and a leg he already didn’t have.
‘That it?’ she said.
‘Nah, the rest’s in the car.’
‘Right.’ She looked relieved. ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ She turned her attention back to the floor and peeled the minging faded blue carpet a little way back from the skirting board. ‘Look . . . You’ve got some nice boards under here. We could strip this off and give them a varnish. Make the place look a little bit more contemporary, eh?’
Contemporary? Nice. He smiled.
‘You think that would look better, do you?’
‘I know it would.’
‘Fine.’
‘It would smell better too. I don’t know how many years people have been tramping back and forth across this carpet on their way to the toilet, but trust me, it’s taken its toll. And it’ll be cheaper to do the boards than buy new carpet. All we need is a decent floor sanding machine and some masks and we’ll be able to do it ourselves.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
Clack. Another ball being struck behind him. He pulled the receipt from Wickes and a pen from his pocket and quickly scribbled down Kind Regards’ name and number and slipped it into
Xandra’s hand.
‘I get any trouble with these two gibbons,’ he said softly, handing it to her. ‘You duck out the back and phone my lawyer and tell him to get round here pronto.’
She nodded, pocketing the piece of paper. Her face hardened. Ready for action.
He slowly – casually as he fucking could – turned and walked back through to the hall. Right. Let’s get on with this. Find out who these two jokers are. Standing behind the bar, he cracked himself open a can of Coke.
‘Can I get you gents anything?’ he said.
The bloke who’d taken the last shot, and was in the process of lining up a long red, smiled slowly and laid his cue out on the table, before looking up. The older of the two. Slick black hair and grey stubble round his chin. Late forties.
‘Frankie James?’
‘Yeah?’ Frankie’s tone said it all: Who the fuck wants to know?
‘You sure about that?’ The man’s voice was rough, street rough, commanding. He walked towards Frankie, eyes locked on him. His companion, ten years younger, stayed put, leaning up against the wall next to the door, oh so relaxed, but there was something deliberate too about the way the fucker stayed facing Frankie as well, watching him like a hawk, itching to see what went down.
‘Of course I’m fucking sure,’ Frankie said without a smile.
‘In which case, I’ve been misinformed,’ said the man.
‘How’s that?’
‘I heard you were a sharp-dressed little bastard.’
Little? Frankie stared him down. ‘Yeah? And who told you that?’
The man looked slowly round. ‘I see you’re tarting the place up?’
‘That’s right.’
He stared at Frankie’s overalls. ‘Having to do it yourself. I guess times must be hard.’
Frankie didn’t like the way this guy was looking at him. Not one bit. Like he was something this guy had just scraped off his polished fucking brogue. Didn’t like the way this conversation was going either. Like this guy was spoiling for a fight.
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