‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he said. Careful so the man didn’t see him slowly reaching beneath the counter with his left hand for the cue.
‘The name’s Tam Jackson,’ he said. His hand moved. Slowly, smoothly, confidently, into his jacket pocket. For what? Frankie’s pulse raced. Images of cop shows and Westerns flashed into his mind. Oh, shit. Was that what this was? A hit? Had Dougie Hamilton sent this man to do what he’d not been able to do himself out there on the street?
Frankie gripped the cue, pulling it back out of its brackets, stepping back as he did. At the same time, the man’s arm emerged back out of his jacket. But gripped in his hand wasn’t the pistol or blade Frankie had half-expected, but a crisp white envelope. Frankie stared at it, then at the cue gripped in his hand, which was now in full view.
‘That for me?’ Frankie said.
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ said Tam, staring at the cue.
‘I was just gonna have a little practice,’ Frankie said.
Yeah, on my face, the man’s expression answered with a wry smile. Frankie wasn’t fooling him. At all. But this smooth fucker wasn’t fooling Frankie either. Right there alongside the unwavering smile, he’d just glimpsed something else – a wariness, nerves.
He walked over and put the envelope down on the counter in front of Frankie, but kept his forefinger pressed down on it. Still his.
‘A gift,’ he said.
‘From who?’
‘You’ll see.’ His smile widened.
It . . . Frankie glanced down at the envelope. What the hell was in there? When he looked back up, he saw Tam was still staring at the cue Frankie had gripped in his hand.
‘I might take you up on that game some time,’ he said. ‘But not today. Got too much shit on my plate to deal with already. And now . . .’ he tapped the envelope firmly, before finally pulling his hand away ‘. . . so have you.’
He glanced past Frankie into the mirror behind the bar. Adjusted his tie. He took another look at Frankie’s overalls, that same look of superiority and distaste crossing his face, and slowly shook his head.
‘I knew your old man,’ he said. ‘Not well. But enough.’
‘Enough for what?’ Frankie said.
‘To know he was the kind of man who’d do what he was told. When he was told it. And you’re no different. No better than him. So just make sure you make the right choice. OK, kid?’
What the fuck? Who the fuck was this guy? Frankie felt the blood rush to his face. It must have shown. Tam’s smile stretched for a second in delight. But before Frankie could say a word, he just turned. Just turned his fucking back on him. And walked. Real leisurely like. Back across the hall to the front door.
The other wanker, his backup, or minder, or whatever the fuck he was, held the door open for him, then nodded once, briefly at Frankie – like to tell him he’d be seeing him again and couldn’t fucking wait – before following Jackson outside.
The door thumped shut behind them. All Frankie could hear then was the sound of his own beating heart.
‘What the hell was that about?’ Xandra asked, at his side.
How much had she heard? How much had she understood? How much did he understand? Shit, what the hell was in this envelope? He stared down at it. Still hadn’t picked it up.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No one.’
‘It didn’t look like nothing. He didn’t look like no one.’
She was staring at the envelope. ‘Early Christmas card?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or something about your brother?’
No flies on her. She’d guessed the same as him.
‘Chuck us the car keys then,’ she said. ‘I’ll go get the rest of the gear.’
Knew when to mind her own business then. He dug the keys out of his pocket. Held them up for her.
‘Don’t worry,’ she told him, snatching them away. ‘I won’t nick it. I can’t even drive.’
He watched her go. Then leant heavily on the bar and picked up the envelope. He stared. This was bad. What Tam had said. About this. Like it was going to somehow change his life. For better? Or worse?
He dug his finger in under the flap, prising it open, wondering who’d sealed it, whose dried spit he was touching now.
A single sheet of white paper inside. He took it out, unfolded it. A photocopy. Of what? A motorcycle courier docket. Some firm based out in Hounslow. Why the fuck had they just given him this?
Then he saw. The date. The same day Jack was meant to have killed Susan Tilley. And the time of the pickup. Less than half and hour before the time of her death. And the drop-off address . . . out in Berkshire. The same place as Susan Tilley grandmother’s house. Whoever this courier was, they’d gone there that night to deliver a parcel right around the time that Susan Tilley had been killed.
Which could mean only one thing. This courier had to be the cops’ witness – the fucking liar or killer or whatever the fuck they were – who was going to swear in a court of law that Jack had been there and had murdered that girl. Meaning the geezers who’d just delivered it – Tam Jackson and his goon – they had to be working for Tommy Riley. He’d come up with the goods Frankie needed. Exactly like he’d said. Meaning Frankie now owed him that favour.
That much was settled now too.
39
Who was this bastard? That’s all Frankie could think as he marched across Charing Cross Road.
The way it boiled down was this: either the courier was lying about what he’d seen, or Jack was lying about what he’d done. And Jack wasn’t lying. Was he? No, he still had to believe that. Which meant the courier was. But why? Had they been paid? Or were they involved on some deeper level? Was it them who’d repeatedly swung that bat?
Frankie had changed back into his suit. Not because of what that flash bastard Tam Jackson had said. Frankie didn’t give a shit about having to graft for a living. No, he’d got his suit on – a crappy old one, mind – because he needed to look like a cop.
He spotted the antique bookshop up ahead. An old-fashioned wooden sign above its glass double front read ‘Ronald Chivenham, Dealer in Books of Antiquity’.
It might have been faster, of course, to ring up the courier company and give them the docket number off this photocopy he had in his pocket. Then see if he could get the name of the courier who’d made the delivery to Susan Tilley’s grandmother’s house. But he couldn’t see them just giving up that information, let alone any contact details through which Frankie could then track the courier down. Not unless he told them he was police. But the cops would no doubt have already spoken to them about their star witness. Would have asked them to report any further suspicious enquiries made by anyone else. And the last thing Frankie wanted was this courier getting tipped off that someone else was trying to track him down.
So he’d come here instead. To the pickup address the courier had collected the parcel from that night. In easy walking distance from the club. He marched up and gave the door a firm-but-polite, cop-like knock, before pushing it open and stepping inside. A little brass bell rang out.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ a man’s voice shouted from somewhere out back.
The place was a tip, but not an ugly one. Frankie had always liked books, not just reading them, but the feel of them too. It was one of the reasons he’d wanted to go to uni so much. Just to be there in some library surrounded by them. His mother had always read to him and Jack as kids. Jack had loved it too. Had been really into reading as a kid. Right up until their mum had gone missing. Where it had all gone wrong.
Frankie checked the walls and ceiling for cctv, the same as he’d done outside. Nothing. Good. If whoever owned this place sussed that he wasn’t who he was about to claim he was, then at least they’d not then have his mugshot for the real cops to ID.
Could the shop owner be involved? In on whatever this was along with the courier and whatever other bastards had decided to set Jack up? He’d find out soon enough.
>
Footsteps.
‘Hello, can I help you?’
A tall, grey-haired old geezer appeared through a doorway at the back of the shop. Posh accent. Serious-looking in an academic kind of way.
‘Mister Chivenham?’
‘Yes?’ Chivenham peered uncertainly at Frankie through his half-moon specs.
‘I’m Detective—’ Major, he’d been about to say. The Prime Minster’s name, the first name he’d thought of. Didn’t have to.
‘Ah, more police,’ Chivenham interrupted. ‘About that poor girl?’
‘S’right.’
‘It’s dreadful, of course, completely dreadful, but I already told your colleagues all that I know.’
‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to run through it one more time. Just to make sure there’s nothing we missed.’
A kettle whistled out back.
‘Very well. I was just fixing myself some tea. Would you like a cup yourself?’
‘Why not?’ said Frankie. ‘Milk three sugars.’
‘Biscuits?’
‘Perfect.’ He smiled. Every cop he’d ever met, they’d had an even sweeter tooth than him.
Chivenham nodded at his desk near the window. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in two ticks.’
Frankie sat down in one of the two big armchairs facing the desk. Well, this Chivenham hardly looked like a criminal mastermind, did he? More like a schoolteacher. And not from this decade either. More like the 1950s. Frankie couldn’t think of anyone less likely to have been involved in Susan Tilley’s murder.
As Chivenham whistled tunelessly out of sight, Frankie took out a notepad he’d picked up in Ryman’s on the way over. Black and discreet. Like the one Sharon had pulled from her bag that night she’d collared him at Jack’s. He bent its spine and flicked through it a few times to rough it up. Then flattened it down on a new page and pulled out a well-chewed biro that he’d got from the bar at the club.
Chivenham came back and placed a laden wooden tea tray on the desk between them.
‘Shall I be mother?’ he said, pouring milk into the two cups, before topping them up from the pot.
‘Lovely,’ said Frankie.
He stirred in three heaped teaspoons of sugar, then removed the courier docket from his pocket and smoothed it out on the table beside the silver tray.
‘Ah, yes,’ Chivenham said.
Meaning he’d clearly seen it before. Frankie had to be careful. He didn’t know what the real cops would already have asked. Didn’t want to go making him suspicious by repeating the same series of questions. Better talk a bit of shop first. Put him at his ease.
‘How long have you worked here, Mister Chivenham?’
‘Oh, well let me see. It must be nearly fourteen years. Yes, since 1981.’
‘A wonderful place. You must be very proud.’
‘Yes. I suppose I am.’
‘And couriers are a regular part of your business?’
‘Quite. Increasingly so.’
‘And this particular courier . . .’ Time to cut to the chase. ‘. . . what time were they called?’
The passive voice. Frankie’s old English teacher would have been proud of him. He wasn’t saying who might have called the courier at all. Was hoping Chivenham would be generous enough to give that away.
No dice.
‘Eight o’clock,’ the bookseller said. ‘Just before closing time. It was late-night shopping that night, you see.’ He offered Frankie a biscuit, before taking one himself. ‘I had the book all parcelled up and ready. It was important it looked nice. It was to be a gift, you see. A wedding present for that poor girl.’
Who was the customer? Who ordered the book? That’s all Frankie wanted to ask. Couldn’t just come out and say it, though. Would look odd, because the cops would have done it already. Had to try another tack.
‘And how much would a book like that cost, sir? If you don’t mind my asking.’ How was it paid for? Could that payment be chased?
‘That edition of The Count of Monte Cristo isn’t a particularly rare book,’ Chivenham said. ‘Although this one was in very good condition, the same as with all my stock. A hundred and twenty pounds was the price we agreed.’
We . . . him and whoever had bought it. Whoever had told him which address it needed sending to. Whoever was involved in Susan Tilley’s murder, who’d sent the witness there to lie.
‘And remind me, sir,’ said Frankie, ‘the customer paid for this by . . .’ Frankie picked up his notebook, keeping its pages hidden from Chivenham, and made a show of flicking slowly back through it, as if referring to other notes he already had.
‘Well, it’s like I told the lady detective who came round . . .’
‘Mmm-huh?’ Frankie didn’t look up. Lady detective? Did he mean Sharon? Had it been her who’d been interviewing him?
‘They paid in cash,’ Chivenham said.
Meaning there’d be no bank details to trace, not like with a credit card or cheque. Bollocks.
‘And all above board, you understand,’ added Chivenham. ‘I’m scrupulous with my accounts. Everything’s right there in my ledger.’
‘Absolutely, sir. Of course. And a regular customer, was he?’ He . . . Again, Frankie made a show of consulting his notes. Sharon would have asked too.
‘No. Never seen him before. Or since. A friend of the girl’s family,’ he said.
‘And the description you gave to my colleague?’
‘Yes,’ said Chivenham. ‘A white man . . . middle-aged . . . Nothing particularly distinguishable about him.’ Chivenham took off his glasses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. ‘My glasses, you see. I really should get a new pair. Oh, there was one thing, I remember. A cravat. He was wearing a burgundy cravat. I only noticed it because I haven’t seen anyone wearing one in such a long time.’
A cravat. Frankie wrote it down.
‘This courier company . . .’ Frankie tapped the docket with his forefinger. ‘. . . you called them up yourself, sir, did you?’
‘Yes.’ He glanced at the notebook. He’d obviously mentioned this before as well.
But Frankie still couldn’t see it, how the courier had got this gig to collect this book and take it out to the property, thereby giving him a perfect cover for being there. Unless this Chivenham was in on it too. But he still couldn’t believe that.
‘Any reason for using this particular firm for this particular job?’ he said. ‘One of the regular companies you use?’
‘Well, no,’ said Chivenham. ‘Actually now you come to mention it, I’d never even heard of the firm before this.’
From the way he said it, it was obvious he’d not told the cops. Maybe they hadn’t been looking too deep, thinking that in Jack they already had their man.
‘Actually, it was his idea,’ Chivenham said. ‘The customer’s. He gave me their card. He said he knew they delivered out that way. Where the girl’s grandmother lived. And they’d be able to get it there for later that evening when someone would be at the house to take delivery.’
Bingo. The perfect way to sneak their man in as a witness. But who was the customer? Chivenham didn’t know. Only one way to find out. From the bastard courier himself.
‘This courier . . .’ Frankie said ‘. . . the description you gave my colleague . . .’ He feigned checking his notepad again.
‘Yes, sorry about that, but at least it wasn’t my eyesight to blame this time . . .’ Chivenham pressed his hands together awkwardly. ‘It’s just these chaps all look the same, don’t you know, with their helmets and leathers on. They hardly look human at all.’
In-human would cover this one just fine.
‘But there was one thing . . .’ Chivenham said.
‘Being.’
‘His accent. It didn’t sound . . . British . . .’
‘What then?’
‘Eastern . . . Eastern European . . . I’m sorry, but I can’t be any more specific than that.’
Frankie made a show
of writing it down. ‘No, thank you, sir. You’ve been very helpful . . . very helpful indeed.’
40
Frankie checked the A–Z on the Capri’s passenger seat as he waited at the lights. Blur were twanging their latest on the radio. Some tune from Parklife.
Cockneys. Mockneys. Frankie wasn’t even sure what he was himself any more. Just the same old him? Or now some kind of bloody detective? Or maybe he’d just lost the plot entirely somewhere along the line?
The radio’s drumbeat smacked him hard in the chest. The courier firm was only a couple of streets away.
Still not sure how he was going to play it. Pretend to be a cop again? He’d done all right with the book dealer. But could he pull it off twice? No way on earth was he just going to walk into the courier firm’s office and find the actual courier sitting there waiting. He’d have to persuade whoever was there to hand over the contact details instead.
All well and good – so long as whoever ran the desk there fell for Frankie’s fake cop act. But what if they didn’t? And called the cops? The same if he spooked them by coming on too heavy. Then the witness would end up not just anonymous, but in witness protection. Assuming he wasn’t already. In which case any address Frankie managed to get today would be useless anyhow.
His other option was just scoping the place now, then coming back later. Burglary.
The lights turned green and he joined the slow-moving tailback of traffic on the other side of the crossroads. A contraflow. Road works. Fucking London, eh? Still, he might as well enjoy the ride while he still could. Six potential punters lined up to have a dekko next week. He patted the steering wheel. Was going to miss the old girl when she was gone.
He sighed. Fuck, he was knackered. He’d called in at Wandsworth on the way here. To see Jack. News about his shitty Renault having been found was already all over the tabloids and TV. The lot. The blood, the bat, the torn underwear. The red tops now had Jack painted not just as a murderer, unborn baby killer and beater, but a perv too.
Jack had been a wreck. Whatever swagger he’d tried putting on in front of Frankie the last time they’d met was now long gone. The perv shit made a difference. A big difference inside. Whatever protection Riley might have offered him from Hamilton’s boys before, there were plenty of other prisoners – lifers who didn’t give a shit – who’d now fancy having a crack at Jack too. To do their moral fucking duty for their country and their Queen.
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