Die of Shame

by Mark Billingham

  ‘We could go to my place.’

  ‘No… this is good,’ Tony says.

  For a few minutes they work at one another, quick and rough. They do not stop at the sound of a doorway opening further down the alleyway, and the footsteps have not yet faded away when Tony leans forward to brace himself against the metal door and Heather sinks slowly to her knees.

  … NOW

  Tanner was talking to Diana Knight in the station’s reception area when Caroline Armitage walked in. The detective enjoyed the look of surprise and confusion, of something that might have been panic on each of their faces when they saw one another.

  ‘Oh,’ Knight said. ‘I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘I thought it might be useful,’ Tanner said. ‘If there’s two of you, you might help one another remember things. That’s all.’

  ‘Doing us both together?’ Armitage asked when she reached them. She smiled as she wiped a forearm across her forehead and Tanner thought she could detect something salacious in the girl’s tone; a suggestion that she’d got Tanner’s number, in one way at least. Tanner had no intention of acknowledging it.

  ‘So, you understand that you’re going to be interviewed under caution, this morning?’ As per procedure, each woman had been sent a letter requesting her attendance.

  ‘Actually, I’m not sure I do understand,’ Knight said. ‘Not unless we’re actually suspects.’

  ‘I suspect there are still things you haven’t told us,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Because we couldn’t.’

  ‘You know why,’ Armitage said.

  ‘Yes, but still, I’m entitled to interview you under caution if I believe that doing so might reveal further lines of inquiry.’ Tanner reeled it off with a degree of relish; content and confident in her enforcement of interview guidelines. ‘If it gives me the chance to gather information I can’t get in any other way, which may prove relevant to any subsequent prosecution.’

  ‘Well, if that’s what you think,’ Knight said.

  ‘I think that one or both of you, unwittingly or not, may have been involved in a major offence. Either way, I’ve reason to think that offence was committed by someone in your group.’ Tanner looked at the two women. Knight was dressed immaculately, muted tones and expensive fabrics; her appearance exuding confidence, even though, of the two, she seemed to be more nervous. Armitage wore a voluminous grey shirt over leggings and dirty trainers. She looked like she didn’t give a toss. ‘Interviewing the two of you formally might also bring home to you how seriously I’m taking this. The therapy group.’

  ‘Yes, well, someone was murdered,’ Knight said. ‘I do understand that’s quite serious.’

  ‘Are you waiting for legal representation to arrive? I hope you understood that you’re entitled to it.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would be necessary.’

  ‘I didn’t think about it at all,’ Armitage said.

  ‘Right. Well, I appreciate you coming in.’ Tanner had one hand on her lanyard, ready to swipe her ID and go inside. She looked at Caroline Armitage. ‘And I’m sorry if you’ve had to take time off work.’

  ‘I got sacked.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Oh, that’s awful,’ Knight said.

  Armitage was still looking at Tanner. ‘Down to you, according to my boss. Not good for business when the staff are questioned by the police on company premises.’

  ‘She can’t do that,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Oh, I’ll pop in and tell her, shall I?’

  Tanner watched Diana Knight reach across to rub the younger woman’s arm as though she were comforting a distressed child.

  ‘Right, let’s get this done, shall we?’

  In the interview room, which Knight said was marginally nicer than the first one she’d been in, Chall prepared the recording equipment while Tanner ran through the women’s rights. She told them they were being interviewed in accordance with Code C of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. She made the usual speech about not having to say anything, the possibility of silence harming their defence, anything they said being used in evidence. She made sure they knew that the interview was to be recorded on both tape and DVD and that they were free to leave at any time.

  Free to leave, but she would want to know why.

  Once the familiar tone had signalled that things were officially under way, Tanner formally introduced herself and Dipak Chall. She reminded her interviewees of their right to seek legal advice, then asked each woman to state her name, address and date of birth. She thought Knight winced a little at revealing her age and told herself not to smile.

  ‘I’m not going to waste time asking again about what exactly was said and by whom during the session on March the twenty-second. Mainly because you’re both still within your rights to refuse to tell me, but also because I now have a reasonable idea, having seen Mr De Silva’s notes.’

  Tanner was expecting a pause, and got one.

  ‘He gave them to you?’ Armitage asked.

  ‘He had no choice.’

  ‘You twisted his arm.’

  ‘The court did.’ Tanner leaned forward, keen to move on. ‘So, instead let’s talk a bit about what everyone’s mood was like that evening. Before the session, I mean.’ She looked from one face to another, picked. ‘Diana?’

  Knight stared at her.

  ‘Do you mind if I call you Diana?’

  She said no, but looked as though she minded a great deal. ‘All right… I think it would be fair to say I was ready for some support that night. Actually, I still am, which is why I’m so grateful that Tony’s starting the group up again.’

  ‘Really?’ Tanner glanced at Chall, who, in accordance with her instructions, had sat there looking serious and said nothing. ‘The Monday night group?’ She was genuinely surprised, and interested. De Silva had given her no indication that he intended getting them all back together so soon.

  All bar one, of course.

  ‘Yeah, week after next, I think.’ Armitage rolled her eyes. ‘Should be… interesting.’

  Tanner was sure that it would be. She looked back to Diana Knight. ‘So, March the twenty-second? You needed some support…’

  ‘Yes… I’d been going through a difficult time,’ Knight said. ‘Things weren’t exactly helped by my ex-husband’s girlfriend popping in to see me.’

  Now it was Armitage’s turn to wince, rather more theatrically.

  ‘Can’t have been much fun,’ Tanner said.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly. Why on earth would anyone do that?’

  ‘I know.’ Armitage nodded, enthusiastic. ‘It’s against the rules.’

  Knight evidently caught something in the other woman’s tone and turned to stare hard at her.

  ‘Come on, that’s definitely against your rules, isn’t it?’ Armitage looked at Tanner. Said, ‘She’s got rules.’

  ‘Right,’ Tanner said.

  ‘About other women and how they’re supposed to behave as far as other men go. Older men, that’s a definite no-no, and married men, bang out of order. Married and older’ – she pursed her lips and sucked in a breath – ‘that’s rule number one.’ She leaned towards Tanner and mock-whispered, as if it was no more than a silly joke. ‘That one gets her really riled up.’

  ‘You’re being unfair,’ Knight said.

  ‘Come on —’

  ‘You try going through it.’

  ‘I’m only messing around.’

  ‘They’re not rules.’ Knight adjusted the thin scarf at her throat, used the few seconds to calm down a little. ‘They’re standards.’

  Tanner had guessed there might not be too much love lost between these two very different women. At worst, she knew they would have almost nothing in common, save the reason they were there. She had not expected conflict to surface quite so soon, but now that it had, she was hoping it might shake a few things loose.

  She looked to her left, watched the digital display count the seconds. She said, ‘What about you, Car
oline?’

  Knight looked at Armitage, happy that it was the younger woman’s turn.

  ‘Well, look at me. Laugh-a-minute fat lass, happy as a pig in shit. Right?’

  Tanner waited.

  She shook her head. ‘Wrong. Trust me, when I get a cob on, I really get it on.’ She nodded towards Knight. ‘And as it goes, she wasn’t the only one who wasn’t in the best of moods that night.’

  ‘Because?’

  Armitage smiled and closed her eyes just briefly, as though anticipating the reaction to what she was going to say; as if she couldn’t quite believe how good it was. ‘Well, whose fault is it we’re here?’

  ‘I’m not sure I —’

  ‘You mean Heather?’ Knight looked shocked.

  Armitage looked at Tanner and reddened a little. ‘I don’t mean “fault”, that wasn’t what I was trying… but yeah. She was the reason I was so pissed off that night.’

  Knight was still staring at her. ‘What did Heather do?’ Her voice fell a little when she mentioned the dead woman’s name and it was hard to tell if the small show of respect was involuntary.

  ‘More like who did she do.’ Smiling again, Armitage reached for the bottom of her shirt, lifted it and flapped as though she was feeling the heat. ‘I met up with her the day before and she was full of it. Walking around like a dog with two dicks, I swear.’

  ‘Why were you so angry with Heather, Caroline?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘Because of what she’d done.’ She glanced across at Knight. ‘You are really going to love this. Talk about your rules.’

  ‘What?’ Knight asked, a little impatient.

  Armitage took another second or two then turned her eyes on Tanner, and suddenly she was dead serious.

  ‘She’d broken every bloody rule in the book.’

  … THEN

  Twice, Chris has walked from Holland Park tube station to Ladbroke Grove and back again. He thinks that certain buildings and shopfronts are a bit like others he has seen recently, notices that a newspaper seller looks familiar, but is otherwise oblivious to the details of his journey or the fact that he is repeating it. Most of the time he is looking down at the ground moving beneath him. He doesn’t step aside for people. He doesn’t distinguish between the pavement and the road and he is unaware that when he stops to stare into shop windows – at naked mannequins with no arms or electrical goods or the reflection that looks like a ghost – he is sometimes standing there for ten or fifteen minutes at a time.

  He can’t even remember how he came to be in west London to begin with.

  He remembers that at some point there was a phone conversation with Woody and he supposes that he was the one who had made the call. A promise to hook him up again that’s probably worth nothing, but it’s all he has.

  He’s coming down, but still high enough, and he’s smart enough to know that now’s the time to arrange his next fix. He’s been caught out like that plenty of times before. Call me whatever you like, he thinks, but you can’t accuse me of not planning ahead.

  Whatever you like…

  Gutless arsehole.

  Waste of DNA.

  Sad, stupid fucker.

  These are among the many bad things he calls himself as he trudges the streets, but they’re only words; just sounds that are immediately lost inside his head. Wheeling away into the darkness as other ideas, other certainties speed into focus, and stick.

  She did this, not me. She wanted this to happen.

  ‘Watch yourself, mate.’

  He stops and looks at the man whose shoulder he has banged into. A man with a big, silly shoulder bag and a blue hat. Bag man… stupid hat man. Angry twat in a twatty hat.

  He can’t help laughing.

  ‘You’re not looking where you’re going.’

  ‘She tell you that, did she?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yeah, well she’s always got loads of opinions,’ Chris says, unaware quite how loudly he is speaking. ‘Plenty to say about other people, but maybe she needs to look at herself a bit more, don’t you reckon? Stop making other people do things they don’t want to, because the fact is she hasn’t thought it through. Because she’s selfish and maybe she wants other people to do these things, to face up to all the crap in their lives, when they were kids, whatever, because actually she’s too scared to do them herself.’ He nods, holds up a hand. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t need to say anything to her, because I’m going to tell her all this myself tomorrow night. Right to her filthy stupid face in her precious circle…’

  The man is out of sight well before Chris has finished, but in the few seconds before he had hurried away Chris had recognised the look. The man had been frightened, white-faced with it he was, below the peak of that twatty hat.

  Chris laughs again and moves on.

  A skinny little poof like me and now all of a sudden I’m dangerous…

  Plenty of looks as he walks. Some of it’s down to his face, he knows that, the bruises you can still see from half a mile away, but mostly it’s the general… state of him. Shock, anger, revulsion, all the old favourites. Sympathy even, now and again, and he thinks that goes to show how sound a lot of people are, well in London, anyway. It’s funny how quickly he’s become used to those looks again and how, just like before, the only one he can’t stomach is pity.

  He’s got more than enough of that for himself, thank you very much.

  He crosses one road and then another, heading aimlessly back towards Ladbroke Grove and racking his brains for alternatives if Woody doesn’t come up with the goods.

  Dredging up names, characters.

  Spike, Billy Whizz, that mental bloke in Dalston who always carried a briefcase with a knife in it…

  Waiting for lights to change he walks on the spot, then freezes when he sees them talking outside a coffee shop. A pair of them and he’s pretty sure already, but when one glances across at him he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’re Drugs Squad. He knows that they’re watching him and that they’ve probably been following him for ages already.

  It’s a good job he hasn’t scored yet.

  It’s ridiculous how obvious it is, the leather jackets and the casual chat and he can’t believe they’re being so blatant about it.

  He wonders if this is down to her as well.

  Easier to grass me up, he thinks, to get me tugged, than look me in the eye.

  He’s sweating anyway, but suddenly it’s like he’s dripping with it. He knows he has to get away fast and the instant the lights change he’s across the road and taking a sharp right into Lansdowne Crescent. He is trying not to run, to attract any attention, and every few feet he checks to see that the coppers aren’t following.

  When he’s sure he’s lost them, he stops and ducks into a driveway, and he doesn’t start moving again until his heart has stopped hammering. Instantly he’s thrilled that he’s outsmarted the Feds, and, when he clocks the number of the house, he’s absurdly delighted that he’s only a few doors away from the hotel where Jimi Hendrix died.

  That he gets how ironic it is.

  Chris starts walking again, heading on a roundabout route towards Shepherd’s Bush now, though he doesn’t know it, or care. He makes the effort to keep his head up, because now he knows they’re on to him he needs to be careful. It’s never a good thing to be pulled in by the police, but today it’s really the last thing he needs.

  Not when tomorrow’s his chance to tell Little Miss Pain-Isn’t-Shameful exactly what he thinks. When he gets to show her what she’s done and what she’s responsible for.

  When Lucky Heather’s going to get everything she deserves.

  … THEN

  ‘You fancy going in?’ Caroline asks.

  ‘For real?’

  They’re standing in the courtyard outside St Paul’s church in Covent Garden. Someone on their way inside has told them it’s called the actors’ church, but having hung around for ten minutes they have yet to see anybody they recognise.


  ‘Yeah, we could. It is Sunday.’

  ‘Still…’

  ‘Come on,’ Caroline says. ‘For all we know Benedict Cumberbatch is on his knees in there.’ She giggles and Heather does likewise, until finally she shakes her head.

  ‘It’s not really my thing.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Heather hunches her shoulders, a little embarrassed. ‘I did try once, but I just thought it was all a bit creepy.’ She stares up at the large clock above the portico. ‘Plus, I prefer getting help from someone I can actually see, you know?’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘I didn’t even know you were religious.’

  ‘I’m not really,’ Caroline says. ‘Robin was telling me about it, that’s all. He goes now and again, I think. Well, it’s a bit of a thing with a lot of them in NA, apparently. A higher power and all that. I don’t think he’s a proper God-botherer or anything, but he says it helps him. So…’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ Heather says. ‘If you want to go in.’

  Caroline looks as though she’s thinking about it. Then she says, ‘No, sod it.’ She tosses her hair back. ‘Benedict’s prayers are not getting answered today.’

  Heather laughs.

  ‘Be just my luck though, wouldn’t it? If he was in there and it turns out he’s actually a chubby-chaser.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Caroline puts an arm through Heather’s. ‘Come on, let’s go back to the piazza, take the piss out of a few mime artists.’

  They walk back up towards the tube, the street crowded with tourists, gathering in large groups ahead of them around the station entrance. They hear accents which sound eastern European, others which are probably Scandinavian. There are a good many jester’s hats and backpacks on display and, judging by the way the sky is rapidly darkening, it seems as if the umbrellas being held aloft by tour guides might soon come in handy.

  ‘Here we go,’ Caroline says.

  They stop at the edge of a small crowd enjoying the sporadic antics of an elaborately made-up ‘robot’. It squawks whenever someone poses for a selfie, and each time someone drops a coin into the small box at its feet it moves a little.