by Tony Parsons
‘Their lawyer just informed us that both Mr and Mrs Warboys respectfully decline to attend any further interviews voluntarily,’ Edie Wren said. ‘They’re making us do it the hard way.’
‘They’re probably on their way to the airport,’ I said. ‘Billy, check out today’s flights to Spain from all London airports. Don’t let them board a plane.’
Billy ran off to do it.
Piper Maldini was standing in front of her brother, shielding him, desperately pleading with Whitestone.
‘Do you understand me?’ she said. ‘It was always Andrej and the women. Always the women. Only the women.’
‘Because our men were too weak,’ Jean Wilder said, and her husband hung his head. ‘The men were too afraid of what would happen to them if they got caught.’ She stubbed out a cigarette on the floor and immediately lit another one.
Edie said, ‘There’s no—’
Jean Wilder raised a hand.
‘I’ve got lung cancer, darling,’ she said. ‘Terminal. It’s spread everywhere. Malignant tumours that are bigger than your breasts. I’m not scared of lung cancer. And I’m not scared of dying. So why the fuck should I be scared of you, you little ginger bitch?’
‘Because I’m the little ginger bitch,’ Edie said, stepping forward, ‘who is arresting you for murder.’
Jean Wilder went for her, throwing one big wild right that failed to connect before her husband had a chance to grab her. Piper Maldini was screaming something at Jean Wilder as Whitestone attempted to pull her away.
Nobody paid much attention to the young man in the wheelchair.
One hour later Paul Warboys opened the front door of his Essex mansion.
Every time we had met, the last of London’s celebrity gangsters had dressed for either Majorca, Spain – shorts, Hawaiian shirt, leather sandals – or Brentwood, Essex – polo shirt, chinos, Asics.
But today he was dressed for a wedding.
Paul Warboys wore a formal morning suit. A long-tailed black jacket, grey trousers and a pale lemon waistcoat. White shirt, blue tie, and a white carnation in the buttonhole. The flower was fresh but the suit, while high-end Savile Row, looked as though it was perhaps forty years old.
He smiled at me with what looked like genuine affection.
‘Hello, Max.’
‘Going to a wedding, Paul? I thought you might be on your way to the airport.’
‘I don’t run away. Never have. Never will.’
His eyes flickered on Billy Greene’s face and then to the BMW X5 parked on his gravel drive.
‘Is this it?’ he said. ‘Just you and this young man?’
‘This is it,’ I said.
‘You could have come mob-handed,’ Warboys said.
‘No need, is there?’
He shook his head. ‘No need. But I appreciate it anyway, Max.’
‘Andrej Wozniak is dead,’ I said. ‘Jean Wilder and Piper Maldini have been arrested for the murder of Mahmud Irani, Hector Welles and Darren Donovan. That just leaves Doll Warboys. That just leaves your wife.’
He stood to one side to let us enter.
A white English bull terrier came padding down the hallway. He had tiny black eyes that gleamed with life and a forehead that sloped the entire length of his head.
He sniffed my hand with recognition.
‘Hello, Bullseye,’ I said. ‘Hello, old buddy.’
‘I didn’t know until today,’ Paul Warboys said.
When I didn’t reply I felt his mood change, and saw his tanned face darken. The rage that had helped him stand his ground against the Krays and the Richardsons half a lifetime ago was never far from the surface.
‘You can believe that or not, I don’t give a toss,’ he said. ‘Doll’s dad – my late father-in-law – was a black cab driver. He had her tooling up and down the Walworth Road when she was ten years old. Sitting in that black cab, hardly able to see over the steering wheel, the old man killing himself laughing in the back seat.’ He smiled fondly at the image. ‘Driving in London was in her blood. She knows these streets. She can drive. So she drove for them, Max. That’s all she did. Christ, she was old enough to be the grandmother of the rest of them. But she was the driver. Because of what that bastard Welles did to Daniel. Two years for killing an innocent little kid!’ He gripped my arm and, even at his advanced age, I felt the power of the man and I was glad to have Billy by my side. ‘Doll was the driver. I told you – not my style. Not my style at all, Max. If I was going to slot the bastard, it wouldn’t have been with a rope. Just the driving, Max, that’s all she did.’
I patted his powerful arm.
‘We can talk about all that later, Paul,’ I said gently. ‘But right now you have to take me to Doll.’
We stood there in silence for a moment. Then he ran a hand through his thinning blond hair and smiled with sadness. There was no point in fighting it.
‘She’s waiting,’ he said.
We followed him upstairs to the master bedroom. He opened the door and we saw Doll Warboys lying on top of the covers.
Billy cried out beside me.
Doll Warboys was wearing her wedding dress, her eyes closed and her hands together as she clasped a bouquet of fresh flowers to her lifeless chest.
I moved quickly to the bed and touched her wrist and her skin had the texture of paper. It was very cold.
On the bedside table were a dozen pill bottles and a half-drunk glass of red wine. I read their labels as I felt her pulse. Zolpidem. Zaleplon. Zopiclone.
Enough sleeping pills to help you sleep forever.
Billy was calling for an ambulance. He was still young enough to believe that it was never too late to get help. But in the end we all run out of time.
I looked at Paul Warboys as he stared at the woman he had married a lifetime ago.
‘All these years,’ he said. ‘And she still fits into her wedding dress.’
36
It was not over.
The two surviving members of the Hanging Club were on remand in Her Majesty’s Prison Holloway, sometimes known as Holloway Castle, where they would remain in single cells until brought to trial at the Central Criminal Court, almost always known as the Old Bailey.
Jean Wilder and Piper Maldini could avoid a trial by entering a plea of guilty on all counts of murder, but it was not going to happen – we had already been informed by the Crown Prosecution Service that both women would be entering pleas of not guilty. Jean Wilder and Piper Maldini wanted their day in court. They wanted, I guessed, to tell the world exactly why they had murdered Mahmud Irani, Hector Welles and Darren Donovan. Like all true believers faced with the end, they dreamed of armies rising behind them.
This final stage of the investigation meant that our Murder Investigation Team would be confined to our desks on the top floor of 27 Savile Row for the next couple of months. You hear a lot about the Golden Hour after a murder is committed. Well, these were the bread-and-butter weeks of arrest to trial – collating evidence and preparing statements, long days of snatched meals eaten at workstations and a waterfall of coffee.
The paperwork had just begun. Prosecutors from the CPS would come and go as they built their case. The police detect, investigate and arrest and the CPS make it stick in court. At least, that is the theory. So our investigation was not over but we were in the home straight.
And that’s why when I entered MIR-1 on the morning after the arrests of the surviving members of the Hanging Club, I found Tara Jones clearing her desk.
There was nobody else around. I stood before her as she pushed the shining veil of hair from her face, her wedding ring gleaming like a sliver of gold on black velvet. She did not smile at me as she placed files in a cardboard box.
‘Buy you a coffee?’ I said. ‘Bar Italia? Your favourite?’
‘And then what happens, Max?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
Your mouth, I thought. Coffee-flavoured kisses. Your eyes looking into my face. Your hands in mine. And t
hen another triple espresso before I have to come back to work. That sounded good to me.
I reached out to touch her arm just above the elbow. With the temperatures suddenly dropping, she was wearing a sweater today, and my fingertips brushed cashmere. She did not pull away but TDC Billy Greene came in just then, calling a jaunty ‘Morning all!’ as he swung his backpack on his desk, got out the sandwiches that his mum had made him, and powered up his computer. I stood there staring at Tara and there was something in her eyes that I knew I would never get past.
‘Shall I tell you what happens, Max?’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper, although Billy was already leaning forward, lost in his screen, munching one of his mum’s sandwiches. ‘If we get what we want, it will not make us happy.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, even though I knew exactly what she meant.
‘There are no happy endings, Max. Whatever we do. Whatever lies we tell. Whoever we hurt. It’s not meant to be for you and me. And you know it’s true.’
‘I just want a triple espresso,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t deny a man a triple espresso, would you?’
She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘But first I have to do something. Pat Whitestone’s son is coming home today. Will you wait for me?’
She touched my hand and smiled at last. ‘Please, Max,’ she said. ‘Go.’
* * *
I waited outside the main doors of the Whittington Hospital, alone apart from a hollow-eyed man in his dressing gown sucking on a cigarette like it contained the only air on the planet.
I was expecting Pat and Justin to come out with some kind of farewell committee of doctors and nurses, but they came through the big glass doors alone, Justin in dark glasses, his mother lightly guiding his arm, the pair of them the same height now, Whitestone holding a small suitcase and a paper bag from the pharmacy. They seemed to move in careful slow motion, adjusting to this new reality. Neither of them said much and what they did say concerned the practicalities of getting into the big BMW X5 that I had parked in a doctor’s bay, the diesel engine running in case I had to move it.
And then I drove them home. From the Whittington Hospital, at the north end of the Holloway Road, to their two-bedroom flat in Islington, at the other end of that road, the kebab shops slowly making way for cafés and the junk shops for antique emporiums as we got closer to the Angel.
I drove. That’s all I did. It didn’t feel like much. In fact, it felt like nothing. I wanted to do more. I wanted to say something to Pat Whitestone that she could hold when she went forward. But I drove in silence, watching the teenage boy in his dark glasses in the back seat with his small, fair-haired, bespectacled mother, the traffic sluggish on the Holloway Road, and all of their new lives before them.
Whitestone helped Justin to his bedroom and when she returned to the living room I told her the only thing that I had to offer.
‘Tara Jones talked to me about being deaf,’ I said. ‘She told me that the way she had always dealt with it was by acting as if she had a difficulty and not a disability.’ I shook my head. ‘I know it’s easier said than done, Pat.’
But Whitestone nodded. ‘I know what she means. You don’t have to be defined by the worst things that happen to you. No matter how hard it is, it doesn’t have to be the whole story.’ She smiled. ‘I look at him, Max, and he’s still my boy. It’s still him. Still my Just. That doesn’t change and it will never change. He’s still my baby.’ She laughed, took off her glasses and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘That sounds corny.’
‘It sounds true,’ I said.
I indicated her laptop on the dining table. ‘Can I show you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
I went online.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ I said. ‘Look.’
On the screen was a logo of two white figures – a human and, by his side, a dog.
‘Someone goes blind in this country every hour,’ I said. ‘But the guide dog service help thousands of people – the blind and partially sighted – every year. They train the dog – a cross between a Lab and a Golden Retriever works best – and then the dog stays with you for six or seven years until they retire. Some people have eight dogs in a lifetime. And I think you and Justin . . .’
‘It’s something to think about, Max.’
I scrolled down the page. There were images of dogs who seemed to combine great beauty with intense seriousness.
‘We will not rest until people who are blind or partially sighted can enjoy the same freedom of movement as everyone else,’ I read.
‘Max?’
I looked at her.
‘You’ve done enough,’ she said.
We stared at each other.
And I saw that she knew. Perhaps she did not know everything about the night that Jackson Rose and I came to the Angel to confront the leader of the Dog Town Boys. But she knew enough. Of course she knew. DCI Pat Whitestone is the best homicide detective in West End Central.
‘We’ll be all right,’ she said, staring out of the window. ‘The pair of us.’
I nodded to the window. It was one of those strange moments when the city seems totally empty.
‘It’s a good neighbourhood,’ I said.
‘It is now,’ said Pat Whitestone.
I drove back to West End Central, just about resisting the urge to put on the blues-and-twos. I parked my BMW X5 under the big blue light outside 27 Savile Row and, too impatient for the lift, I ran all the way to the top floor.
But MIR-1 was empty.
I looked at my phone but there were no messages. That was all right. I was happy to be spared a text message. It really wasn’t necessary. Because I got it. The day grew cool, the shadows long, and soon the lights would be coming on in the big Georgian houses of Canonbury Square.
And Tara Jones was already home.
37
Then summer was done with us.
There were new school shoes waiting in the hall. Scout’s uniform was not as ridiculously big as it had been a year ago and she no longer needed my help to put it on. September had swung round again but it was different from all the other Septembers.
‘I can do it myself,’ Scout said, struggling gamely with the buttons of her yellow shirt. ‘Even the socks.’
First thing in the morning and from the window of our loft I could see the dome of St Paul’s surrounded by an untouched blue sky, but down on the street the breath of the Smithfield porters made misty clouds.
On that first day of term we had breakfast at Smiths of Smithfield as a special treat – porridge with honey for me and pancakes for Scout, grapefruit juice for both of us and the best triple espresso this side of Soho. Then we walked to school, kicking through the leaves and conkers underfoot, Scout with Stan’s lead wrapped twice around her hand, the dog’s tail erect and feathery, as flamboyant as a peacock’s feathers, his round eyes gleaming with anticipation and his fur exactly the same shade of burnished chestnut as the autumn leaves.
You could feel the time passing, and you could even taste it in the crisp morning air, but it was a good feeling.
When Stan and I said goodbye to Scout at the school gates it was a shock to realise that she was no longer the youngest or the smallest. She fell into smiling step with her friend Mia, and Stan whimpered with grief to see her go. But of course she never looked back at us.
And as we were walking home Stan caught the scent of a Labradoodle bitch on the far side of the street and without warning hurled himself into the traffic.
I pulled him out from under the wheels of a florist’s van and called the Well Animal Clinic as soon as I got home. He retreated to the sofa and watched me on the phone with mournful eyes, his head resting on his front paws in classic Cavalier style.
‘I’m sorry, Stan,’ I said, hanging up. ‘But what else can I do?’
The world was turning and nothing could stop it.
‘He’s good off lead,’ Scout told the vet on Fri
day night. ‘And he’s good on lead. It’s just . . .’
She shook her head, her voice trailing off, and we three humans stared at Stan on the vet’s table, the dog jumping up to lick my face, his paws against my chest, desperate to demonstrate his unconditional love, trying to ingratiate himself even at this late hour, still with total faith that I could save him from his fate.
The vet laughed and scratched Stan behind the ears and finished Scout’s sentence for her.
‘It’s just that you’re growing up, aren’t you, Stan?’
The vet, Christian, had known Stan since he was a pup. Christian had given Stan his first vaccinations, microchipped him, nursed him to health when we were worried he had kennel cough. Despite a phobia for needles, and indeed an aversion to any kind of physical discomfort, Stan always looked forward to his trips to see Christian at the Well Animal Clinic. He liked the attention, he favoured the tasty treats they kept in reception, he enjoyed encountering other dogs and meeting exotic animals like cats and hamsters.
But now we were here to talk about castration and the thought of it made me sick to my stomach.
‘Neutering is not as clear cut as people believe,’ Christian said. ‘Every dog is different. Some need it. Some don’t. Do it too soon and you will alter the nature of your dog. Do it too late and it will make absolutely no difference to his nature.’
We all looked at Stan. He wouldn’t leave me alone. You can save me from this if you want to, he seemed to say, climbing into my arms.
‘Is your dog neutered, Christian?’ Scout asked the vet.
The vet adjusted his glasses.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But you have to decide what’s right for Stan. Does he put himself in danger because he has reached sexual maturity?’
Scout and I looked at each other.
We both knew the answer to that one.
And so we made an appointment to bring him back in the morning.
We walked through the meat market’s great arch to the strip of shops on the far side of the square. The shops were closed and silent but light and music drifted out from one of the flats above.