Now April felt hungry. She would definitely be stopping by Luigi’s for dinner tonight. He may have been an old sex pest but he still owned the finest Italian in Glasgow.
57 #StreetWise
Haye called the number Stephanie Cooper had given him from her driveway, two hours after he first arrived. That was a long ten minutes, he thought to himself, before a female’s voice answered the phone.
‘Is that Lindy Del-war?’ Haye asked, not sure how to say her surname.
‘It’s pronounced, “Del Wha”. And it depends who’s looking for her,’ came the response. Lindy sounded streetwise.
‘Someone with a thousand dollars to spare,’ Haye replied coolly.
Lindy’s demeanour instantly changed. ‘Well, that’s my kinda language. How can I help you?’
‘I have two hours to kill before my next meeting and need a lie-down. I was hoping you could lie with me?’ Haye asked.
‘Well, you can lie down if you want, and I’ll do the rest,’ Lindy giggled.
Haye gave his own apartment’s address, assuring Lindy, ‘Don’t worry, I’m divorced. I live alone. Can you be there in half an hour?’
‘Oh I’m there, honey. But money up front, okay? No money, no touchy,’ said a woman who had clearly been stung before. Her demands also suggested that she would be alone. Moonlighting, without telling her lover, as Stephanie Cooper had said.
‘I can’t wait, Lindy. See you then,’ Haye said, before phoning the captain. He hoped tracking down the hooker would divert attention from the fact he had slipped off the radar for the entire morning.
He drove back to town, mulling over Stephanie Cooper’s business offer. She wanted Haye as her new ‘eyes and ears’ to keep vice off her back. She had even come up with a plausible explanation: ‘Tell them I’m your snitch. We’ll throw them a name or two every now and then. A bail jumper who turns up looking for a girl. That’s what Coops used to do.’ Haye was beginning to wonder if the brothel madam had another agenda when she slept with him – after all, in her line of business, there’s no such thing as a freebie.
Twenty minutes later, Haye was waiting for Lindy in his first-floor apartment. He watched at the window as a cab pulled up and a pair of high heels and long legs exited first, followed by the woman he recognised from the hotel CCTV – Stephanie Cooper had come up trumps. Lindy Delwar rang the buzzer and Haye let her in. She looked stunning and although in her mid-twenties, she could pass for being in her teens. Haye thought it was no wonder she could charge top dollar.
Lindy was all business. ‘The money first, please.’
‘What about these,’ Haye said, producing a pair of handcuffs.
‘We can do the kinky stuff later. Money first or I walk, mister,’ Lindy replied, with the penny clearly failing to drop.
‘How about I give you a lift downtown,’ Haye grinned.
Lindy’s smile vanished as she realised she’d been well and truly busted. ‘Oh no, Coops is gonna kill me.’
58 #Commission
Captain Sorrell joined Haye in the interview room to quiz the girl they had been looking for. Any woman who lived with Colin Cooper would be used to the rough stuff, so the captain spoke in the softest tones he could muster. ‘It’s Linda, right?’
‘I prefer Lindy,’ she replied, sitting cross-legged like a petulant teenager.
‘Okay. Lindy. You are not in any trouble – yet. But I can make trouble if you don’t help us. I need to know about room 1410 and the night the television presenter Bryce Horrigan was killed,’ Sorrell explained, like a father speaking to a wayward child.
‘I told Coops, I saw nothing. He said he would tell you that. That you would leave me alone. I don’t want to get involved in this shit. My family will go crazy,’ she screeched.
‘Okay. Let’s take it one step at a time. How did the man with the hat contact you?’ Sorrell asked calmly.
‘Through Coops. That’s how I do everything. Through Coops,’ she insisted.
‘But you don’t do everything through Coops, do you?’ asked Haye, lobbing in his loaded question.
‘No. But room 1410 is always through Coops. He made me swear I wouldn’t moonlight on my own. He said it was too dangerous. That I might get killed or busted. But he said he could always look after me at the hotel.’ Lindy’s words poured from her as tears tumbled down her cheeks.
‘Lindy, tell us exactly what happened at the hotel that night,’ Sorrell urged.
‘I arrived expecting to perform for some white businessman. That’s all the information Coops had. I got inside the room and most of the lights were out. I wasn’t worried because I knew if any shit went down, Coops would be there for me,’ she explained.
‘Where was Coops?’ Haye asked.
‘In his control room. He’s always there when we have aclient for room 1410. Anyways, I go inside and this guy says he’s not feeling up to it tonight. I’m thinking he’s gonna go back on the money, but then he says he’ll happily pay me for my trouble and hands over the envelope. I couldn’t count it because it was so dark, but again I wasn’t worried – if it was short, he’d have Coops at the door. I asked him if he was sure, as it was no skin off my nose, but he told me to go as he just wanted to sleep in the hotel room for a little while as he wasn’t feeling well. And that was it. I got the elevator back down, counted the money – it was all there – then Coops and me headed home. We didn’t see no TV star. We saw nobody else.’
‘Do you remember seeing Cliff Walker that night?’ Sorrell asked.
‘Old Cliff? Yeah, he said hi. I used to always flirt with him for fun because he’s gay,’ she smiled.
‘Did he know about room 1410?’ Sorrell continued.
‘Yeah. All the porters did. That’s how we got our business. A guest asks a porter for a girl and then they speak to Coops. We’d always use 1410. Everything was cash, even for the champagne or whatever, so nothing shows up on their bill. Saves them getting grief from their wives or their expenses department,’ Lindy explained.
‘The porters take a kick-back?’ Haye wanted to know.
‘Yeah. It’s like commission. I don’t know how much, though. Coops handles all the money,’ she replied, as if renting her body was like renting a car.
‘That why you do a bit of moonlighting?’ Haye continued. ‘No cuts. No commission.’
Lindy’s head and tone dropped. ‘I guess. There’s nothing wrong with liking money. I am going to get a proper job one day. Coops will go mad when he finds out. Please don’t tell him you busted me. Please,’ she pleaded as the tears tumbled yet again.
‘I won’t,’ Haye promised, ‘but we need anything else you can think of. Can you remember the guy’s height? Build? Anything at all?’
‘Maybe 5’10”. He could have been taller. Or shorter. I just don’t know. But I couldn’t see his face at all. It was in shadow. He was still wearing his hat.’
‘What did he sound like?’ Sorrell asked.
‘Weird,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Weird how?’
‘It was just strange, you know. Like nothing I’d heard before. South African, maybe? He just had a weird, fucked up accent.’
‘Thanks, Lindy. You’ve been most helpful. Lieutenant Haye here will drive you home if you wish,’ Sorrell offered.
‘No, thanks,’ Lindy said, ‘I’ll get a cab. But please don’t tell Coops. I’m begging you,’ she pleaded once more before leaving, the sound of her stilettos echoing long after she was gone.
‘She wasn’t helpful at all, cap’n. We’ve got fuck all,’ Haye moaned.
‘Maybe you’re right. Or maybe you’re not,’ Sorrell said cryptically as he headed back to his office.
59 #Prohibition
April sat in the Peccadillo Café, eating her breakfast and reading the Daily Chronicle. It didn’t take her long before she was in a rage – the source of her an
ger was a news report that her beloved menthol cigarettes were to be banned by the government.
‘This is prohibition, that’s what it is,’ she spewed as she read on, incredulously shouting out remarks from time to time.
‘Every year 700,000 people in Europe die from smoking-related diseases? So what? Every year thousands are killed on the roads. What are we going do, ban cars too? Oh, listen to this part,’ April said to no one in particular, ‘“Menthol cigarettes have been targeted because studies show they appeal to younger smokers.” Younger smokers? What about bloody ancient smokers like myself?’
She continued to mutter under her breath for the next few minutes, while taking huge chunks out of her bacon roll. All the regulars and staff were used to April’s ramblings by now and didn’t give her a second glance. The waitress, Martel, approached April’s table with the bill and smiled. ‘I’d hate to see what you’d be like if they banned fry-ups.’ April looked genuinely aghast, before replying, ‘I think you’d find me floating face down in the Clyde.’
Her phone rang. It was Connor. ‘Oh it’s yourself,’ April said. ‘I’m just chatting to Martel right now. What’s the weather like? What time is it right now? Have you had a bagel and pepperami yet?’
‘So many questions before I’ve even opened my mouth. But what the hell. Say hello to Martel for me. The weather is dry and sunny but with a cold front moving in from the west. The time, sponsored by Accurist, is 5.30am. It’s a bagel and pastrami, not pepperami. And no I haven’t had one yet, basically because the time difference screws up my body clock and my appetite.’
‘Well, you should eat something. Force yourself or you’ll run out of steam.’
‘Yes, Mum. What news from the front?’
‘Well, Big Fergie has been all over the shop. He’s getting suggestions left, right and centre from the back bench. How did we end up with all these managers?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re certainly not any better off for it. The problem with so many voices is they all want their say. They feel they must justify their existence. Instead of staying silent, or just saying the story is fine the way it is.’
‘Exactly,’ April said, stuffing more food into her mouth.
‘I’ve told you before it’s the height of bad manners to eat while talking on the phone,’ Connor complained.
‘I know, I know, but I’m starving.’
Strangely, the sounds of April trying to speak and eat at the same time made Connor slightly homesick. ‘I miss the Peccadillo.’
‘Well, find yourself a diner and get something to eat. You’ll feel a lot better for it.’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’
‘Whatever, yourself. You’ll thank me for it. There’s no problem that can’t be solved with food.’
‘Except morbid obesity,’ Connor replied before hanging up on a throaty cackle from the other side of the Atlantic. April had her flaws but at least she always laughed at Connor’s jokes.
60 #Alibis
‘The arrests are piling up, cap’n. All have alibis that check out, though.’
‘All of them?’ Sorrell asked Haye dubiously.
‘Yup, eyewitness alibis backed up by electronic alibis – state police were able to double check their cell phone locations.’
‘So where does that leave us so far?’ Sorrell asked his deputy.
Haye tapped away at his computer, before giving his boss the stats. ‘Okay, there were 104,233 threats made upon Horrigan’s life. Bizarrely, 3,095 of those were made AFTER he was murdered. We have also ignored the 34,560 that were made from outside of America, for obvious reasons. So that leaves us with a total of 66,578. Incredibly, almost 60,000 have already responded to our tweet, giving us their real names and addresses. They’ve also been asked to give their whereabouts on the night Horrigan was murdered. They’ll be interviewed and checked out over time, but they’re not the priority,’ Haye said.
‘Correct. If they’ve responded so quickly, they are not our targets. And the other six and a half thousand?’
‘There have been arrests made in almost every state, cap’n. From a finance director who got his kicks trolling celebs, to high school drop-outs waging war from their bedrooms. The beauty is, local press have been all over the stories, which has prompted others on the list to hand themselves in. The number is going down and down, cap’n. We’re getting there.’
‘Good work, Haye. Send that info to me on an email. I’ll forward it to the colonel. He surely loves all this Internet stuff.’
Haye was chuffed to bits. Sorrell rarely handed out compliments, which was the way Haye liked it. It meant when he got one it was fully merited.
‘Once you’ve done that,’ Sorrell added, ‘we can get back to the real investigation.’
61 #QuestionTime
April was slumped in her favourite armchair, with a cold glass of G&T in one hand, and petting her cat Cheeka with the other. Like her owner, the moggy was getting on a bit. They shared other traits, too: their eyesight and hearing weren’t the best; and, given the option, they’d both just eat and sleep the day away.
April felt every one of her fifty-seven years. Each night she arrived home from work feeling so exhausted she could go straight to bed. Instead, she would force herself to make something for dinner – although tonight she had eaten at Luigi’s – then plonk herself in the armchair, where she would fall into a deep state of unconsciousness in a matter of seconds. All three of April’s husbands had complained bitterly about her loud snoring, but Cheeka didn’t seem to mind. The cat was now nineteen years old and had outlasted all of April’s relationships.
This evening, after three hours’ solid sleep, April had her second wind. She turned on the telly to find Question Time had just come on the BBC, hosted by David Dimbleby. ‘Bloody hell, that bugger is older than me – yet he’s still going strong,’ she told the cat. Dimbleby was in fact a good nineteen years older than April.
She didn’t care much for the current affairs and the smart-ass questions from the audience that were debated by a panel of guests. But she suddenly remembered how she used to watch Bryce Horrigan on the show. He had left the Daily Chronicle by then for London, but she had admired the way he oozed confidence and self-belief, and traded blows with government ministers and the token novelty member of the panel, which was usually a comedian like Alexei Sayle or Boris Johnson. It was amazing to think that Bryce was dead now after being such a high-flier.
April marvelled at the heartfelt passion from the younger members of the audience. She hadn’t felt passionate about anything for years. She’d long ago decided getting worked up over things you can’t change was a waste of energy. But she also recalled how it doesn’t feel that way when you are eighteen and ready to take on the world.
Suddenly, April’s brain clicked into action. She remembered a particularly tetchy exchange between Bryce and a young student activist on the show. It had been fiery and ill tempered, before Dimbleby had finally called a halt to it – not too quickly, mind you, as the old silver fox knew good TV when he saw it. Afterwards, there had been a story how the student had begun to harass Bryce, sending threatening emails then making late-night silent phone calls. He had been from Glasgow University and it had been Connor who had door-stepped him. The police had got involved after Connor’s exclusive story and cautioned the student. After that, it’d all gone quiet.
April searched the chair for her reading glasses before finding them in their usual place, perched on top of her head. She put them on, then sent Connor a direct message, although she was still stuck in World War I mode, slowly tapping out her message like a telegram from the frontline. What name student harass Bryce? Maybe killer?
A few minutes later she received a reply: Des Gilmour. Pompous rich boy masking as a socialist. It was followed by Gilmour’s last known address and one last tweet: Clever girl. I forgot all about that little twat – now go g
et him.
62 #LostInTranslation
Bryce Horrigan @BryceTripleB
Make sure you wear those knickers I bought you. #Randyasfuck
Captain Sorrell was browsing through the tweets sent and received by the murdered television presenter.
‘Haye, what the hell are “knickers”?’ Sorrell asked, lamely attempting an English accent.
‘Panties, cap’n,’ Haye said, looking over his boss’s shoulder. ‘Bryce is suggesting to a follower she should wear the sexy panties he bought her.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I didn’t need the whole thing translated. I’m not a total dumb-ass,’ Sorrell snapped.
‘It seems to be his method,’ Haye said. ‘He flirts with them at first on his main Twitter timelines, then if he gets enough encouragement he moves to direct messaging them. We’re still waiting for Twitter to give us access to his DMs.’
‘How many women do you think he had on the go?’ Sorrell asked.
‘Twelve. But those are only the ones we know about from his public timeline. God knows what he had going on with his DMs.’
‘Twelve Twitter lovers – the dirty dozen,’ Sorrell said, chuckling at his own joke. ‘We speak to them all?’
‘Yeah, they all responded to our tweets, cap’n. All their whereabouts have been accounted for.’
‘Then we really need those DMs. Any news on the warrant?’ Sorrell asked.
‘We’re working it, cap’n.’
‘And the warrant for his PC?’
‘Still in the hands of the damn courts.’
‘The story of my life,’ Sorrell sighed.
DM for Murder Page 15