* * *
I saw him later that night. I was standing outside Centrepoint, having just walked along Oxford Street and through Soho handing out photographs. He simply walked past me and down the steps into the tube station. I was shocked. I stood there for a second or two. I didn’t have any kind of reaction at first but then it started to come. The fucker. The little fucker. Without having any sort of a plan I followed him into the station and just caught sight of him through the rush-hour crowd, walking onto the Northern Line escalator. The feeling in me grew. It had lain dormant ever since that night when I’d found Lucy. I’d tried to ignore it. But I couldn’t ignore it any more.
I bought a ticket and passed through the gate, walking quickly down the escalator. I still didn’t know what I intended doing and I didn’t take any measures to stop him seeing me. I didn’t care if he did. He was out of sight, having turned towards one of the platforms, the northbound or the south, and I hurried up, not wanting him to get on a train before I could catch up with him.
I checked the northbound platform first and he wasn’t there. Knowing he must be on the other one made me slow down and be a little circumspect. I still didn’t know what I was going to do but I couldn’t see the point of letting him notice me. The feeling in me was now a coldness, and my arms felt unnaturally light. I remembered the feeling I’d had that night; not the pain, more the outraged helplessness, the sense of being used, so casually set upon. I went down to the furthest platform entrance and carefully moved back up. He was there, standing close to the edge, his nose in an Evening Standard. When the train came I let him step aboard and then hurried to get on the carriage next to his.
I stood by the door in the crush, looking at him through the window. He’d managed to grab a seat and was still immersed in the back pages. I stared at him, not able to stop my nose setting into a frown of pleasure at seeing him. He got off at Kennington and I merged into the crowd behind him in the lift and then out through the gates onto the street. He turned left out of the tube, and even though quite a few other people did the same thing I began to worry that he’d be bound to notice me as the crowd thinned out, he’d be sure to feel me behind him. I was beginning to have a plan now, not one of my own but something that was just coming to me as I trailed after him. Not something rational but which I knew I was going to follow nevertheless. Sometimes life just blows you along like a dandelion seed in the breeze. There’s nothing you can do.
I didn’t need to worry about being spotted because he only lived a minute from the tube, in a small yellow-brick property that looked like a council house. He opened a small iron gate and then turned a couple of locks on a dark brown wooden door. Then he was gone. He hadn’t even looked round. I walked past the house, turned a corner, and then crossed to the other side of the junction. I stood for a minute or two, wishing I had my car, and then turned towards the fleapit of a pub I was standing outside. I went in the place, empty except for me, and sat next to the window with a pint.
Sitting there I realized exactly where I knew him from. When I’d seen him outside York’s, arguing with the man, I couldn’t place him. But now I saw him clearly. He was at Hendon, the police training college, barking out orders to us new recruits, pulling that cliche got-to-be-tough-you-bunch-of-pussies line. I was OK, he had nothing on me, no way in, but I remembered the grief he gave a young Asian woman there, the snide viciousness that stopped about a centimetre from sexist and racist abuse, but never quite got there. How he loved making her look stupid. I remembered resenting the power he had, which was especially galling knowing as we all did that he must have been a pretty fuck useless copper to have ended up doing his time teaching us.
I waited an hour or so, until the street was much emptier. I was worried that he might not be alone in his house, but I’d seen him use two keys to unlock, and no one else had shown up. That was clear enough. I left the pub and stepped into a utility store next door, where I bought various items including a selection of magazines and a pack of gum. I crossed over, opened up the small gate the man had gone through, and walked up to the door. I took the gum from my mouth, stuck it over the eyehole and rang the bell.
The door had a wooden hood over it, a kind of mini porch. I put my shopping bag down. When I heard footsteps from inside I took hold of both sides of it and lifted myself up, so that my feet were suspended in front of the door about two thirds of the way to the top. I figured that even if the door had a chain on, it wouldn’t hold if I caught it right. I heard the guy stop, probably to take a look at who was there, but then decide to open up anyway when he couldn’t see anything. As soon the latch gave I kicked out with all I had and the door smacked hard into the man on the other side of it, jolting him fast back into his house. There was no chain. I dropped down from the porch and got inside quickly where I saw him, on the floor of a short, narrow hall, dazed, on his back. I pushed the door to, gently, and took the couple of steps towards him. I kicked him in the balls about as hard as I could.
He was in too much pain to see me. Not that I cared if he did. I really didn’t think he’d call the police. Not after what he’d paid three guys to do. In the living room I found a large cushion and took the cover off it, before placing it over the man’s head. Before the cover went over I remember thinking that he looked like Van Morrison, and hoping that I didn’t see this little prick’s face every time I fancied listening to Astral Weeks. I saw that there was no blood on his head but he was going to have a bump that would have scared Tiger Woods. When the cover was on him I went out and brought in the shopping, before shutting the door behind me. And there was a chain. I shook my head and tutted. Some people can be so careless.
I didn’t hit him very much more. Just enough to calm him down, and to persuade him it would be best if he did what I told him. I got his shirt off OK and his slippers weren’t a problem, but he began to squirm when I dug my fingers into the doughy flab of his white belly for the button to his trousers. I don’t know what he thought I had in mind. I got the trousers off though, in spite of his resistance, and when I saw the state of his pants I figured he must just have been a little embarrassed at his level of personal hygiene. They weren’t nice. They came down easily enough though and pretty soon he was lying there clad only in a pillowcase for a hat, and his birthday suit. Neither of them suited him.
Through the cushion cover he demanded to know what the hell I wanted, but I told him to hush up. I’d bought some washing line from the store but I had an inspiration. He was a former policeman who was now a private dick with the renowned Sirius Investigations. He was bound to have some handcuffs lying around somewhere. I found them, and used them, and then dragged him into the living room where I had a quick look around. Then I fetched the bag from the hall. I took out the washing line and the gaffa tape and the golf ball that I had, bizarrely, been able to purchase in the store opposite. I didn’t have a clue where the nearest golf course was.
My mind saw exactly how it should be, and though it was a bit of a struggle, eventually I managed it. First, I got him standing up, and I used the belt from his trousers as a ligature for his neck. Then I attached the belt to some clothes line, which I then wound round a built-in cupboard door a foot or so above his head. I wound another section of line round his balls, tight, and tied that to the handcuffs, which I had transferred to the front of his body. Following which, standing behind him, I pulled the pillowcase from over his head.
‘You have a cleaner,’ I said. I’d seen a note he’d left her on the kitchen table. ‘When’s she coming again?’
He shook his head, trying to get free. There was no way he’d manage it. ‘Not till the morning. Please, if you want money…’
I pulled a stretch of gaffa out and wound it round his eyes, and then stood in front of him again. I dropped the key to the cuffs on the carpet beneath him, so that it may have looked like he’d dropped it by mistake, and got stuck. Then I opened his mouth like a horse’s, and managed to stuff the golf ball in there without getting bitt
en, before securing it in place with more gaffa. I made sure he could breathe through his nose. Before I left I took a couple of pictures of him with his own camera, removing the film. I made a mental note to explain it to Carl at the repro shop, before getting it developed. I didn’t want Carl thinking they were my holiday snaps. I put the film in my pocket, wondering how long I should leave it before sending copies in to his colleagues at Sirius, and I took the gay porn mags I’d bought and spread them liberally around the room. Finally, I went in the kitchen, where I found a banana, which I left on the floor just behind him.
The little fat man standing trussed and naked in front of me looked absolutely terrified, even though I couldn’t see his eyes. I slapped him lightly on the cheek, in kind of an affectionate way.
‘Try not to struggle,’ I said, in as soothing a voice as I could find. ‘It’ll just tighten things up. Your cleaner will come eventually. You’re just going to have a very, very long night. Oh, and in the morning you’re going to have quite a lot of explaining to do.’
He started to protest at that, but of course I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I walked out into the hall but turned and popped my head back into the living room.
‘I hope you’ve learned a lesson,’ I said. ‘Always, always, put the chain on.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The light on my machine was blinking at me. I’d got back from Kennington at around seven.
’Billy.’ It was a female voice, followed by a long gap. ‘This is Emma Bradley. I was just calling to, well just to chat really. I hope you don’t mind me calling, you did say I could. I’ll try you again. ’
’Billy, Nicky, just reminding you about tonight. Come any time. The earlier the better, but Shulpa’s in a feisty mood so we’ll probably be up late. See you later.’
There was no message from Sharon. I hadn’t spoken to her and I had begun to wonder if I would ever do so again. I sat back on my futon as the machine rewound itself, and looked round my flat. It seemed like the first time that I had been there in ages, just hanging out. The idea of Nicky’s party almost made my skin crawl; noise, people, idiots asking me the same stupid questions about my job. And the questions Nicky would ask. There was also the fact that I was in the middle of something, and I never feel right about going out with a big case on the go. The thought of it gnawed away at the almost decent mood that I was in; I could feel myself sinking down into a dark, dank lake, right in the very centre of myself.
But I knew I had to go, at least for a while. I let myself imagine a really strained and miserable evening but then I thought no, fuck it. I sat and thought how I could handle it. Drugs sprang to mind, but though Nicky was bound to be able to put his hands on some decent stuff, their outcome was unpredictable. Alcohol, the same. Then I had an idea that struck me as both odd and perfect at the same time and I reached for the phone.
‘Hello.’ Her voice was deep and relaxed.
‘It’s Billy.’
‘Oh, hi. How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’m just calling to apologize for the other day.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Sal laughed, ‘really. Actually, I think I should apologize too, running in on you like that.’
‘That’s OK, you were concerned for Des. Anyway, I just wondered what you were doing, how late you were staying tonight.’
‘Not much later than now, as it happens. It’s pretty quiet and Sylvester said he doesn’t mind closing up. Why, do you fancy a pint?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s a friend of mine’s birthday and he’s having a party in the bar he owns. The Old Ludensian, on St John Street?’
‘I know it! Pete goes there. You both helped your friend out, is that right?’
She was talking about the time that my pal Pete from the gym and myself had ‘talked’ a cuckolded and very angry minor crim into letting Nicky keep his kneecaps.
‘That’s right. Anyway, do you fancy it?’
‘Sure.’
‘And how about supper first?’
‘At your place? Great. I’ve always wondered where tough Mr Rucker goes home to when he hangs up his gloves?’
I was going to settle for reheated chilli that night but I thought it was a bit of an insult so I nipped out onto the market, filling a couple of bags with chicken, sweet potatoes, polenta, plantains and coriander amongst the usual. I enjoyed the shopping, talking with the shy Afghan lady, and when I got back I cranked the Red Pony Suite and rolled my sleeves up. I put the chicken in to roast, on top of the sweet potatoes, lemons and some lime leaves, and I mashed the plantains with some polenta, mixing in some chopped fresh chillies, a little beer, the coriander leaves and an egg. I left that to settle and jumped in the shower and this time Sal waited until I was out of it before arriving. The buzzer went just as I was pulling on a tee shirt.
When Sal reached the top of the stairs I told her it was good to see her and we kissed hello. It felt a little awkward; I’d never kissed my boxing coach before. Sal followed me into the flat and stood, taking a look around.
‘Nice place. Very minimal.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Some people go on about Feng Shui but I’ve got another method. Laziness.’
‘Whatever works. Great smell too, by the way?
‘Thanks,’ I said.
Sal handed me a bottle of wine, which I was almost astonished to see was a Montus ‘85. She saw my face and smiled.
‘It was my husband,’ she told me, following me into the kitchen. ‘He was into wine in a big way. He invested in the stuff but he couldn’t half drink it. I’ve heard you banging on too so I thought I’d dig out something decent. This all right?’
‘It’s more than more than all right.’
‘Well, good,’ Sal said.
I asked Sal to choose some music and she put on Oscar Peterson’s versions of Bach, a CD that had been Luke’s, while I fried up the sticky mixture I’d made. The Madiran deserved decanting, which I did, and it was unbelievable. The plantain fritters weren’t bad either, going well with the chicken. We had a green salad and I dug out some goat’s cheese that I’d picked up at the Neal’s Yard store near Borough Market, when I’d been on my travels over the last few days. I put some coffee on the stove and Sal and I both munched away at cantucinni biscuits. Sal told me that my cooking was just as good as my boxing, but I didn’t know whether this was a compliment.
‘I don’t often find myself flat on my arse in the kitchen,’ I said.
The conversation was easy and interesting and the evening turned out exactly as I’d hoped. I tried to keep my mind off Lee Finch and Lucy Bradley but every once in a while I could feel them hovering at the edge of my consciousness. They would have come a lot closer if I was with someone I didn’t care for, but Sal had an ironic sense of humour and a rich laugh that sat close to the surface, and even though we’d never been alone like this before the time went by and I never felt even slightly uneasy. We joked about some of the people at the gym and then spoke about fighters, the ones who inspired us. After kicking round various names we had to agree that in the end it all came back to Ali.
‘People forget,’ Sal said, ‘when they talk about all the important stuff he did, the race stuff and throwing his medal in the river. They forget just what a simply amazing fighter the man could be.’
Sal talked about the fighters she’d seen when her husband was alive, the people she’d met. They included a very old and frail Billy Wells, whom her father had actually seen box as a boy. She told me about being ringside at the Nigel Benn—Gerald McLellan fight, what an amazing night it had been, until it all went wrong and McLellan ended up fighting a second battle, this time for his life.
‘You could tell as soon as he took the count,’ she told me. ‘Just sitting on his heels. You could tell what was wrong. One man shouldn’t have that much courage. It took him way past what his body could stand, it made him deaf to what his body was telling him. If there’s one thing I’d tell any boxer, it’s try your best but know whe
n you’re beat. Anything more, it just can’t be worth it.’
She told me that the look on Benn’s face, after what was in reality an amazing victory, was one of the most terrible things she had ever seen.
At ten thirty I excused myself, telling Sal I was just going to have a quick shave.
‘Don’t bother,’ she said, ‘it suits you.’
I took her advice but did decide to put a shirt on and change out of my Levi’s. I also used the phone to call the police, telling them I was a neighbour who’d seen something strange through the window of the house next door in Kennington. I didn’t want the little shit strangling himself to death trying to get out of the position I’d left him in. When I came back into the kitchen Sal was halfway through the washing up. After dragging her forcefully from the sink we caught a cab on Rosebery Ave and rode down to Nicky’s, making the journey in less than five minutes. She insisted on paying for it. The door was open and we pushed our way through the mêlée to the area at the back that Nicky reserves for parties. Once we’d made it along the length of the bar on the left-hand side we were met by a very tall, Asian beauty with luxuriant, jet-black hair, in a red sheath dress, which looked like Mr Valentino had spray-painted it on her himself. I told her who I was and she broke into a wide smile, holding out five long red talons for me to negotiate. I found her hand, shook it, and introduced her to Sally.
Shulpa told me that Nicky often mentioned me, and that she was very intrigued, never having met a private detective before. She began to ask me exactly what I did, not taking a whole lot of notice of my friend, when Nicky appeared at her elbow.
‘Leave him alone,’ he said. ‘He’s taken.’
Shulpa screwed her nose up at Nicky, smiled, and said she’d see us later, before disappearing into the crowd, which was largely made up of middle-aged men still in their work suits, their ties pulled open like loosened nooses. I handed Nicky the two bottles of Ridge I’d brought along and asked him how he was.
Hold Back the Night Page 22