Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson)

by Debbie Johnson

  ‘Did you know he had a granddaughter? Has two actually, but this was Sean’s girl. Eugene doted on her, decided she was going to be the exception to the rule and not go into the family business, like. So she was sent off to a posh private school, taught to speak proper and everything. Skiing holidays with her friends and their families, all dentists and doctors and barristers, not knowing where she came from. She ended up at the Institute, studying law – which is ironic isn’t it? Maybe she’d have ended up in the family business one way or another.’

  Yeah. She’d have saved them a fortune in legal bills if she’d qualified. Somehow I suspected this wasn’t going to end with photos of a smiling girl in a cap and gown, though.

  ‘Anyway, long story short, she’s dead. Accident. Just after she’d done her finals, and was due to graduate. Tripped down the stairs and broke her neck. They say it was quick, but who gives a fuck really? Still dead. Sean went ga-ga. His missus did a runner. Eugene did what comes natural – set out to slice someone’s bollocks off. That’s where Dodgy Bobby comes in.’

  ‘What? He sliced his bollocks off? And him, just a poor old cripple?’

  ‘Nah, Bobby’s bollocks are safe and sound. Not that I’ve seen them up close, I hasten to add – despite appearances, my sweet, I’m 100 per cent red-blooded male.’ He cupped his groin and gave it a little heft up for me. Ugh. I moved my hands in a wind-it-on gesture. Mum was so engrossed she’d stopped counting, but I wanted to get to the crux of the matter.

  ‘Turns out the girl – Geneva, would you believe? – had confided in her cousin, Theresa, that she’d been having a few problems with unwanted attention. Music to Eugene’s ears – someone he could beat the crap out of and send to that butcher’s shop in Kenny to have ground up and fed to the pigs. But then things got a bit weird – ’cause Geneva had told Theresa that her stalker was a frigging ghost. Now, Eugene knew about Dodgy Bobby’s rep, so he got him brought in. Combination of a kick up the arse from the heavies and the promise of mucho casho if he could get to the bottom of it. And Bobby really will have to tell you the rest – because he’s never spoken about it ever again. In fact, he’s barely been seen again. He’s lying low, and Casey still has a bloody big itch to scratch.’

  Quite a story. If any of it was true. And definitely something I was going to have to check out. At least dealing with the scum of the earth would be more familiar territory for me.

  ‘So how do I get to Bobby?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll text you his details later, love.’

  ‘No you won’t, because you don’t have my mobile number, and I have no intention of giving it to you. Just write it down on a bit of paper and bugger off with your new frock.’

  He pouted at me, but took the carbon copy receipt pad Mum handed to him. He scribbled and passed it back. I glanced at the address, making sure he hadn’t just drawn a picture of two ferrets making love or scrawled down his own vital statistics.

  ‘Now listen, love – not many people know where he is, and that’s the way he wants it. So keep it under your knickers, will you?’

  I nodded. It’d definitely be safe there.

  I looked down at the address. Great. Dodgy Bobby lived in one of the dodgiest parts of town – on what looked like the top floor of the tower block from hell. What were the odds the lifts weren’t working?

  Chapter 8

  Before I tackled Dodgy Bobby, I decided to go home and do some research.

  I needed to find out more about the history of the building Joy lived in, and I needed to bully one of my former police colleagues into handing over the background information on the case. Plus, I now had to find out more about the sad demise of Geneva Casey, and why I hadn’t heard about it before. It should have been big news, a Casey popping her clogs. Or probably her Jimmy Choos, given the amount of dosh the Caseys had hidden under their collective mattress.

  I started with the straightforward approach – the Institute website, flicking through the halls of residence until I found Hart House, Joy’s last known abode. Once I saw the photo I knew exactly where it was – on the southern edge of town, set in a scrap of grass that had probably once been sumptuous parkland before the city caught up with it. It more than likely had a deer park or something, back in the day, but land values now were too steep to indulge in such frivolities. It was described on the page as being ‘historic’ – which in my mind now meant ‘ghost-infested’, thanks to Father Dan. I was practising calling him Father in my mind so I could stop fancying him – my mum was right, really, I should knock it on the head, especially as I was going to be working with him.

  We’d arranged that I’d come back to Liverpool to start off the investigation, while he tied up a few loose ends at home in the Lake District. I don’t know what he meant by loose ends – maybe he had a possessed sheep to exorcise.

  He wouldn’t like the look of Hart House, that’s for sure. I wasn’t sure I liked the look of it either, and it definitely wasn’t a Hall I remembered from my time at the Institute. Then again I was there for less than a year and spent much of that time in an alcoholic stupor, so I’m probably not the world’s best witness.

  The website didn’t give much detail about exactly how historic its history was, and instead focused on its intercom security device, 24-hour concierge and its forty-six en-suite rooms, all with individual spyholes in the doors. To put the mind of the worried parent at rest, I suppose.

  The building probably belonged to the Institute, bequeathed by some rich merchant family from days of yore. But it was worth a double check, so I logged on to the Land Registry site and typed in the details – for a few quid you can download all kinds of juicy information about absolutely any property in the country. Amazing, isn’t it? Annoyingly, though, I’d forgotten that even in the electronic age, it was closed to inquiries on Sundays. And I couldn’t harangue anyone from the Institute itself for the same reason – bloody lightweights.

  I called Corky Corcoran to start my illegal harassment of the police service, but got put straight through to voicemail. I left a threatening message instructing him to call me back straight away or say goodbye to his chances of fathering any more children. Although as he already has four under the age of six, I’m not sure if that wasn’t less of a threat and more of a promise. I also fired off an e-mail to Mr and Mrs Middlemas, informing them that I was progressing my research. Not how, or who with, but enough to reassure them I hadn’t banked the cheque then gone on a week-long booze cruise to the Balearics. Which was actually looking more enticing by the moment.

  Bugger, I thought, slouching back onto the couch. There really was nothing else left to try for the time being. Eagle-eyed private eyes and market traders seemed to be the only people working.

  I stood up, and grabbed my jacket. I might as well visit Dodgy Bobby – in my experience, minor league crims and wasters had little respect for the Lord’s Day. Or anybody else’s, as a matter of fact.

  By the time I’d parked up by Thelwall Towers, fitted the wheel lock and clicked on the car alarm – none of which would do any good at all if someone took a shine to it – it was lashing it down. None of that ‘fine drizzle that gets you really wet’ rubbish – a complete deluge that gets you even wetter.

  I ran for the entrance to the tower block. There was an old intercom system next to the front door, where visitors could press the buzzers next to buttons. Only insane people ever left their buzzers on in places like this, or they’d get the local youth passing on their regards 24/7. Anyway, I could tell it wasn’t working from the fact there were wires hanging out of it, and the heavy metal and glass door into the building was propped open with an empty Strongbow can.

  I pulled it open, striding in out of the rain as confidently as I could. A couple of feral kids were loitering in the lobby, and I could smell spray can in the air. On a school night as well. I eyeballed them with my best bobby look. They flicked me the Vs, showing me how terrified they were, and went back to vandalising the raw brick wall.

&nbs
p; I didn’t want to touch the lift call button, it was so disgustingly coated in greasy smears of God knows what. I pulled a face and poked it with the tip of my nail. I was going to have to start carrying bacterial spray in my pocket.

  ‘’S not werkin’,’ one of them piped up in his best can’t-talk-right accent, ‘someone fucked it up.’ Yeah, and I wonder who? They looked too smug for it to have been anybody else. Oh well. It would have been fragrant with eau de piss anyway, and I didn’t have much need for a used needle. I took the long way.

  The downside was twelve floors of litter-strewn stairs, stone silent apart from the disjointed buzz of flickering neon lighting. Not a sign of another human being. A bit spooky, truth be told. And disgusting – there was crap in one of the corners as I turned up the eighth storey. I hoped it came from a dog.

  The upside was nobody followed me, mugged me, or tagged me with a spray can to turn me into a live art installation. And I was pretty much dried out by the time I got to the twelfth, and found the number Clive had given me.

  I knocked, hard, on the wood of the door. It was painted a puke green, with a small square panel at the top made out of smoky reinforced glass. No lights, no sounds, no answer, nothing. I walked over to the flat opposite, with its identical door, and pushed open the letter box. It was stuffed with old junk mail and a free weekly paper that had been delivered three months before. I suspected all the flats would be the same. Nobody lived in this block – they’d probably all been moved out into the much nicer new estate that’d been built half a mile, and a whole world away.

  All except one. The letter box of Dodgy Bobby’s place was free of clutter, and when I wiggled my fingers through it, they felt warm air circulating. If it was uninhabited, it would have been cold. Damp. Frigid. I could see tiny curtains either side of the glass panel, and I managed to run my fingers over them when I twisted my hand up at a socket-popping angle. No dust.

  He was in there. And he had known I was coming early enough to pretend otherwise.

  ‘Bobby!’ I yelled through the letter box, ‘come out now or I’m fetching Eugene! I’ve got my mobile here, and if you don’t talk to me, I’ll call him – he’ll send the lads round and kick this bloody door down!’

  I might not be psychic, but I do have good hearing. There was a scuffle and a rattle from inside, and eventually the door edged open an inch. I shoved it as hard as I could, and Dodgy Bobby flew backwards, hitting the woodchip wall with a thump.

  ‘What do you want? What does bloody Eugene want? I’ve done everything I can!’ he said, his voice an anguished, nasal whine that seeped out of his nostrils and the tiny slit in his thin, clamped lips. It looked like he was in a room full of toxic gas and was trying to keep his mouth closed when he spoke.

  I strode into the living room. Tiny. A beige shagpile decorated with ash, a velour sofa that looked like it was a match for my mum’s shabby market armchair. Three bar electric fire, switched off but the elements still shining orange. A portable black and white telly, with an aerial made out of a wire coat hanger. A copy of the Racing Post and an enormous fish tank, stuffed completely full with cigarette butts. It stank to high heaven.

  The only redeeming feature of the whole place was the view – a magnificent vista of the city at night, the glitzy shopping malls and the cathedrals and the beacon of St John’s tower, sticking like an antenna 400 feet into the air.

  I turned to stare at Bobby. He looked pretty dodgy, that was for sure. A small man, narrow shoulders hunched in on themselves, trying to appear even smaller. His face was long and thin, with an enormous bulbous nose taking pride of place.

  ‘Go on then, love,’ he said, sticking his hands into the front pockets of his baggy beige cardigan, ‘do yer worst. What does he want? ’Cause I’m not going back to that place, I don’t give a fuck what he threatens me with.’

  I could see his hands shaking inside the pockets, and his left eye was twitching uncontrollably. Bobby had probably spent much of his life in fear of one kind or another, but this time he was obviously terrified.

  ‘I lied. I’m not from Eugene,’ I said.

  He looked relieved, and plonked himself down on the sagging sofa.

  ‘Thought not,’ he said, ‘you look more like a bizzy to me. That right?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I replied, not really wanting to give away more than was strictly necessary. I looked round for somewhere to sit. There was no way I was getting on that filthy, sagging couch – my bum would hit the floor and I’d never make it up again without a crane. I grabbed a hard-backed kitchen chair, and pulled it close enough so I could stare him down and scare him, but far enough that there was no danger of me accidentally touching him.

  ‘I was sent here by Mystic Melissa – Clive. He’s a friend of mine.’ That was stretching a point, but it clearly helped Bobby relax. He even cracked his lips open a quarter of an inch in a yellow-toothed smile.

  ‘He thought you might be able to help me with something.’

  ‘Yeah? Happy to help, queen. But what’s it worth to me? Quick blow job?’

  He leered up at me, and it suddenly seemed like a very sensible idea to beat the crap out of him. But not yet – I had work to do.

  ‘In your dreams, Bobby. Put that thing anywhere near me and I’ll neuter you – a service to humanity. But if you help me out, I won’t kick your arse, and I’ll make it worth your time.’

  I pulled out the twenty quid note I’d ready prepared in my pocket. He snatched it out of my hand with remarkable speed – it was like one of those frogs scooping up a fly with their tongue at ninety miles an hour. Yuk. He rolled the note up, and popped it behind his left ear. The right one was already occupied with a ciggie.

  ‘Tell me about Geneva Casey,’ I said, and saw his face scrumple back up in fear.

  ‘Don’t know nobody by that name,’ he muttered, holding his knees steady with his palms.

  I shook my head, and replied: ‘Bobby, that makes me sad. I’ve been straight with you – mostly. I’ve given you some of my hard-earned cash. Now I expect something in return. I’m sure you wouldn’t want any problems with the law, would you, nice fella like yourself?’

  ‘Cunt,’ he hissed, without opening his lips at all. I leaned forward and smacked his forehead with the heel of my palm, hard enough to make his skull wobble like it was on a spring.

  ‘Don’t swear at me, you fucking bastard,’ I said. Possibly somewhat hypocritically.

  Bobby shook the slap away, his eyes watery, and stared off at the fish tank.

  ‘Not Casey,’ he said eventually. ‘Geneva Connelly. Stuck with her mum’s name for, you know, privacy reasons.’

  Ah. That made more sense – it explained why I hadn’t heard anything. If the Caseys had kept their profile low when it came to the prodigal granddaughter, and let the mother deal with it all, the connection might not have been made. They’d have made her lie, talk to the police as though she was a single parent so the family name didn’t get dragged through the mud. Heaven forbid the Caseys get associated with anything as shady as higher education.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, softening my tone. ‘I won’t hurt you, Bobby – and if you’re hiding from the Caseys, I won’t tell them where you are. I know something happened to Geneva, something bad, and I’m trying to stop it happening to anyone else. At the moment I know nothing – so enlighten me.’

  He looked back at me with narrowed eyes, which made him look even more like a rat. ‘What do you mean, you know nothing? There’d be a file, wouldn’t there?’ I met his gaze steadily.

  ‘Oh. You’re not with the pigs at all, are you?’

  ‘Never said I was, Bobby. Bit disappointing you didn’t figure that out, considering you’re supposed to be this psychic superstar. Now tell me all about it and I might even have another twenty for you. I can see you’ve not been able to get out and work much.’

  ‘Nah. It’s me bad back,’ he said, stroking his spine as though it had suddenly started aching. Yeah, right.

  ‘Okay,�
� he sighed,’ but you’ve got to promise me you won’t tell them where I am. This place only has leccy for the next few weeks so I’ll be moving on anyway. Been all right here – no bloody people disturbing my peace.’

  ‘I swear, Bobby – if anyone finds out about this place, it won’t be from me. And you know Clive wouldn’t have passed on your details if you couldn’t trust me.’

  ‘’Spose so,’ he said, sniffing up a nose full of stray snot.

  ‘Well, I got the call out from Wigwam. Do you know him?’

  I nodded. Of course I knew him. Wigwam was the stuff of legend in Liverpool. Eugene Casey’s number one enforcer; black father, white mother, probably Peter Sutcliffe as an uncle. To be found on his nights off doing a stand-up routine at the basement comedy club down Churchill Street. I kid you not – a thug with a sense of humour. And believe me, everyone laughed. They didn’t dare not to.

  ‘He made me one of them offers you can’t refuse – get every bone in me body broke, or earn a couple of hundred knicker. I might not be winning Mastermind any time soon, but I’m not thick, am I? I took the money, and got driven for a meeting with Eugene at his office. He was fucked up, love… what’s your name, anyway?’

  ‘Jayne McCartney,’ I said. Bobby didn’t ask the usual question about my family connection to Sir Paul. I suppose he already knew the answer.

  ‘His boy, Sean, was there. Couldn’t speak. The missus was in the corner, looked like she was drugged up to the eyeballs, chain-smoking and hitting the vodka as well. Eugene was crying, not even trying to hide it. It was a bad scene, queen, I tell you.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know what Clive told you about me. Don’t know the truth of it myself, or what the name is for what I can do. Got called plenty of names in my time, none I’d want to see on me gravestone. But I’ve always been able to sense things. I can look at someone and know what they’re thinking – not all the time, and not on demand, but just a flash, here and there? And especially when it relates to me, if they’re thinking of finding me or doing something to me. I suppose that comes from the early days, when I was a nipper. Life wasn’t exactly a party for me back then.’