PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1)

by JOHN YORVIK

  Michael began to invite Dani out on Sundays to take landscape shots. He would pick her up in his car and drive them to local beauty spots. Dani used their meetings to get as much photographic experience and advice as she could. What she didn’t know was that Michael had started to tell his friends that they were having an affair. He’d even confessed it to his therapist. Of course, an affair with Michael was the furthest thing from Dani’s thoughts.

  One day, Michael told Dani that he’d organised a photography field trip to a remote part of the southern Welsh peninsula. They would be joining a group of students with the aim of workshopping darkroom development techniques. They would stay overnight in a farmhouse. Of course, when Dani and Michael got to the farmhouse there was no-one else there. Michael placated Dani with the possibility that the others had had car trouble, but Dani was already beginning to suspect the worst. After dinner as they sat by candlelight in the cottage, miles away from the nearest village, Michael made his play. Grabbing Dani’s hand he asked her what they were going to do about ‘us’ and that he knew he should tell his wife but that it was hard what with the kids. Dani pushed his hand away and told him he was crazy: there was no ‘us’. She told him that he’d had too much to drink and that they’d talk about it in the morning. With that she went to bed, only to be woken by Michael, drunk out of his mind, accusing her of being a tease and violently ripping the bed clothes off the bed. In her fear Dani grabbed the bedside lamp, which had a ceramic base, and smashed it into Michael’s head. Swaying but apparently not badly hurt, Michael steadied himself and without uttering another word left the room.

  Dani lay awake most of the night frightened that Michael would return, but as daylight flooded the nearby moor, she drifted off to sleep. When she awoke, she got dressed, packed her bag and went downstairs where she discovered Michael sitting on an old wooden chair, his upper body sprawled across the kitchen table. She walked around the table to make sure he was asleep and noticed his eyes were open. He was dead.

  Dani found herself accused of Michael’s murder and was given a life sentence. She won an appeal two years into her sentence. The fact she was still a virgin at the time of her arrest had destroyed the prosecution’s scenario that she’d been having an affair with Michael and had killed him because he refused to leave his wife. As so often happens, this evidence was buried during the original trial. Due to her nervous disposition, Dani was put on tranquillisers from the time of her arrest until years after her release.

  She’d met Erika and Pippa, the two shaven-headed women upstairs, when she was in prison. They’d also killed men in self-defence. Seeing a vulnerable person in Dani, they took her under their wing. And when they were freed and had established a refuge, they’d encouraged Dani to come to London and get back into photography. Dani’s mother had died soon after her release, so she’d jumped at the chance of starting her life again, albeit with a new-model family in Hackney.

  With the support of her two ‘guardians’, she’d finally been able to tear up her prescription and go cold turkey. She regressed slowly into the hypersensitive teen obsessed with photography that had existed before Michael. The one that had somehow survived underneath the layers of drugs and institutionalising.

  “But why the shaven heads and big clothes?” I asked, after a long period of silence following the end of her story.

  “Why did you turn up to the park today in sunglasses, a baseball cap and a hoodie?” she replied with a smile on her lips and tears in her eyes. She poured herself a glass of wine and downed it in one. Then poured herself another. This one she sipped slowly.

  “So you believe I didn’t do it?” I asked.

  “I believe you. And you can trust me. We’ll lie low together until it all blows over,” she said as if cheered by the prospect of spending weeks together in this gloomy, mildewed flat.

  We sat on the sofa side by side drinking, smoking and talking, each with an earphone in one ear and the Walkman between us. My mind slushing around in a pool of barbiturates.

  Dani was soon asleep leaning against my ribs. I was uncomfortable, so I got up and lay her down on the sofa. I fetched a blanket and threw it over her. Then I got undressed and got into bed between two blankets. At first, despite the painkillers and wine, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing. I thought about the horror of false memory syndrome. Surely false memories would never seem as real as actual memories. They could be identified by their factual inconsistencies, their lack of detail, their inauthentic taste and smell. There was always a way out of the labyrinth if you could take control of your mind and distinguish truth from fiction.

  * * *

  The next morning Dani went to my flat and filled up a holdall with clothes, files and books. She left a note and the key for Kate from the flat opposite to feed the cat. Then she went to the office to collect some projects from Brent. She told him I had glandular fever and would be working away from the office for a few weeks. ‘Why did you do that?’ I was about to ask, thinking about the widely circulated photofit and the possibility of Brent and the rest of the staff putting two and two together. But then I caught myself: she had to tell them something. An unexplained disappearance would be more suspicious. Anyway, Brent was discreet, I reassured myself. With his past track record of persecution and arrests while investigating politicians, he would always seek an explanation from me before going to the police. The other two FP journalists, however, were a risk I’d have to live with.

  “Brent thinks your illness is delayed grief,” said Dani, no doubt reacting to my worried expression. “He said you could take as long as you needed.”

  “Delayed grief?” I muttered, as I pulled out a cigarette and lit up. But before Dani could respond, I got up, walked into the kitchen and filled up the kettle.

  After a ten-minute chat over a cup of tea, Dani headed back to work. The rest of the afternoon I sat and jotted down everything I remembered about the previous four days. Getting to Natasha’s building, the raptors hanging around outside must have clocked me well enough to give the police a description. The numbers dialled on Natasha’s phone would have put them in touch with the friends she’d gone for a drink with. They would have verified the description. From the friends, the police could piece together our night out. In the second pub we went to, people would have remembered how drunk we’d been. In particular, the men laughing at us as we left the bar. Short of another lead, I would fit the bill as far as the police were concerned: I was a single man, I drank a lot, I had scratches on my face and a bruised hand, I had no alibi and my DNA was all over her flat.

  While making notes I was interrupted by a knock on the door. I looked through the front window and saw someone walking away. I opened the door. On the ground was a tray bearing a pot covered with a plate. Beside it was a bread roll. I went out and picked up the tray. Before going back in the flat, I looked up to the window above and saw a face quickly disappear behind a curtain.

  After eating, I decided to get on with some work for Brent. I unzipped the holdall Dani had brought from my flat and found some post at the very top. I picked up a large brown envelope. It looked like the one that had been pushed under the door on Sunday morning. I tore it open and pulled out 25 or so photos. Looking at the top of the pile there was a photo of the front door of a flat in a council block. I thought it must be yet another urban-degradation-as-beauty photo exhibition and searched for the accompanying press release highlighting how the artist is able to bring out the inner radiance of social deprivation. Expecting the following photos to be of fat, badly dressed people eating eggs and beans in a small kitchen, I turned over the next one to see the door open and the hallway. The next was further into the flat. The place was in disarray, smashed glass, papers everywhere. The next was in a dark corridor, a hand print clearly marked on the wall. The next was the bathroom door, broken in two, hanging off its hinges. The next were in the bathroom, swastikas were painted on the mirror in lipstick and nail varnish, and scratched into the glass, and the enamel
of the bath. The shower curtain was on the floor. The next was Natasha lying in bed, her dead-doll eyes staring eerily into the camera lens and back at me.

  Chapter Five

  No blood, I thought, as the overground train rattled slowly between drab cement walls and ugly tower blocks. It was a bleak afternoon, spring had retreated into the shadows. Too dull for sunglasses, I had Dani’s blue beanie hat pulled down to my brow to hide the scratches. As the train beat out its slow syncopated rhythm, I thought about Dani and her own story of murder and injustice. I’d had to leave her as I wanted to put some thinking distance between me and her. I also had the impression that something very sinister was afoot and in that case, the idea of not involving Dani for the time being was decidedly noble. But the truth was I wasn’t sure who could be trusted. Although I believed her prison story, Dani had a tendency to stretch the truth in order to emphasise the point she was trying to make. She had a powerful imagination which she could switch on and off at a moment’s notice. By leaving, I was protecting her and protecting myself. The only thing I knew for sure was that someone was at the murder scene before the police and had taken photos of Natasha’s flat and dead body. And that particular someone knew where I lived and knew I was connected. The only consolation was that there had been no blood at the scene, meaning that the horrific flashbacks I had outside Hampstead Underground were false.

  I looked up to see a child staring at me from the seat opposite. I absent-mindedly returned the little boy’s stare until he shrank back and began to cry. His mother gave me a withering look. It seemed I was exuding miscreant from every pore. I shrugged despondently and picked up the holdall. I waited by the doors and got off at the next stop.

  From Camden Road station I headed south. A passenger plane was flying too low over the office blocks. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked upwards. When the plane lowered its landing gear and banked towards Gatwick, people lost interest and dispersed. Seeing their expressions, I had the fleeting sensation that suffering a major terrorist attack had perverse appeal among the citizenry. That London, this great city, had a death wish turned in on itself, willing planes and bombs to come tear down its towers and monuments. At least, I thought, selfishly, that would bump Natasha Rok’s murder off the front pages.

  I ducked into an Army & Navy store. I picked up a basket and started filling it with things I thought I might need: a rucksack, some trainers, shorts, sports socks, towel, a radio, shaving kit, plasters, some batteries and a Swiss Army knife. Next I went to a newsagent’s and bought a pay-as-you-go mobile. I made sure my face was concealed from the security camera pointing at the counter. Then I bought some energy bars, nuts and water from a health store.

  I reached King’s Cross station as night fell. Thieves, prostitutes and drunks were congregated beneath its arches. I sat on a bench next to a group of alcoholics drinking red wine from cartons. One of them approached me and asked me for a cigarette. His hands and face were black with grime. His teeth and eyes yellowed by nicotine and liver damage. I reached into my pocket, took three cigarettes from the packet and handed them to him. He thanked me then asked if I had any spare change. I shook my head and he walked away muttering something. It sounded like “But for the grace of God go you”.

  When he’d settled down again with his fellow drunks, sharing his spoils, I opened up the holdall, lifted out my notebooks and letters, and transferred a few items of clothing to the rucksack. I slid my hand to the bottom of the holdall to make sure the envelope was still there. Then I repacked it and zipped it up. I checked the weight of the rucksack. It wasn’t too heavy. I thought about wearing the trainers and leaving my shoes in the holdall, but decided against it.

  At the left luggage desk, a short South American woman in a white shirt and black cardigan was attending to a queue of customers, most of them tourists. While I waited I noticed how anonymous central London was: tourists served by immigrant workers. I doubted either group watched the local news or read the papers. Half of the drunks in King’s Cross were on the run from police in their home towns. Nobody would ever catch up with them. They came down to the capital, grew their facial hair and distorted their features with alcohol and grime. The perfect place to hide out, but arguably as dangerous and depressing as being in prison.

  I put the holdall into 24-hour storage. There was an extra daily charge if I picked it up late, up to a maximum of five days. I would be back to study the photos as soon as I found a place to stay. Meanwhile, carrying around such incriminating evidence was interfering with my thought processes.

  I left the station and headed along streets full of kebab shops, fast-food chains and takeaways until I found a cafe next to a taxi firm. I went in, ordered a cup of tea and sat away from the window. The seats were made of cheap plastic and the strip-lighting was oppressive, but it would do. I made myself as comfortable as possible. After a few minutes of reflection, I blew on the top of the tea and took a sip. The milk was off. I took it back to the counter and complained.

  “Off?” said the assistant, smiling. “Goodbye!”

  “No, the milk is off. Not me.” He looked confused.

  “Forget it. Just give me a coke,” I said. He handed it over. I paid him two pounds and went back to the table.

  Perfect, I thought. Here, I was anonymous. This guy was probably more scared of the police than I was. He didn’t speak more than twenty words of English. I dismantled the mobile phone and inserted the SIM card. I put it back together and switched it on. When it flashed up ‘Hello’, I typed in Marty’s number from my notebook and pressed call.

  * * *

  I got on a bus to Bethnal Green. I picked up a copy of that day’s Evening Standard from an empty seat, but I didn’t read it. I couldn’t trust myself not to freak out seeing my own name under the computer-generated face and the headline Pentonville Strangler. I got off at the Green and looked for a cheap hotel. The type that would have no native English speakers.

  There was a room at the Arcadian Guest House for 50 pounds a night, so I gave a false name and paid for two nights in advance. The Arcadian was the perfect hide out. It was staffed by foreigners and frequented by budget tourists. It had ten floors, a gym and a view over London, if you were staying high enough.

  The receptionist, a polite man with a thin moustache following the line of his upper lip, had asked for my passport, but I’d told him that I was English and didn’t need one. Then he’d asked for ID. I’d assured him it was illegal to ask for ID in England. He seemed happy about that and gave me the room pass with a shrug.

  I called Marty again. Nothing. Then I wrote a text message to Dani, but finally decided against sending it. I tried to settle down for the night on the single bed, but I was possessed by a terrible restlessness. I paced the small hotel room like a caged animal.

  * * *

  Running, running, but not getting anywhere, I focused on keeping my pace steady and my breathing in synch. My reflection in the window, painted in yellow and black, had none of my self-doubt or weariness. It worked away like a malevolent droid, mocking me with its effortless sprint.

  The gym was on the top floor of the hotel, a glass walled square built on to one half of the roof terrace. During the day it afforded panoramic views over London. At night it was a prism of self-reflection.

  I hacked for several minutes as I stood by the water fountain. A man in his early thirties gave me a knowing wink as he passed. He was the only other person there. He looked slightly Eastern, perhaps Turkish. I was sure I’d seen him walking through the foyer when I’d checked in. I felt for the square plaster to the left of my eye. It was still there. I dried my face carefully with a towel and sat at the rowing machine.

  I pulled on the handle then kicked back my legs. I repeated the action, again and again, until my heart was thumping and my lungs raw. I was beginning to understand why people did this to themselves after a day’s work. It felt righteous. Modern-day self-flagellation.

  Lying on my bed I was exhausted. I dr
ank a lot of water and ate the nuts and the energy bar. Then I drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  An electric whir. A white-bordered Polaroid is thrown onto a green felt table by an unknown dealer. Natasha naked in bed, beautiful, alabaster, smiling not dead, beckons me to join her. I lie beside her, brushing back her hair from her face, but the hair starts to come out in my hands. I try to conceal the fallen hair. “I’m cold,” she says, “hold me”. I hold her tight. “No, you’re crushing me!” she screams and begins to shout in Polish. I try to loosen my embrace only to find there’s no-one between my arms. I sigh and turn over and try to sleep, but then I notice on the other side of the bed someone is lying motionless, wrapped in a white sheet. I pull back the sheet to find Dani, naked, her eyes open, her body cold. She has a Polaroid camera in her hand. “Wake up, Dani!” I shout, shaking her. “Wake up!” In response her finger presses the red button and an electric whir sounds. The dealer throws another photo on top of the last. There is a telescope sight sweeping quickly from left to right. It finds me. I’m running along an Underground platform, a cut out of a photofit face fastened to my head. I’m swept up in a tide of Tube passengers. A stranger grabs me. I struggle to free myself. “Hello, Lishman,” I hear him say. “The next one goes to Pentonville.” “Smile,” says Natasha, holding the Polaroid camera. An electric whir...