by JOHN YORVIK
“I had no relationship with Natasha Rokitzky,” I interjected. Was this the best they could do? Still if I was the only suspect...
“You seem angry at the suggestion. Is there something about the idea of a relationship with Miss Rokitzky that upsets you? Is it because she was Jewish?”
“I’m not angry,” I said in the direction of the microphone. “For the record, I had no relationship with Miss Rokitzky, sexual or otherwise. And I had no idea of her religious upbringing.”
“On Thursday April 4th, you were seen in the company of Miss Rokitzky at the AmBar pub in Camden.”
“Well,” said Finch, after two minutes of silence during which time it had sunk in that they definitely had no witnesses placing me at the crime scene at the time of the murder, otherwise we would be talking about Natasha’s flat and Saturday when she was actually murdered. And I was never in the AmBar with Natasha Rok. Marty was careful to manoeuvre us outside.
So what did they have? They hadn’t found my fingerprints in Natasha’s flat. The raptors had seen me enter the building with Natasha on that Thursday, but they were drunk and wouldn’t make credible witnesses. There was of course the small matter of my black out after the Old Street fight. The truth is I had no idea where I was at the time of Natasha’s murder. But neither it seemed did the police.
“Well?” said Finch again.
“I didn’t hear a question.”
“Were you with Natasha Rokitzky in the AmBar?”
“No.”
“We have witnesses that say you were.”
“Impossible. Can I ask a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“At what time did you get the call about Natasha Rokitzky’s murder?”
“That’s police business.”
“When did you get the call to say I was in the Arcadian today? Was that an anonymous tip off?”
“That’s also police business. Look, Lishman, we have a murdered Polish girl and we have you popping up all over the place. Sooner or later we’re going to pin you down.”
He was right. If they could build enough circumstantial evidence, then I could be convicted in the absence of any other suspect. Just then, Amy’s words came back to me spoken in her cold cut-glass voice: Two suspects are better than one.
In the next minute, as I brooded, my lifetime with Marty flashed before my eyes in a series of colour Polaroids being thrown on to a table. Starting at school and culminating in him walking across the chequered floor of the AmBar and mouthing, ‘It’s your move’.
It’s my move, I said to myself.
“I’m sorry, DI Finch. But I haven’t been quite honest about everything.”
Finch thrust the packet of cigarettes in front of me again. It was Pavlovian reinforcement. I stubbed out the fag end of the last and took a new one.
“Go on,” Finch said, trying to contain his excitement.
“There’s something you should know about that photofit picture. It does look like me, but I’m not the only person it looks like.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it could be anyone of my facial type and hair and eye colour. It could even be Martin Stewart.”
“He looks like you?”
I nodded.
“This is where I haven’t been honest. I knew Natasha Rok. She was a friend of Martin Stewart. In fact, much more than just a friend.”
The Judas kiss. It was detective lore that in the murder of a young woman, it was always the boyfriend or husband that did it.
Finch left the room. No doubt in search of a photo of Marty to compare with the photofit.
I had time to collect my thoughts. Somehow Marty had alerted the police to my presence in the Arcadian Guest House; revenge for meeting Amy? How he knew I was there, I didn’t know.
When Finch came back, it was with DS Mitchell. She had a map of Old Street and she asked me to circle the bar with a pen where we had the fight. I did. She left the room again.
“Could you describe your relationship with Martin Stewart?” said Finch.
“He’s my oldest friend.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“In Old Street after the attack. That was nine days ago.”
“And before that?”
“I saw him a couple of times briefly in Camden, when he was out with Natasha Rok. I also saw him at my mother’s funeral in March. Before that I hadn’t seen him for five years.”
“Why was that?”
“London. Life got in the way.”
“And you had a reunion with Martin Stewart at the funeral?”
“Exactly.”
“Would you describe Martin Stewart as a violent man?”
“He never goes out of his way to be violent, but if someone attacks him, he defends himself. He’s very handy. No-one ever gets one over on Marty. Not like me, I walk away from trouble if I can.”
“And what if Natasha Rokitzky ‘got one over on him’? What if she was cheating on him, would he react violently?”
“I’m not prepared to speculate on that. Besides, I thought I was the suspect.”
DS Mitchell returned to the room and whispered something in Finch’s ear. He looked disappointed.
“DS Mitchell has spoken to Danielle Yorath. It seems your story checks out. Whether she makes a credible alibi is another question altogether. In the meantime, your lawyer has secured your release. You’re free to go. But this isn’t over, Mr Lishman.”
“My lawyer?” That meant Dani got the text I sent from the hotel.
“The illustrious Miss Amelia Wetherall herself,” said Finch. “It was a surprise to us too, seeing that you didn’t make any phone calls. Maybe you have friends here at the station. So as I said, you are free to go. However, we will be wanting you to come back in and answer more questions, so we ask you not to leave town. And there is the matter of the death of a Polish man on the Victoria line, which Scotland Yard is looking into.”
I felt like a wildebeest evading a death pit, but receiving a spear in its side.
“Death of a Polish man? How is that connected to me?”
“It seems bystanders heard mention of the Pentonville Strangler. And the descriptions witnesses gave are consistent with your own description. There may be an identity parade.”
“Nothing to do with me.”
DS Mitchell whispered something else into Finch’s ear. Finch nodded and addressed me again.
“One other thing. When the officers were searching your flat in Chalk Farm they found this.” Finch delved into a black cloth bag and pulled out the gorilla mask.
I felt another spear tear into my side, but tried not to flinch on the outside. I took a deep breath as if to project impatience. And of course, if I hadn’t got rid of the photos, they would have found them too. And I would be going down for life thanks to Marty.
“And?” I said.
“How exactly did you come about it?” said Finch.
“It’s the strangest thing. It was sent to me. In a brown envelope.”
“When was this?”
“Just last week. Thursday.”
“Have you worn it?”
“I’ve tried it on. May I ask what all this is about?”
“Two armed robberies that took place Tuesday and Wednesday last week carried out by a man wearing an identical gorilla mask to this one.”
“I’m sure you can buy them in any pound store.”
“Well, as I said... don’t leave town, Lishman.”
* * *
As I put on my belt and laced up my shoes, I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time I’d be locked up in a police station. There was no sign of Amy, so I left the station. It was dark outside, but the air smelled good. I was free. That was why.
The first thing I did with my newfound freedom was travel back to the Arcadian Guest House. As I rode the Underground it dawned on me that I was only free now because the police hadn’t found the Natasha death photos. The day before my arrest I’d hidden them inside a novel manuscript a fr
iend had given me to proofread. I glued two A4 pages back to back, inserted a photo and sealed them up. When I’d hidden all of the photos and the manuscript looked presentable, I’d mailed it to a major book publisher that was notorious for storing unsolicited manuscripts unopened in the gargantuan basements of their Westminster office. I figured that was as safe a place as any. And if push came to shove, and I needed to retrieve them, I knew someone who worked there. Someone who owed me a favour.
As I walked into the Arcadian, the receptionist looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Mistaken identity,” I explained, for want of an icebreaker.
I checked to make sure there was no-one around. Then I entered the reception by a door to the left of the counter and once inside, pulled down the shutter that hung over the reception desk. I found myself standing aggressively in front of the receptionist, who was backing himself slowly into a corner. I walked towards him until we were face to face. I picked up a large round paperweight that was on the desk and held it in my fist like a rock. I didn’t know what I was going to do next.
“What’s your name?”
“Davut.”
“So, Davut, who was it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I pushed a crystal vase full of roses onto the floor so that it smashed. Davut seemed to shrink with fear.
“I’m not fucking around, Davut. Tell me who the fuck it was!”
“I don’t know his name. He showed me your photo and gave me 100 pounds. He told me there’d be a reward if I gave him information.”
“Did he give you that package for me last week?”
Davut nodded.
“What did he look like?”
“He looked like you.”
“Give me his phone number.”
Davut reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out a white card with a number scrawled on it in black pen and proffered it with trembling hands. I took it and slid it into my pocket. I’d seen enough to know it was Marty’s writing, the crossed seven and the overlapping zeros. And it was the same number that had sent the message inviting me to the backroom bar.
Just then a burly man dressed as a security guard burst into the room. Davut must have pressed an emergency button.
Davut started ranting in Turkish, pointing to the broken vase. The guard came for me, but I held him at bay by brandishing the paperweight in my right hand. With my left, I pulled up the blinds, opening the reception to the public.
Thankfully there was a guest, a middle-aged businessman, standing there, waiting to check in.
“Call the police,” I yelled at him. “They’re trying to abduct me.”
The guest looked shocked, but didn’t react.
“Call the police,” I yelled again. “They’re going to kill me.”
“He’s crazy. He didn’t pay,” shouted Davut to the guest.
There was a fire alarm on the wall behind the guard who’d begun edging towards me again. I yelled at the top of my voice and made as if I was going to throw the paperweight at him. When I got close enough, I threw the paperweight at the alarm instead. The tinkling of glass was proceeded by a deafening bell.
In the confusion, I leapt onto the counter and rolled over to the other side, knocking the guest onto the floor as I fell. Apologising, I picked myself up and ran out of the hotel, the guard chasing behind me. But he was slow and it was dark. I ran for another five minutes flat out and, to make sure I’d lost him, I ducked into a Burger King and left through the fire escape into a back alley. I waited behind some bins for him to appear, but he never did. Finally a member of staff closed the fire doors and I walked back towards the main street. Making sure I was no longer being followed, I jumped on a red double-decker and headed back to Hackney Central.
* * *
“Lishman, Lishman, wake-up!”
“Eh?”
Dani was standing beside the sofa, proffering a cup of coffee. The TV was blaring in the background.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s the police. They’ve named Natasha’s killer. There’s a manhunt. Footage of police combing Bodmin Moor, that kind of thing.”
I sat up and took the coffee. I searched among the empty cans and bottles for a cigarette and found half of one stubbed out in the ashtray. I lit that and got a lung full of burnt tar on my first drag.
“They’re looking for Marty Stewart,” said Dani.
I fell onto my knees holding my throat. I couldn’t breathe. What was it? Tar from the cigarette? Or the words Marty Stewart and manhunt?
I’d had no choice. I’d had to play my way out of Pentonville, but there were consequences, such as a pang of guilt strong enough to floor a priest.
Dani handed me a glass of water she’d got from the kitchen tap and I drank it down. The rules had changed, I reminded myself. I had to get to grips with the new normal. I remembered what Amy had told me about Marty’s games: setting her up with a bunch of swingers when she was on ecstasy. His revenge for her infidelity. Marty was the Master Player. He deserved this. And I had to fight my own corner.
But what seemed so black and white one moment reverted to shades of grey the next. It was like a symbol in a French poem that refused to be pinned down. Every time you thought you had it, it slipped your grasp.
“Something weird went on at the crime scene,” I said to Dani by way of explanation for my apoplexy. “I don’t think I quite understand it yet.”
“It’s just everything’s catching up with you at once, but, don’t worry, the worst is over.”
“It’s not over. Not by a long shot.”
“Occam’s razor points to Marty killing Natasha Rok. It’s the simplest explanation. And the simplest explanation is most often true. It’s over.”
“Yes, it all points to Marty. And Marty stitched me up, so if it’s a choice between him and me... it’s him every time. But I can’t get my head round Marty being a murderer. I just can’t. Nor, for that matter, can I believe you killed someone.”
“Or that you sent a man to his death at Euston station,” Dani said with more than a hint of vitriol. “So where does that leave us?”
“Everyone’s capable of murder. And Occam’s razor might be a good starting point, but it’s also a cop out if used to stop you investigating. What we need is to test our hypothesis in light of further evidence.”
“And how do we do that?” said Dani.
“We look for Jack Lewis.”
“Who’s Jack Lewis?”
Chapter Eleven
Jack Lewis was a dead boxer. He wouldn’t be difficult to find. He’d stopped ducking and diving long ago. Now he was lying low. According to Amy, Jack Lewis was Marty’s father. And it was in looking for his father Marty had begun his descent into apparent insanity. To understand Marty, I would walk in his footsteps.
My father died before I was old enough to remember. Sometimes I thanked my stars he’d died at sea. As a child, it gave me solace to walk along a beach and feel he was near. But what did Marty have? Was there solace for him in a fight? Is that what brought him closer to old Jack Lewis?
Against the orders of DI Finch, I decided to go to Newcastle, where I imagined Marty had started his quest. Dani was very keen for me to change my look for the journey north, to throw any dogs off the scent. Based on the idea that I normally dressed in what she saw as dark, boring colours, she thought a bit of flamboyance would act as suitable camouflage. So this time my disguise was a 70s vintage suit Dani had found in a charity shop. It had grey pinstripes, wide lapels and a slight flare in the trousers. A dark orange shirt complemented the suit. To finish the look, I wore a belted rain mac. With Dani’s help, I had dyed my hair dark brown. The scratches were still showing as thin red lines above my eye, but putting a plaster on would only draw more attention to them. Checking in the mirror, I didn’t recognise myself. And I was glad, as I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to recognise me dressed like that. For Dani, it was mission accomplished.
&nb
sp; Leaving Hackney, there was no sign of anyone trailing me. I had a feeling the police had scared off the Polish gang. Or maybe, they too were now chasing Marty through Bodmin Moor. Dani said no Polish gang would dare come into Hackney and start throwing their weight about as they’d attract too much unwanted attention from East London drug gangs. But what about the police? They were sure to have someone keeping an eye on me, that was, if they could spare the manpower. Still, I’d taken every precaution to ensure I wasn’t tailed at King’s Cross. I’d even sat on the wrong train for ten minutes and got off just as it was leaving. And it was clear, no-one was following me.
I got off the train at Newcastle Central at two o’clock. Outside the station’s great sandstone archways, I lit a cigarette and leant against the wall, taking in the familiar sight of Pink Lane, home to the legendary Jazz Cafe. From the station, Pink Lane wound upwards towards the city’s great parade of music and book shops and second-hand clothes stores, a favourite haunt of the independently minded.
Just then a group of orange-skinned girls in summer tops and skirts at hip length came out of a pub on the corner, a blast of computer techno could be heard before the door swung itself shut. I sighed. I felt out of place and overdressed in my mac and heavy shoes.
Stubbing out the cigarette on the wall, I hailed a cab and got in. As we sat at the lights, I saw the billboard of the Evening Chronicle: Newcastle man wanted for Pentonville murders.
They always liked to give the national news some local flavour. I wondered if Marty would be added to the pantheon of local celebrities in Monument metro station, where there was a cartoon fresco showing the likes of Sting, Jimmy Nail and Paul Gascoigne all in the same train carriage. I knew there was one person who wouldn’t appreciate Marty’s growing notoriety. I needed to ask Marty’s mother some questions. I’d tracked her down to sheltered accommodation overlooking the Town Moor, a large area of fields inside the city where cows and sheep grazed oblivious to the looming dark cityscape.
I left the taxi on the Great North Road and walked on a muddy path across the Moor. It started raining heavily, so I ran the last twenty yards to the residence and followed the signs to the reception. Inside there was a long bench and some threadbare armchairs. A large institutional steel desk stood in the centre of the room. Behind the counter, the duty nurse was a middle-aged man with a florid face, dressed in a green tunic and a green fleece.