Marco Kostin will resume giving evidence today. I can picture him in the witness box with hyper-real clarity, every tremor and blink and turn of his head. The cross-examination is still to come and three barristers will be queuing up to pick holes in his story.
The door opens. A tangle-footed teenager comes in wearing cycling gear. Multicoloured. A courier. He talks to a Romanian waitress. Kisses her lips. Young love.
‘I got a strange feeling about yesterday,’ says Ruiz.
‘Which bit of yesterday are we talking about?’
‘When I was following the freak with the tattoos, I stayed well behind him. I wanted to make sure he didn’t know he was being tailed. When he dropped off the pavement princess. When he picked her up. When he went to the shithole hotel. I stayed out of sight.’
‘What’s so strange about that?’
‘It’s probably nothing.’ Ruiz shrugs. ‘I just got an impression that maybe he knew I was there. Once or twice he seemed to slow down, like he didn’t want the lights to change and for me to miss them.’
‘He knew he was being followed?’
‘That’s what it seemed like.’ Ruiz pushes his plate away. ‘Maybe we should check out his gaff before we talk to Cray. We could take a run over to the hotel; have ourselves a sticky.’
‘What about the trial?’
‘It’s not going to end today.’
On the street outside, Ruiz drops a coin into a busker’s hat and keeps walking, crossing the pedestrian precinct. We pull out of the underground car park, passing over the floating harbour to Temple Circus where we turn north along Temple Way. Taking the exit at Old Market Street, we pass close by Trinity Road Police Station on our way to Easton.
Stapleton Road has notices stuck to power poles warning against kerb crawling and drug dealing. It’s early and the crack whores and street dealers are still in their coffins. We park in Belmont Street around the corner from the mosque. A Muslim woman with letterbox eyes waddles past us, pushing a pram. She could be seventeen or seventy-five.
The Royal Hotel is a crumbling three-storey building with metal bars on the lower windows. An old black man sits in the sunshine on the front steps. His hands are dotted with liver spots and they shake slightly, not with Parkinson’s but some kind of palsy. He’s reading a newspaper, holding it at arm’s length. An unwrapped sandwich rests half-eaten on a brown paper bag.
‘Morning,’ says Ruiz, ‘beautiful day.’
The cleaner blinks and shields his eyes with a hand. ‘You right about dat, mon.’
‘You taking a break?’
‘Been cleanin’ since first ting.’
Ruiz sits on the steps. ‘I’m Vincent and this is Joe.’
The old man nods. ‘Dey call me Clive.’
‘Like Clive Lloyd.’
‘Well, he from Guyana and I’m from Jamaica, but dat’s close enough.’ His chuckle sounds like he’s playing a bassoon.
Folding his newspaper casually, he takes another mouthful of his sandwich, wondering why two white men are interested in talking to a hotel cleaner when most people treat him like he’s invisible.
Ruiz raises his face to the sun and closes his eyes. ‘I’m a former police officer, Clive, and we’re looking for a man with dark hair, slicked back, and tattoos on his face like he’s crying black tears.’
The old cleaner reacts as though he’s been scalded. He gets up from the steps and shakes his head so that his thin frame quivers.
‘Don’ talk to me about dis biznezz.’
‘Why not?’
‘The Lord gonna call his chillun home before dat man bring anyting good to dis world.’
‘Is he staying here?’
‘He’s got himself a room. Don’ know if he sleeps in it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’ see him much. I mind my own biznezz.’
‘But you clean his room?’
Clive shakes his head. ‘He don’ want no cleaning. He puts a sign on his door says, no cleaning. Suits me. Dem pay me by de hour not de room.’
The cleaner taps the newspaper against his thigh. ‘Well, I better be gettin’ back to work.’
‘The man with the tattoos - do you know his name?’
‘No, mon.’
‘You ever talk to him?’
Clive shakes his head, his forehead full of creases. ‘Mon like that, don’ wanna talk to someone like me. He don’ like my colour.’
‘What gave you that impression?’
‘Couple of black kids were breaking into his motor. Dey was running away, but he caught dem. Made one of dem boys eat dog shit. Made him kneel on de ground and chow down. Never see dat before. D’other boy won’ be eating solids for a while. His mama gonna be feeding him strained bananas.’
Swallowing drily, he leans down to rewrap his sandwich, no longer hungry.
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ says Ruiz, shaking the cleaner’s hand. Clive looks at the ten-pound note in his palm. Closes his fingers. Opens them again just to be sure.
‘Maybe you could do one more thing for us,’ says Ruiz. ‘This guy must have signed something. You could show us the hotel register.’
Clive pockets the money, putting it deep inside his jeans, and then glances up and down the street before shepherding us into a tired-looking reception room with faded wallpaper and worn carpet. The register is a long rectangular book with ink stains on the cover. Opening the pages, he runs a knobbly finger down the room numbers.
Room 6. Paid for in cash, a month in advance. A signature rather than a name - but he included the registration number for the Audi.
It doesn’t help us.
Clive closes the book, sliding it into a desk drawer. ‘Well, I got work to do.’
‘You should clean Room 6,’ says Ruiz.
The old cleaner looks horrified. ‘Don’ you be tinking like dat.’
‘Like what?’
‘Tinking I’m gonna open up dat mon’s room.’
Ruiz tilts his chin to the ceiling and sniffs. ‘You smell that?’
Clive raises his chin. ‘Don’ smell nothing.’
‘Smoke,’ says Ruiz.
‘There ain’t no smoke.’
Ruiz vaults up the crazy network of stairs runs between the floors. He stops on the first landing. ‘Definitely smoke; coming from one of the rooms. Might be a fire.’
The cleaner drags himself up to the same level. Ruiz is outside No. 6.
‘I think we should call the fire brigade and evacuate this place.’
Clive is shaking his head back and forth. ‘No, no, no, don’t be doing dat, mon.’
Ruiz touches the door. ‘Feels a little warm. Maybe you should open up - just to be sure.’
‘Get away with you.’
‘You ever heard of something called probable cause, Clive? It means you have the right to enter if you think there’s a good reason.’
‘But there ain’t no fire!’
‘You don’t know that for certain.’
The keys jangle on the cleaner’s belt. He looks at us sadly and shakes his head in surrender.
The key turns and the door opens into gloom. Ruiz reaches for the light switch. The bed hasn’t been slept in and the curtains are drawn. There’s a wardrobe with double doors and a mirror in between. A side table next to the bed, a suitcase pushed under the springs. I can hear a dripping sound, which might be outside the walls or within.
Ruiz is moving through the room, opening the wardrobe and the drawers, peering beneath the bed. There is a strange smell to the place that tightens the nostrils and crimps the lips.
‘Ain’t nuttin here, mon.’ says Clive. ‘Let’s go.’
Somewhere below I hear a door open. I glance over the railing, down the stairs, but can’t see anyone. At that moment a pigeon takes off from the window ledge, battering its wings against the glass. My heart takes off as well.
‘Maybe we should leave,’ I say.
Ruiz has pulled the suitcase from under the bed. He uses a han
dkerchief on the handle and covers his fingers as he slips each latch, lifting the lid, exposing the contents.
There are folders of newspaper clippings and photographs. Street scenes. Faces. Headlines. I recognise Bristol Crown Court. Protesters are waving placards and banners. Police are shown confronting the crowd, pushing them back. A face is circled with red marker pen: a woman in a grey jacket with an ID card around her neck. Police are allowing her through a checkpoint. I recognise her. Another juror.
Ronnie Cray doesn’t want to meet us at Trinity Road. This is unofficial, off the record, deniable. She chooses a snooker club in the old part of the city where the buildings look like compacted teeth and sacks of rubbish have stained the footpaths. The baize tables are upstairs and I can hear balls being racked up and broken.
Cray is waiting at a table in the bar, nursing a cup of tea. She glances at me, then at Ruiz, her eyes neutral, then picks up her cup and takes a sip.
‘I thought you’d gone back to London,’ she says to Ruiz.
‘Still sightseeing.’
A long bar runs down one side of the room, most of it in darkness except for a plasma TV screen showing sporting highlights. The exposed beams are decorated in old Christmas tinsel and squashed paper bells.
We start at the beginning, telling Cray about seeing the jury foreman being roughed up outside a pub.
‘He met with the guy I told you about - the Crying Man - the one who’s been sitting in the public gallery during the trial, chaperoning Novak Brennan’s sister.’
Cray doesn’t react. Her short-cropped hair is sprinkled with grey and the lines on her face seem deeper today.
‘You approached the foreman of the jury?’
‘Yes. No. Not really.’
‘Do you know how many laws you’ve broken?’
‘We had to be sure.’
Somewhere above us a cue ball cannons into the pack. The sound echoes like a shot. Cray looks like she’s suddenly developed a toothache.
‘Tell me again why you were following this guy?’
‘Sienna remembered him. On the night Gordon pimped her out - there was a second man in the car. He drove her to the address.’
‘You’re sure it’s the same man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where does the Hegarty girl come into this?’
‘What if she had to sleep with someone involved in the case? She’s underage.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘Gordon Ellis and Novak Brennan knew each other in college. They shared a house. They could have stayed in touch.’
‘Yeah, but Ellis’s name has never come up in the intelligence files.’
Ruiz interrupts. ‘He used to call himself Freeman. He took his mother’s surname after his first wife disappeared.’
Cray grunts dismissively, not convinced. Her eyes come back to mine. ‘The names and addresses of jurors are kept secret. They’re protected and after each trial they’re destroyed.’
‘This wasn’t a coincidence.’
Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘So you’re saying Brennan rigged the jury ballot?’
‘Maybe he got hold of their names or he had them followed home. The trial has been going for weeks.’
Cray’s forearms are pressed flat on the table. ‘You’re talking about jury tampering. Conspiracy. Bribing an officer of the court. Brennan has been in custody for eight months. Every call and letter is monitored. Even if he got to one juror, it won’t do him any good. He needs ten to get an acquittal.’
I glance at Ruiz. He pulls a dozen photographs from his jacket. Slides them between her forearms. The DCI doesn’t look down. For a brief moment I think she might simply stand and walk out. Her eyes stay fixed on mine, clouding.
Finally she lowers her gaze. Her face remains empty of expression but I see her throat swallow drily and her chest rise briefly against her shirt.
‘The red circles identify members of the jury,’ I say.
Cray’s eyes cut sideways to me, her lips parting slightly. ‘Should I ask how you got these?’
‘They were in a suitcase under a bed in a hotel room. The Royal. It’s off Stapleton Road. This guy had photographs, a list of witnesses, newspaper cuttings, maps - serious research.’
‘What guy?’
Ruiz answers: ‘The Crying Man. He took the room three weeks ago. Paid cash. Signed in under a false name.’
Colour has died in Cray’s cheeks. Her next statement is almost an intelligible whisper. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this.’
‘What are you going to do?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘You have to tell the CPS,’ says Ruiz.
Anger flares in her eyes. ‘For starters - I’m not taking my orders from you!’
It comes out in a hiss. Pale lumpy faces turn from the TV. Cray pivots forward on her elbows.
‘This trial has been a circus. It’s cost millions. I’m not just talking about crowd control and protecting witnesses. If it collapses there’ll be an absolute shit-storm and I want more than just a few photographs before I light that fuse.’
She collects the prints. Straightens the edges. Turns them face down. Already I can see her mind calculating her next move. She’s going to either stake out the Royal Hotel or seal it off and send in a SOCO team looking for fingerprints and DNA.
She glances at the red neon clock glowing above the bar: 11.46. It could be a.m. or p.m.
‘What about Sienna?’
‘We collected her from hospital at nine o’clock this morning. She’s being interviewed now.’
The DCI raises her cup again, balancing it between the fingers of both hands. Her tea has grown cold.
‘Ray Hegarty was a good copper. Maybe he was a lousy father. If that girl killed him, she’ll face a jury. Right now I’m giving her the benefit.’
43
A buzzer sounds, echoing in the night air, encouraging the audience indoors where students are acting as ushers and handing out programmes. The curtains are closed in the auditorium but occasionally the fabric bulges with movement and a face peers through a gap, bright-eyed, excited.
The band are tuning instruments and whispering to each other, while Gordon Ellis moves in the glow of the footlights, issuing last-minute instructions and calming first-night nerves. His face is still swollen, with one eye almost closed, but he’s wearing dark glasses and stage make-up to hide the damage.
I shouldn’t be here. According to the protection order, I can’t go within a thousand yards of Ellis or his wife. But I’m not missing Charlie’s big night and I’m not letting that bastard be alone with her.
Peering around a pillar, I can see Julianne in conversation with Harry Veitch. Laughing. Emma is in between them, but keeps crawling on to Julianne’s lap to get a better view. I wonder if Julianne realises that Harry has a lumpy head from this angle. Big and lumpy.
The lights are dimming. Voices fade to silence. The band strikes up and the curtain sweeps aside, rattling on rails. The entire cast appears, marching back and forth across the stage, dressed as commuters on a busy New York street. Millie, the small-town girl from Kansas, has arrived in Manhattan.
Although I don’t miss a moment of Charlie on stage, the show seems strangely muted compared to the rehearsal I watched three weeks ago. The music and staging are the same, but it doesn’t have the same energy or excitement. Maybe Sienna is the missing ingredient.
Nobody else seems to notice. There is a standing ovation and three curtain calls. Two girls drag a reluctant director into the spotlight, tugging at his arms. Reaching the front of the stage, Gordon Ellis bows theatrically, touching the floor with his fingertips, before rising again with his arms outstretched, ushering the cast to join him in another bow. He puts his arms around the nearest two girls. Charlie is one of them. I can taste the bile in the back of my throat.
The curtain slides closed. The auditorium lights come up.
Outside, stepping clear, I look for Julianne. She’s chatting to some of the other mothers.
Harry is hovering, looking for someone to talk to. I try to avoid his gaze but he’s seen me.
‘What a show, eh? Utterly brilliant.’
He’s wearing boating shoes and one of those thermal skiing vests that zip up to his throat.
‘It started as a film, you know.’
‘What did?’ I ask.
‘Thoroughly Modern Millie. Julie Andrews played the lead. It also had Mary Tyler Moore in it. It was nominated for seven Academy Awards and won best musical score.’
I should have guessed - Harry is an expert on Hollywood musicals.
‘The score was written by Elmer Bernstein, not to be confused with Leonard Bernstein - they weren’t even related, but they were given nicknames on Broadway. One of them was West Bernstein and the other East Bernstein.’
Harry laughs.
Maybe he’s gay.
Having finished his anecdote, he smiles at me. Apparently it’s my turn to add something to the conversation but I can’t think of anything to say. After a long pause he suggests that we should play a round of golf some time. I could come to his club.
‘I don’t play golf,’ I remind him.
‘Of course. Tennis?’
‘Not much these days.’
Harry tugs at his earlobe. After another long silence he closes the gap between us and whispers, ‘Do you think the two of us can ever finish up being friends?’
He asks the question so earnestly I feel a pang of sympathy for him.
‘I don’t think so, Harry.’
‘Why’s that, do you think?’
‘Because all we have in common is Julianne and eventually, if we become friends, you’ll feel it’s all right to talk about her with me and it’s one thing to lose her and another thing completely to discuss her like she’s a shared interest.’
Harry tugs harder at his earlobe. ‘You made her very sad, you know.’
‘I also made her happy for twenty years.’
‘I guess people change.’
Jesus wept!
Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin) Page 31