Quietly, he said, ‘If it’s any consolation, she didn’t seem heartbroken when I spoke to her just now.’
He had been staring broodingly at his hands again, but now he looked up. ‘You don’t know her. And she doesn’t know you – she wouldn’t let on to you. And you didn’t know Erik. He could charm the birds off the trees when he wanted. She thought he really loved her – it was serious for her. Her first love. And then he dumps her, just like that. That’s the sort of bastard he was.’
‘Where were you on Tuesday night?’ Atherton asked.
He went still. After a measurable pause, he said, ‘What time?’
‘Start with when you left work.’
‘We’re open six till ten, Monday to Friday,’ he said. His voice was careful, his eyes steady as though determined to be accurate. ‘I split the lates with my manager, Gerry – that was him that brought you in here. And I have two other guys, Andy and Dez, who cover Saturdays and Sundays. And fill in for Gerry and me if we need time off.’
Atherton nodded attentively. ‘So what time did you leave on Tuesday?’
Another pause. ‘Gerry did the late. I finished about six.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘Showered, changed. Went for a pint.’
‘Where?’
‘The Britannia in Allen Street.’
‘I know it. Then what?’
‘Went home,’ he said, closing his lips tight as if that were the end of that.
‘What time did you get home?’
‘About half-eight.’
‘And then what?’
‘Nothing. I stayed home. Had something to eat. Watched some sport. Went to bed.’
‘You live alone?’ Nod. ‘Can anyone verify that you were at home on Tuesday evening?’
A flicker of fire in the eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘And if you’re trying to make out I killed Erik bloody Lingoss, you’re on a loser. You’ve got nothing against me. So back off, all right? Back off, or I’ll—’
He stopped himself, but his fists were clenched. ‘You’ll what?’ Atherton asked, at his most smooth and annoying. He wanted to see what Gallo would do if provoked.
But Gallo backed off. ‘Nothing,’ he said moodily. ‘You’ve got nothing against me, that’s all I’m saying.’
And you’ve got no alibi, Atherton thought.
SEVEN
He Stooped to Conk Her
Porson’s eyebrows were drawn together like two sumo wrestlers in a clinch.
‘Where are those figures?’ he bellowed. Slider drew breath to answer but Porson powered on. ‘Tell me at least you’re working on them.’
‘I’ve got a homicide case,’ Slider gave the obvious answer.
Porson growled. ‘Haven’t you sorted that out yet? Hammersmith’ve got a load of piddly cases they want to pawn off onto us, and I need some ammunition. And don’t forget,’ he added, reeling into his usual back and forth prowl, ‘there’s that climate change march next week. The commissioner’ll be pulling every warm body he can to cover it, and that’ll include your little bunnies.’
‘Surely they won’t cut down a murder squad for that?’
‘Priorise a live march in central London over a dead weightlifter? What d’you think they see when they look out of their windows in Whitehall? Lingoss’s old mum demanding justice for her baby boy, or ten thousand crusties followed by the media?’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Slider protested feebly.
The rikishi strained harder against each other. ‘Ninety-nine times out of ten these decisions are political, you know that. The PM leans on the home secretary, he leans on the commissioner, and PR triumphs again.’ He fetched up against the filing cabinet, breathed for a moment, then pushed off again like a swimmer doing lengths. ‘It’s time they brought in some legislation about these marches.’
‘The right to protest is a vital element of free speech,’ Slider said mildly. The Old Man seemed unusually bitter this afternoon. Hammersmith had a bad effect on his bile duct.
‘Yerss,’ Porson said darkly. ‘They’ll shut down London for eight hours because that’s free speech. But if anyone calls them names they want ’em arrested for hate crime.’ He sighed and relaxed to his normal state of muted – as opposed to overt – frenzy. ‘Where have you got with Lingoss?’
Slider told him about Jack Gallo.
He brightened. ‘That’s more like it. A bloke with muscles and a good grudge. Better than the jilted girlfriend.’
‘We’re checking his story, though it doesn’t cover the important hours, so it’s not an alibi. But if he becomes a suspect, we’ll have to show we’ve been thorough.’
‘And it might give you a direction to look in. Say he’s said something to somebody in the pub or whatever.’ He rubbed his big dry hands together with a sound like someone wrapping rocks for Christmas. ‘You can see it – has a few pints, brooding over his wrongs, gets fuelled up and goes to have it out with laughing boy.’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Slider said. But without direct evidence, it was only a story. Porson knew that as well as he did. It was evidence of his frustration that he even voiced it. ‘I wish we had enough to search his flat, but at the moment …’
‘Well what are you standing there for? Go and get something,’ Porson snapped.
Joanna was back when he got home. She was in the kitchen, sitting on one chair and contemplating her feet, which rested on another.
‘I used to have nice feet,’ she said by way of greeting. ‘Now I look as if I’m on a stand.’
He bent to kiss her. ‘Good day?’
Her eyes lit. ‘Yes, very good. They had a lot of extra brass in today to do the loud bits.’
‘Woah, woah, you’re losing me with all the technical terms. Loud bits?’
‘Funn-ee. And one of the trumpets was my old pal Peter White.’
‘Oh yes.’ Slider had often heard about him. ‘Did you have a nice natter?’
‘Yes, in the break. We were swapping old tour stories. Fun! Like the time in Hong Kong he was sharing a room with Jimmy Ruddles. Jimmy used to sleep walk, but generally Peter woke up when he heard him bumping about and herded him back to bed. But on this particular night drink had been taken, and Peter was out like a light. So Jimmy got out of the room, went down in the lift to the reception area. He woke up just as the lift doors opened and he stepped out into the foyer at the same time as a party of elderly Chinese tourists came in from a late flight.’ She grinned. ‘It should be mentioned that Jimmy always slept in the buff. It was a toss-up who was more surprised, him or the tourists.’
‘What happened?’
‘A quick-thinking receptionist dashed over with a waste-paper basket to cover his shame. A-a-ah!’ she sighed. ‘The good old days. How was yours?’
‘We’ve got a new suspect – well, not even really a suspect at this stage, but a person of interest.’ He told her.
‘So your deceased took money for sex? No wonder massage has got such a bad name.’
‘No law was broken. I’m relaxed about it.’
‘And you think this Gallo might have killed him in a row over his sister?’
‘It’s nothing more than a possibility at the moment. And I’m sure others will arise. In the absence of any material evidence, we’ll have to check up on all Lingoss’s contacts, which will be a long process. Unless we can trace the mobile phone.’
‘Which one?’
‘The victim’s, which is missing. He might have lost it, or left it somewhere, but it might have been taken away by the murderer. If we can find it, it might give us a lead. Of course, if the murderer did take it, he probably smashed it or dumped it, or at the very least turned it off. We’ll see. Meanwhile, we just keep doing the hard yards.’
‘Poor old thing! Well, help me up and I’ll get some supper on.’
‘I’ll do it. You sit there and be comfortable.’
‘Make up your mind. At this stage of pregnancy, I can do one or the other. By the way, after
supper we ought to look over the baby things and see what we need, so we can get them this weekend. I’ve still got George’s wee outfits, but some of the equipment might have deteriorated.’
‘You kept George’s baby clothes?’ he said, pleased. ‘When we weren’t planning to have another?’
‘Couldn’t bring myself to part with them,’ she said, heaving herself up. ‘There, you made me admit it. I’m as soppy as the next woman.’
‘There is no next woman for me,’ he said, engulfing her and kissing the end of her nose. ‘You’re all the woman I can handle.’
‘Oh Rhett, you say such pretty things,’ she purred. Then, back in practical mode: ‘At the very least, we’ll need a couple of gross of Pampers. I know it’s ecologically indefensible …’
‘There’s a climate change march in Westminster next week,’ he mentioned. ‘They wouldn’t approve.’
‘I don’t approve,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going to wash terry nappies at my age, and that’s just an uncomfortable fact.’
‘Mr Porson was saying we might get pulled off this case to help with policing the march,’ he remembered.
‘Maybe you could ask if any of them would like to come and wash nappies for me,’ she said. ‘Save the world one dimpled bottom at a time.’
LaSalle had done the early run to Mike’s coffee stall, and brought in Slider’s bacon sarnie with a mug of tea, from which he had forgotten to remove the teabag. Its string hung sadly down the outside like the tail of a suicidal mouse.
‘I got something of interest, guv,’ he said.
‘Not the dead mouse, I hope,’ Slider said, hooking a pencil under the string and lifting. It was only a teabag after all. He cupped his hand under it to stop it dripping on his papers as he conveyed it to the bin, then didn’t know what to do with his wet hand.
LaSalle didn’t understand the mouse reference, but they often didn’t understand the guv’s obscure comments, so it didn’t bother him. ‘There’s a paper napkin inside the sandwich bag,’ he offered helpfully.
‘What have you got, that’s of interest?’ Slider prompted, mopping up.
‘Oh! Yes – I was checking Lingoss on the PNC, and he hasn’t got a criminal record, but he did pop up in relation to an incident at a nightclub called Deans.’
‘In Dean Street? Yes, I know it. When was this?’
‘A month ago. He got in a fight with Jack Gallo. It started off with an argument and raised voices, then there was a bit of shoving, and then punches were thrown. Someone called the police but by the time they arrived the club’s bouncers’d got the two men up into the street, so they were just given a warning and told to push off.’
‘Does the report say who started it? Or what it was about?’
‘No, guv. But with what Gallo told Jim yesterday and the timing, it could be about the sister, couldn’t it? She said she broke up with Lingoss a month ago.’
‘Gallo didn’t mention a fight with Lingoss,’ Slider observed.
LaSalle smiled hopefully. ‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’
‘All right, go and see what you can find out – find who was on duty and interview them. I’d like to get enough on Gallo to turn over his pad. And ask Atherton to come in.’
There are few places sadder than a nightclub in daytime. Cleaners have to clean and bar staff have to bottle up, so the lights have to be fully on, revealing what was never meant to be seen – at least, not clearly and by the sober. The scratches on the black-painted walls, the stains on the floor, the damp patches on the ceiling, the cheapness of the furniture and its battered state, the trashiness of the backdrop to the tiny stage, the smell of stale beer and the gale of bleach from the toilets that didn’t quite drown the whiff of urine. LaSalle could feel his moustache wilting.
A woman behind the bar was making a great deal of busy clatter with bottles. She looked up and said, ‘We’re closed.’
LaSalle showed his brief. ‘I want to talk to someone about an incident back in October.’
She gave a bark of laughter. ‘You got here quick! Worth every penny of our taxes.’
LaSalle had a good line in stolid. ‘The person who called the police at the time was a Jay Pheeney,’ he said in best plod mode. ‘I think he’s the manager?’
‘She is, and she’s me,’ the woman said, coming out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She examined his face. ‘Ooh, a lady manager! Whatever next?’ she parodied. She had a robust Dublin accent and jet black hair that was obviously out of a bottle. She was probably nearer sixty than fifty, but in the dim night-time lights, behind the bar and with a full face of slap would probably pass for younger. She was shortish, and solid, with formidable barmaid’s arms, and a flat, doughy face with the derogatory eyes of a cat. She looked as if she’d seen it all and didn’t think much of any of it, especially the portion of it that emanated from the male of the species.
LaSalle reminded her of the fight between Gallo and Lingoss, and showed her photos of the two to refresh her memory. She gave them a sharp look and said, ‘Yes, I remember the two o’ them. What’s it all about then, dear? You don’t come bothering about a bit o’ fisticuffs in the usual way.’
‘I’m afraid Erik Lingoss – this one – has been killed, so we’re looking for anyone who had a grudge against him.’
‘A grudge, is it? Well, I’ll tellya what I know, but it was the queerest bar fight I’ve ever seen, which is why I remember it. See, this one …’ She tapped a photo.
‘Jack Gallo,’ LaSalle supplied.
‘Him,’ she agreed. ‘Glorious big feller, with muscles on him like a panther, all sleek and rippling. We get that type in here sometimes, the weightlifters and bodybuilders, and they’re usually no trouble – they’re more interested in themselves than anyone else. The muscles are all for show. They’re for fillin’ out their T-shirts, not for lampin’ anybody. Your man here’ – she tapped Lingoss’s picture – ‘he was more the pretty type. Fit as the butcher’s dog, but not your usual iron-pumper. More like an athlete.’ She pronounced it ‘athalete’. ‘He was a bit of a Bob, if you want to know,’ she added approvingly. ‘He could get the ride off me any time!’ And she gave a cackle of lascivious laughter.
LaSalle stuck to plod in self-defence. ‘Did they come in together?’
‘Now that I can’t tell ya. There was a crowd in that night, which was why I was helping out serving. I saw them at the bar, is all, gassing away. I only noticed when it started getting a bit intense, and me radar went off’ – she tapped her nose – ‘because you want to get to fights before they start in this business.’
‘Do you know what they were arguing about?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘With the rock band playing? It was The Mighty Mouse – you couldn’t hear a mammoth fart when they get going. But, I’ll tell ya, it was like the big one was telling the ridey one off. He was leaning in and poking him in the chest, like he was giving out shite to your man.’ She demonstrated on the air.
‘And how was the … Lingoss taking it?’
‘Taking his medicine at first, so it looked. A bit glum in the mouth but puttin’ up with it. But then he starts getting annoyed, and he pushes your man. Like it might be, “stop pokin’ me like that” and “who d’you think you’re talking to?” Next thing I know, this one …’
‘Gallo.’
‘The same, he’s thrown a punch – but, now, here’s the thing. Nine times out of ten in a bar fight, th’eejit’ll go for the chin, and hurt his knuckles as much as he hurts the other feller. Then it’s all over except the cursing. But your man here – it looks as if at the last second he pulls the punch, and ends up kind of hittin’ him on the shoulder. Then the ridey one hits him in the gut, and they grab each other and start wrestling about like pigs in an alley. See’ – she lifted her eyes to LaSalle’s face to check that he was taking it in – ‘it’s like this one couldn’t damage th’other one’s beauty. Not hit him in the face. As a professional, he just couldn’t do it.’
&nb
sp; LaSalle nodded. ‘Yeah, I think I know what you mean. So what happened then?’
‘Well, notice was starting to be taken, so I come out round the bar to break it up. I shove a bar stool between them, which is what I usually do to part them, but the big one, it musta caught him off balance and he sorta slings his arm out and pucks me on the head.’ She demonstrated again. ‘I don’t think he meant it, but he’s bloody strong, and it gets me rile up. So back behind the bar I go, ring for me boys, and call the peelers. The boys – my doormen, Lennie and Omar – they escort them out. Well, they’d stopped fighting and were looking a bit sheepish by then. But later Lennie comes and tells me that when they get up in the fresh air they start at it again, and him and Omar had to hold ’em apart until the gards arrived. And Lennie says it was all about some girl.’
‘What were they saying? Did they say a name?’
‘Lennie never said. I don’t think he was paying that much attention. Anyway, that’s it and all about it. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, except for that pulled punch, and the way the ridey one was puttin’ up with being given out to, as if he deserved it. It looked as if the two of them were grand friends before that.’
‘So you think the big one – Gallo – he wasn’t really angry, deep down?’
She frowned, remembering. ‘No, I’d say he was pure mad. But the other one, his face was his fortune, and when it came to it, he couldn’t hit him there.’
At his second visit, Atherton didn’t see either Gallo or the short one in the main gym, but after a moment a tall West Indian, with glossy muscles barely confined by purple training shorts and stringer vest, came over. His hair was dyed acid blonde and he wore it in mad spikes above his head like Lady Liberty. Fortunately, since he topped Atherton by a good three inches, he was also wearing a friendly expression. ‘Help you?’
‘I’m looking for Jack Gallo,’ Atherton said.
‘He’s not here. I’m Dez, I’m the manager. Is it about training sessions?’ He gave Atherton a rapid, professional look over. ‘I see you keep yourself fit, man, but a bit more can’t hurt, am I right? You got the face, you might as well have the body to go with it. A couple of sessions a week after work, you’ll soon gain a bit more definition. You got nice freads, bro, you’ll be surprised how much better they look when you’ve done a bit of work, toned up just that bit extra.’
Cruel as the Grave Page 9