by Rob Ashman
The article reported how Graham had sold the business to Brixton Construction, but, more than that, he had sold the plot of land that the business had occupied to one of those low-cost supermarkets. The article berated him for driving his loyal workforce out of a job. It quoted numerous tales of woe from the workers, each one saying how they would not be able to keep a roof over their head now they were out of work. Graham tried to defend himself, bleating on about how he had kept the workforce on as long as he could and had delayed accepting the offer from the supermarket. Oh, the social tragedy of it all.
The slant put on the story by the sensationalist Franklin was “fat cat boss sells out and to hell with the consequences”. She tore Graham to shreds. But I couldn’t have cared less about that; my attention was transfixed by a date in the article. The date they had made Graham the offer.
‘He knew,’ I said to myself. ‘The fucker knew all along.’
The bastard knew three weeks before he forced me into signing the documents selling my share of the business for a pittance. He knew about the deal way before I went to see him. The fucker sold me out.
The paper carried a photograph of Graham standing at the gates of a huge house, probably taken when the journalist arrived at his new home, door-stepping him for a comment. He had obviously grown out of his three-bed semi. Under the picture the caption read: This is what not caring looks like.
The fucker stitched me up. Now, I had someone else to hate.
Plan number four was hatching in my brain.
While I was developing my new plan, Irvine was developing a problem of his own, and his name was prison officer Cyril Jenks. A fat, BO-ridden, shit-bag of a man nearing retirement who had taken a dislike to Irvine. Cyril was a classic school yard bully who doled out his barbed asides to those who were unable to retaliate.
Once Jenks had discovered Irvine’s speech impediment, he rode him whenever he had the chance.
‘Hey, Irvine, how are you today?’ Jenks would say. Irvine did not want to engage and would try to avoid him. ‘Don’t walk off, Irvine, when I’m being friendly. I said, how are you?’
‘O-o-o–’
‘Come on, Irvine, spit it out, man. How are you?’
‘I-I’m f-f–’
‘Come on, Irvine, I’ve not got all day.’
‘I-I–’
‘For Christ’s sake, Irvine, I give up. I try to be nice and you throw it back in my face.’ Jenks would walk off shaking his head and laughing. Every time I saw the two of them together, I held my breath. Any minute now, Jenks is going to be flying off the landing into the suicide net. A number of times I had wandered over to rescue Irvine but Jenks continued regardless, completely ignoring my presence.
One day, Irvine burst into the cell behaving like the incredible hulk. He slammed his fists down onto the top bunk and the whole frame bounced off the floor.
‘Wow, wow!’ I tried to stop him destroying the furniture. It was like wrestling with a grizzly bear.
‘T-t-that f-f-fucking Je-Je-’ I managed to calm him down and sat him on the bottom bunk.
‘Steady, Irvine, don’t let him win. This is what he wants. He’s winding you up.’
‘I-I’m g-g-gonna fu …’ He didn’t bother with the rest of the words; it was pretty obvious what he was going to do to Jenks. His whole body shook with rage.
I reached across, took a toothbrush from the sink and knelt down in front of him.
‘You trust me don’t you, Irvine?’ I said to him.
‘Y-y-ye ...’ He nodded.
I held the toothbrush sideways and brought it slowly towards Irvine’s face. He flinched away from me.
‘It’s okay, Irvine, trust me.’ I moved it near his mouth. ‘Bite down onto the toothbrush.’ I said. Irvine’s eyes said it all. He tilted his head forward and took it between his front teeth. I let go.
‘W-what the f-fuck are you doing?’ he asked, and almost fell off the bed.
My father had told me long ago about the trick with the toothbrush, though, in his case, it was a lollypop stick. He too had a dreadful speech impediment when he was a youngster and couldn’t string two words together. He sang in a church choir and never stammered when he sang. The choir master got him to bite on the lolly stick one day, and the stammer went away. He said it had something to do with occupying the brain with doing something else. Whatever the science, it worked and in time, the problem went away.
From then on, every day, Irvine and I practiced speech exercises. I had seen the film The Kings Speech and researched different techniques using books we ordered from the library. We focused on breathing, rehearsed reading out loud in front of the mirror, I even got Irvine to practice singing while speaking and of course we carried out the toothbrush trick daily. We tried to identify which letters caused Irvine the most trouble so we could develop coping strategies to avoid them. This was less successful because it soon transpired he had trouble with all twenty-six.
Over time, he improved. We got our first real breakthrough when one day, Irvine stubbed his toe against the bed.
‘Fuck!’ he yelled, holding onto his throbbing foot. He cried when he realised what had just happened. “Fuck” became one of Irvine’s favourite warm-up words.
He continued to be a target, as far as Jenks was concerned, and still got flustered when faced with the sadistic bastard, but at least now I was less concerned Irvine would hurl Jenks over the rail. Every day we would practise, and every day, Irvine would slap his massive hand on my shoulder and say, ‘I-I owe you b-big time.’
And every day, I believed him.
26
Kray had watched as the evidence boards filled up. Brownlow had been given the task of pulling together the information from the Nigel Chapman investigation, which, due to his bone idleness, had not taken long. However, the team who were now assigned to digging around into Chapman’s life were being kept very busy. He was a flamboyant character who led an equally flamboyant lifestyle, and the social media material alone spilled onto a second board.
The profiles of Graham and Franklin were growing by the minute as new material was uncovered.
‘She is a nasty piece of work,’ said a young detective called Janice Parks as she read through the newspaper articles written by Franklin. ‘A one woman wrecking ball. Any one of these people would have good reason to see her dead.’
Kray returned to her office with a dreadful sinking feeling to confront her ever expanding in-tray. What the hell does half this have to do with law enforcement?
Before she had chance to make a start, Tavener appeared at the door. ‘Fancy a run out?’
‘Anything to get me away from this lot. What is it?’
‘John Graham had a business partner and the relationship turned sour when John bought him out of his share in the company. The partner assaulted Graham at his home and did a spell in prison. He was released from jail and lives here in town. I think he would be a good place to start.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Kevin Palmer.’
Tavener rapped his knuckles against the wood.
‘Softly, softly with this, remember?’ Kray whispered. Tavener nodded – message received. Palmer opened his front door. Kray stood in the doorway with her warrant card in her hand.
‘Mr Palmer? I’m Acting DCI Kray. This is DC Tavener, can we come in? We have a couple of questions for you.’
Palmer looked down at Kray’s card and then up into the face of the towering figure standing behind her. He took the wallet from her hand and examined it.
It’s about time.
‘Do you have a warrant, Acting DCI Kray?’ The comment took her by surprise. Palmer paused for dramatic effect. ‘Only kidding. Please come in, I’ve been expecting you.’
Tavener flashed a quizzical glance at Kray as they stepped inside.
Palmer gestured to the sofa and switched off the TV. ‘Please take a seat. How can I help?’ He sat in the armchair opposite, leaning forward resting his elbows on his kne
es. ‘Who let you in downstairs?’
‘Sorry?’ asked Kray.
‘Who let you in?’
‘Oh, it was a woman, I didn’t catch her name.’
‘Chinese or English?’
‘She was Chinese.’
‘That will be Sunshine, Joseph’s mum, she’s lovely but her English isn’t great.’
‘Sunshine?’ asked Tavener.
‘Yes, when the family came to Britain, they chose what they wanted to be called. She liked the sound of the word sunshine, so adopted that as her English name. It’s a common practice amongst the Chinese community. I know a lady called Purple and another called Rainbow.’
‘That’s all very interesting, Mr Palmer.’ Kray had obviously heard enough cultural integration stories for one day. ‘Why have you been expecting us?’
‘It doesn’t take a genius. I read the newspapers, Rosalind, or is it Roz?’ Kray ignored the question. ‘Anyway, I understand that John Graham was found murdered at his home. I was his business partner, so it makes sense that sooner or later you would come knocking.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Oh, that would be the fateful evening when he swindled me out of my share of the business. I don’t recall the precise date. It was a long time ago. But it will be in your records, I’m sure.’
‘Is that the evening you assaulted Mr Graham?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On who’s side of the story you believe. He maintained that I hit him and pushed him to the floor. I told the court that the silly sod tripped over his own feet and ended up on the carpet. So, I suppose, who you believe is up to you.’
‘But it was the night when you were arrested.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘What was your relationship like before?’
‘When we were working together, it was good. We argued over the direction the business should take, I wanted us to expand into bigger contracts but John was dead against it. But other than that, we got on well.’
‘That was until he bought your share of the company.’
‘I saw red when I realised he was taking advantage of my situation. Not sure I was particularly rational at the time, there was a lot of other stuff kicking off in my life.’
Kray looked across at Tavener. ‘Where were you on the night of Monday sixteenth of October?’ he asked.
‘Mmm, not sure. Do you mind?’ Palmer got up and walked into the bedroom. He came back with a thin diary in his hand. ‘I use this to keep track of my shifts at work. I work for Sandringham Products and they have a weird shift rota. I have a memory like a sieve these days.’ He flicked over the pages. ‘Here we go, I worked earlies that day so got back here around three p.m. I normally have a sleep for an hour or two when I get back – not sure what I did after that but in the evening, I would have been here. I stay in at the start of the week, save a bit of cash that way.’
‘Were you with anyone? Can anybody vouch for your whereabouts?’
‘I was here on my own, watching TV.’
‘So, there is no one who can confirm you were here.’
‘I would have spoken to Joseph or his wife. They run the takeaway downstairs and I treat it as my very own built-in restaurant. I would have ordered chicken chow mein at around six o’clock. I always have chicken chow mein on a Monday and I stick around for a chat while they prepare it. They are a lovely family and boy do they cook a mean Chinese meal.’
‘We will talk to Joseph, that’s helpful.’ Kray stepped in. ‘But that will only account for you being in the flat at around six pm.’
‘Yes, that’s right, but the question you need to ask Joseph is…did he see me leave after that time?’
‘Why would I ask him that?’
‘Because there is one way into the building and one way out, and that takes you right through the front of the shop. If I had left that evening, he would have seen me.’
Kray flashed a glance at Tavener. She spun her wedding ring round and round on her finger. ‘There must be a back entrance?’
‘There is, but to access that you need to go through the kitchens at the rear, and you can only access that from the front of the shop. The same way you two got in. So, you see, if I had left, they would have seen me. Ask them, I’m sure they will be able to confirm that I was here all night.’
‘What time do they close?’
‘They have a late licence which allows them to stay open until two am, but more often than not, there is still a queue outside the door at that time of night.’
‘Do you mind if we take a look around?’
‘Do you have a warrant?’ Kray looked at Palmer. The joke wasn’t funny the first time. ‘Of course, if you excuse the mess, help yourselves.’
Kray and Tavener got up and headed for the bedroom. It was smaller than the lounge with a single bed in one corner and a wardrobe in the other. A four-drawer cabinet completed the complement of furniture. The walls were white and a couple of cheap pictures broke up the boredom. There was no window.
The bathroom was off to the left. It consisted of a toilet, a sink and a shower. There was no bath, mainly because there was no room. A mirror fronted cabinet hung on the wall. A narrow, frosted glass window about a foot wide and two feet high was set into the back wall. Kray checked it out; the window was a solid piece of double glazing and didn’t open.
They walked back into the lounge to find Palmer standing at the kitchenette filling a kettle.
‘Do you want tea or coffee? I was going to make myself a hot drink.’
‘No thank you.’
‘Do you have any further questions?’ Palmer asked.
‘Not at this stage. We will be in touch.’
Palmer showed them out onto the landing and watched them go downstairs. He returned to the kitchen area and poured the boiling water on top of the coffee grains, giving it a stir.
‘That went rather well, I think,’ he whispered to himself.
Outside, Kray and Tavener sat in their car.
‘Cocky little shit,’ said Tavener.
‘No. No, it wasn’t cockiness. It was more like a quiet confidence.’
‘Seemed fucking cocky to me. I’ll go talk to Joseph, see what he says about the night Graham died.’
Kray had drifted off, staring into the middle distance. The scar on her cheek began to tingle as she gawked out of the windscreen.
‘Roz, Roz!’ Tavener broke her train of thought. ‘I said–’
‘Yes, go chat to him, but I’m sure he will confirm Palmer’s story.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’m not, but Palmer is.’
27
Kray dropped Tavener off at the station. The conversation with Palmer had set alarm bells ringing; the scars running across her body told her something wasn’t right. There were too many things about this case that were sending her off the scale.
She headed to the industrial estate on the outskirts of town and pulled into a visitor’s parking space at the front of a chrome and plate glass office block. She stepped out and walked the twenty feet to reception, the automatic doors whooshing open to welcome her.
The same glamorous receptionist greeted her with a ‘Good afternoon, how can I help?’ Her name badge read Dina Birchwood. Kray marvelled at her perfect makeup and perfect hair, recalling what she had looked like in the hallway mirror when she had left for work that morning. God only knows what I must look like now, cos it wasn’t good then.
‘My name is DI Kray. I need to speak with David Walsh.’ She opened her wallet to reveal her warrant card, forgetting she was now acting DCI.
Dina nodded and picked up the phone. ‘I have a DI Kray here in reception, David, she wants to speak with you.’ Kray could hear the tinny voice protesting on the other end. The corner of Dina’s mouth curled down and she cupped her hand over the phone. ‘I’m afraid Mr Walsh is tied up at the moment. He’s asking if it would be okay if he gives you a call w
hen he’s free?’
Kray leaned over the desk and took the phone from Dina’s manicured fingers.
‘We can do this down the station if you would prefer, Mr Walsh?’ She heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end.
‘No, no, I will come down.’ Walsh blurted out.
‘Now would be good.’ The line went dead. Kray handed the receiver back to Dina whose mouth had now returned to its beautifully symmetrical self.
‘If you would like to take a seat?’
‘No, I’m fine right here.’
Dina pushed papers around to occupy herself. ‘Terrible news about Nigel,’ she said eventually.
‘Did you know him?’
‘A little. I said good morning to him and sometimes filled in when Debbie wasn’t in.’
‘Is she away from work a lot?’
‘She pretty much comes and goes as he pleased, but then, she was…well, you know.’
‘No, I don’t know, but I can guess. How long had they been an item?’
‘On and off about a year, I guess.’
‘More on than off, or is it …?’
‘Let’s just say they were not exclusive.’
Not exclusive? Since when did that become an actual thing?
The lift doors behind reception dinged open and out bustled David Walsh. He came over and shook Kray’s hand.
‘Sorry about that. We are all at sixes and sevens this morning.’
‘I can appreciate this is a difficult time. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Yes, sure.’ Walsh waved his arm, pointing to a small glass-fronted office to the right of reception. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said, pulling a chair away from the small round table for Kray to sit in and pushing the door shut. He took the seat opposite, spinning his cufflinks round and round.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Kray.
‘Not good, if I’m honest. I’ve never seen anything like that before. I crunch numbers and make deals for a living not…’ his words tailed off to nothing.
‘It is a shock. I can assure you we have every available person working on this.’