The Business Of Dying

by Simon Kernick

  I’d never been to the Gallan before, even though it was only about half a mile from where I lived. I’d walked past it plenty of times though, most notably the previous day when they’d had a blackboard outside saying that tonight was contemporary poets night. It wasn’t really my cup of tea, but I suppose it made a change from sitting around in the pub. It was quiz night at the Chinaman as well, and it would be the first time I’d missed it for non-work reasons for as long as I could remember.

  The interior of the Gallan was small and dimly lit. The stage, empty when I walked in, was at the end furthest from the door, while the rest of the floor space was taken up by evenly clustered round tables. A bar on the left-hand side ran the length of the room. All of the tables were occupied, and a small crowd milled about the bar. Most of those present were the type of people you’d expect at a poetry evening where the headline act was someone called Maiden Faith Ararngard: fresh-faced students in long coats, sipping delicately at their beers; a group of eco-warriors with an overabundance of piercings and pantomime clothes; and a few older intellectual types who looked as though they spent every waking hour in the hunt for hidden meanings to pointless questions.

  I’d half expected this type of line-up and had dressed down as far as my wardrobe would allow so that I didn’t look too much out of place. It hadn’t worked. Faded jeans and a sweatshirt with a hole in the elbow were never going to blend me in with this crowd, although at least I was pretty much guaranteed there’d be no undercover coppers in here. Like me, they’d have stuck out a mile.

  Carla hadn’t arrived, so I went to the bar and ordered a pint of Pride from a guy with a bolt through his nose and a beard that was close to a foot long. He gave me a bit of a funny look like I’d come dressed as a Doctor Who villain, but he was efficient, and that’s always the most important trait for any barman. I paid for my drink and stood close to the door so that I could see Carla when she made her entrance.

  I didn’t feel particularly comfortable in there, and in a way that said something about her and me. She knew we were never going to be an item; it was me who found it difficult to accept. But accept it I was going to have to do. From tomorrow I was on the run. I had a false passport in my possession which I’d got from one of Len Runnion’s contacts a few months back. It had been an insurance policy after a CIB investigation into a couple of ex-colleagues at the station had given me a case of cold feet. It was a good one, too. I’d grown a ten-day beard and put on some glasses for the photograph and it looked very unlike me. But I wasn’t going to be able to use it yet. There’d be an all-ports alert out for me as soon as I broke cover, which would mean me having to lie low for a couple of weeks until the fuss had died down. Maybe I’d drive down to Cornwall or up to Scotland, somewhere a bit isolated. Not for the first time that day, I experienced a strangely exhilarating feeling of apprehension.

  I was vaguely amused to see that the first act up was Norman ‘Zeke’ Drayer, a.k.a., apparently, the ‘Bard of Somers Town’. Norman was dressed in a Lincoln green jacket with tassles that looked as though it was made of felt, a pair of cricket whites, and knee-length black boots. Thankfully, he didn’t have a hat with a feather in it on his head, or he’d have been a dead ringer for Robin Hood.

  He danced on to the stage to polite applause and immediately opened up with a bawdy ballad about a buxom country girl called Annie McSilk and the difficulties she had fending off the advances of amorous farmers. It was actually quite good, and I had a few laughs in spite of myself, even if it did go on a bit too long. Unfortunately, it was also the high point of his act. The next three poems in his stint veered off into the boring half-world of social justice and had me looking at the door every twenty seconds for any sign of Carla. By the time he danced off the stage, with theatrical bows all round, the applause had been all but drowned out by the buzz of individual conversations.

  I was jealous of the people in there, jealous because they had nothing to fear. I watched them as they talked among themselves, discussing their issues as if they were of real importance, safe in their cocooned little worlds.

  I felt a tap on the shoulder and turned round to see Carla standing there. Her face was more heavily made up than usual, but the effect seemed to add to rather than detract from her beauty. She was dressed in a long black coat, underneath which was a simple white blouse and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. She greeted me with a brief peck on the cheek and I told her she looked good.

  ‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ she replied with a faint half smile.

  ‘What do you want to drink?’

  ‘I could murder a vodka and orange.’

  I got the attention of a barmaid, who came over and took the order.

  ‘So, you’re really going then, Dennis?’ she said, when the barmaid had gone. ‘You know, I really didn’t think you’d have the bottle.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ I told her. ‘Any news on Anne?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but one of the other girls said that she’d been seeing a new man, and apparently she’d talked about going off with him.’

  ‘Really? Well, let’s hope it’s that then. Did you report it to the police?’

  She nodded. ‘I did. They didn’t seem that interested.’

  ‘Did you tell them about Molly?’ She nodded again.

  ‘And they still weren’t interested?’

  ‘They’re street girls, Dennis. They do this sort of thing. You know, I don’t know how you’re going to handle not being a copper. You’re just too interested in whatever’s happening around you.’

  ‘It’ll do me good to get out of this place. Perhaps when I’m away from it, I won’t worry about everything so much.’

  She smiled. ‘We’ll see. You’ll probably be back inside a month.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, keep in touch, won’t you? Send me postcards from your various destinations.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ I eyed her closely. ‘You know, I don’t want to sound too sickly about this, but I’m going to miss you. I think we could have done OK together.’

  ‘Do you?’ She returned my look. ‘Maybe, but like I said, Dennis, now’s just not a good time.’

  I nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’d better make the best use of tonight, then.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ she said with a smile. ‘My time doesn’t come cheap.’

  There wasn’t a lot you could say to that.

  A table came free on the other side of the room from the bar and we took it as the next act, a plain-looking girl with spindly legs called Jeanie O’Brien, came on. She was carrying a stool, which she sat on to face the audience.

  ‘I know her,’ Carla said. ‘I’ve seen her perform before. She’s good.’

  She was too, but I wasn’t really listening. Unfortunately, Carla was, which meant that the conversation was strained and pretty one-sided, with me doing most of the talking. I finished my beer quickly, wondering why on earth I’d risked everything by sticking around for one more night.

  ‘Do you want another drink?’ I asked her eventually.

  She looked at her watch. ‘One more. Then I’ve got to go.’

  I was coming back towards our table with the drinks when I ran into the Bard of Somers Town himself. Drayer acknowledged me straight away and immediately looked nervous.

  ‘Er, hello, officer. How are you?’

  I stopped in front of him. ‘Not bad, Norman. A most distinguished performance out there earlier.’

  ‘Oh, you saw it, did you? I’m afraid it wasn’t one of my best. What are you doing here anyway? Not that I mind, of course, but it just doesn’t seem to be your sort of gig.’

  ‘It isn’t. Not really. But the lady I’m with—’

  ‘Oh yeah. I saw you with her earlier.’

  ‘Well, she’s into poetry.’

  He nodded vaguely. ‘Oh yeah, nice.’

  I looked over at our table. Carla was elegantly puffing on a Silk Cut, staring into space. At that moment sh
e really did look like a high-class escort girl, aloof from the world around her. And I wondered then whether she felt anything for me at all, or whether she’d just bedded me because I’d been there at the time.

  ‘I heard you arrested someone for Miriam’s murder.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you think it’s him?’

  How many times had I been asked that? As if I was going to say no. ‘The evidence points that way,’ I replied, but I wasn’t really thinking about what I was saying. I was looking over his shoulder at Carla, and I was thinking. Turning stuff over and over in my mind.

  ‘Because, you know, I was thinking, when I saw you earlier, that it was odd.’

  I looked back at him. ‘Odd?’

  ‘Well, when I saw the woman you’re with, I thought she looked familiar. And I tried to remember where I’d seen her before.’

  ‘And? When have you seen her before?’

  ‘Well, that’s the funny thing. I wouldn’t have remembered if I hadn’t seen her with you just then.’

  ‘Where did you see her, Norman?’

  ‘In the hall outside my pad.’

  I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. ‘When? When was that?’

  ‘A couple of weeks back.’

  ‘Before Miriam’s murder?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. It would have been.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us this when we came round to visit you last week?’

  He sensed my displeasure. ‘Because, you know, well, you only seemed interested in what male visitors she’d had, and I couldn’t even have told you if she’d been at Miriam’s place or not. I just saw her and I thought she looked nice. And then I sort of forgot about it until tonight, when I saw her with you. There’s no problem, is there?’

  I shook my head, focusing my mind elsewhere. Putting together the final pieces. It was a while before I spoke. ‘No. There’s no problem.’

  ‘Is there anything wrong, man? Are you OK?’

  I nodded slowly, and looked away from him. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  So Carla had been lying again. I should have known her story was bullshit, but maybe I’d been concentrating on too many other things to have seen the holes in it. I looked at her once again, and this time she looked back. I think she must have seen something in my face that told her I knew, because her eyes widened. Drayer turned round to follow my gaze and started to say something, but I wasn’t taking any notice. Then Carla’s eyes widened even further as she recognized him too.

  I pushed past Drayer and strode up to the table, slamming the drinks down on it.

  Carla stood up, the concern etched across her face. ‘Look, I can explain. I didn’t want you to know that I’d paid her—’ I grabbed her tightly by the arm and pulled her towards me. ‘Dennis. You’re hurting me.’

  ‘You’re fucking right I am. You’ve played me for a fool, Carla.’

  ‘Let go of me,’ she hissed, eyes narrowing. ‘I admit it, I lied. I did meet her, but—’

  ‘You didn’t just meet her, did you? You killed her. Either that or you know exactly who did.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Her expression was one of utter astonishment, but I wasn’t falling for that one again.

  ‘When we were talking this morning, you said to me you didn’t want Anne Taylor to end up like Miriam Fox. Dead in a back alley with her throat cut. Those were your exact words. Remember?’

  She tried to shake her arm free. ‘I told you to let go — ’

  ‘But the only people who could possibly know that Miriam Fox had her throat cut were us – the police – and the murderer.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ She shook her head wildly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You . . . you’re accusing me of killing that girl. You bastard!’ She yelled out these last two words, and people started turning round to look at us. Then, with her free hand, she reached down, picked up her drink, and chucked the contents of it in my face.

  The alcohol stung, and I blinked rapidly, momentarily releasing my grip on her arm. Before I could recover, she pushed me back into one of the chairs, turned and stormed out.

  But I wasn’t letting her go that easily, not until I’d found out what had really happened. I stood back up, rubbing the stinging alcohol out of my eyes, and started after her, but I’d made only five paces when a big guy with thick dreadlocks stepped in front of me and blocked my path.

  ‘All right, mate, leave her alone.’

  ‘Out of my way. I’m a police officer!’ I snapped, realizing as soon as the words were out that this was not the sort of venue to be declaring your links with the oppressive capitalist system.

  ‘Well, fuck you, then,’ he said evenly, and punched me on the side of the head.

  I stumbled back while his rake-thin girlfriend grabbed hold of him and told him not to get himself into any trouble. He started telling her to leave him be, but he never finished the sentence because I came forward with my trusty little truncheon in hand and smacked him round the face with it. He went down hard, hitting the floor with a satisfying thud, and his girlfriend screamed. I kept walking, keeping my head down, making for the door, once again caught completely unawares by the speed and direction of events.

  29

  It was raining even harder when I got outside. I looked up and down the street but could see no sign of Carla. It was quiet out there tonight. The traffic was running smoothly and there didn’t seem to be many people about. About fifty yards away I could make out a black cab waiting to turn right into a side street, and I wondered if she was inside it. I didn’t bother trying to find out, knowing it would be gone long before I got there, and instead lit another cigarette and stood where I was, trying to take in what I’d just heard. She’d stitched me up perfectly. I’d genuinely thought there’d been a shared attraction when all the time her sole purpose had been to throw me off track. And it had worked, too. Far too easily.

  There was a bus shelter across the road and I jogged over to it, fiddling around in my pocket for the mobile. When I reached the shelter I dialled Malik’s home number. His wife answered after a couple of rings. I’d met her once or twice in the past, and when I came on the line she asked me how I was. I told her I was fine, but that it was urgent I talked to him. ‘It’s about a case we were working on.’

  ‘I don’t like him getting too many calls at home, Dennis. He works hard enough as it is.’

  ‘I know, I know. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  Reluctantly, she went off to get Malik and he came on the phone a few seconds later.

  I didn’t beat about the bush. ‘Carla Graham. You were right about her. She’s a conniving, cynical bitch and she was involved in the Miriam Fox murder. I don’t know how or why, but she’s definitely involved. I think it might be something to do with blackmail. Drayer, that poet guy we met when we went round to Miriam’s flats, he remembers seeing her—’

  ‘Whoa, Dennis, slow down. What is this? When did you see Drayer?’

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw two figures walking towards the bus shelter. They both had their heads down, which I thought was strange. They were ten yards away and walking purposefully.

  ‘Just now. Two minutes ago.’

  Eight yards. Seven yards. They both had their hands in the pockets of their long coats. Malik was talking into my ear. Suddenly I wasn’t listening any more.

  Six yards. One of them raised his head, our eyes met, and I knew straight away that he was here to kill me.

  There was no time even to freeze with the fear that shot through me.

  Keeping as casual a face as possible, and still clutching the phone to my ear, I turned slowly on my heels and then, without warning, broke into a manic sprint, the adrenalin coursing through me. I dropped the phone in my pocket as I ran, sneaking a rapid peek over my shoulder. My movement had caught them by surprise, but only for a second. One pulled a sawn-off shotgun, the other a revolver. They lifted them
in my direction, still walking purposefully, not even breaking stride. And still only a matter of yards away.

  I didn’t think. I just didn’t have time. Reflexively, I veered sharply right and began running across the road. A car was forced to brake suddenly, its tyres skidding on the slick tarmac. I heard the driver shouting something angry but unintelligible.

  An explosion shattered the night air and something whistled past my head. I kept running, keeping low, trying to move in a zig-zag pattern to make it more difficult for them to hit me. More shots, this time from the revolver. Close. Far too close. Any second now and I was going to get a bullet between the shoulder blades.

  I could hear them right behind me, charging after me across the street. I hit the pavement on the other side and ran, crouching, using parked cars for cover. The shotgun blasted its load again and a shower of glass from a rear windscreen sprayed the ground. There was no way I was going to outrun these boys. They knew it. I knew it. All I could do was to keep going. With my head down and my body straining forward, I continued down the pavement as fast as my legs would carry me, knowing that all this effort was probably going to be in vain but too desperate to care.

  From somewhere in the direction of the Gallan Club I heard a woman scream in terror as she saw what was happening. For a split second I imagined her standing horrified above my bullet-riddled corpse. At that moment I was so frightened I could have pissed my pants.

  Then, without warning, I caught a glimpse of a man in a suit running across the street in an effort to get between me and my pursuers. He was holding something up in his right hand. A warrant card. He must have been a member of my surveillance team.

  ‘Police, police! Drop your weapons!’

  He’d got on to the pavement behind me and was standing in front of the gunmen. Ahead of me, on the other side of the street, I could see his partner – a shorter, fatter guy who looked a few years older. I recognized him straight away as the guy at the bar in the Chinaman the previous night. The Coke drinker who never liked to talk politics. He was waiting to cross the road to apprehend me, but a car speeding down the street was holding him up.