by T S O'Rourke
The old woman’s eyes scanned the mug-shot book with obvious delight. It seemed as if she was having the time of her life. She was a live-wire all right, Carroll thought. And he wasn’t wrong. Elizabeth Gardener had been married five times. Each of her husbands had died prematurely, leaving her alone but increasingly wealthy. She had a particular fancy for Jamaican men, she had told Grant, who shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot on hearing this. Her third and fourth husbands had been Jamaican, she had said. Carroll wondered if any of her husbands had been Irish. She didn’t seem like the same nice old lady that Carroll had spoken to a day or so before.
As she poured over the photos, Carroll and Grant drank their cups of tea and asked a few more questions.
‘Was your personal assistant here on the day of the murder?’ Carroll asked.
‘No – she only comes in two afternoons a week – the rest are mornings, aren’t they dear?’ she said, turning to her helper.
‘That’s right,’ the young woman said, nodding.
‘So, the guy was around thirty, blonde and going bald, Mrs. Gardener?’ Grant asked.
‘Yes – he was wearing jeans and running shoes, with a green jacket. He left the house very quickly and ran off up the road in that direction,’ she said, pointing northwards, up the street.
‘And that was at around four-thirty, ma’am?’ Carroll asked.
‘Yes, half past four. This one here looks familiar,’ she said, pointing at a photo in the book before her. ‘Is he a killer?’
‘So you think that this was the man who ran from the house?’
‘Yes – it looks very much like him, anyway....’
The guy in the photo was Mike Taylor, a well-known burglar in the area, who had been sent down three times in the past ten years for house-breaking and dealing in stolen goods. He didn’t seem like he had what it took to be a killer – at least not according to his record.
Carroll didn’t look too happy. Sure, the woman had identified the man she had seen running from the house, and he bore a resemblance to what the forensics people said the killer might look like, but he was a burglar – not a killer. Mike Taylor had never been done for GBH or assault. In fact, if Carroll could remember correctly, Taylor had been caught breaking into a house by the occupant and had been flattened by a single punch. This wasn’t their man – at least not in Carroll’s eyes. However, if he was right, then Taylor had a hell of a lot of explaining to do – whichever way you wanted to look at it.
Grant explained to Mrs. Gardener that she would have to identify the man at an identity parade and give evidence, if necessary, at a later date. She was looking forward to it, she said.
DCI Jones wanted another word. As the details of the first killing had been in the papers the day before, he was hardly surprised that persistent reporters should make a connection between the two killings. After all, the method of killing was very similar. The front page of The Evening Standard told the story of a serial killer who had a grudge against call girls. While much of the story was conjecture, there was more than a little evidence which would point a decent reporter in that direction. Jones wanted his two detectives to keep their mouths shut around the press.
‘All questions on this case should be referred to me – I don’t want you two guys talking to the media – understand? The Chief Superintendent has already been on the phone, and he wants this whole case kept as low-key as possible. We don’t want to start causing a panic in the city – do we?’ Jones said.
‘Well, it could be the best way to avoid anymore killings...’ Carroll said.
‘Look, call girls are call girls – they’d go out to work if the Yorkshire Ripper was still out there for chrissake. The best thing to do is contact the escort agencies in the area and tell them not to worry, but to take more precautions when they go out on a job....’
‘It’s not that easy, sir, they’ll not take a blind bit of notice if you do that. You’ll have to scare them off the job – otherwise I reckon we’re gonna have a few more bodies on our hands....’ Grant said.
‘What’s the update on your suspect?’ Jones asked.
‘He’s a local villain – a house breaker – he’s no murderer....’ Carroll said.
‘Burglar or murderer, I want him brought in for questioning ASAP – okay?’
‘I’m working on it right now. One of my snouts tells me he’ll have a fix on him by late afternoon. He’s not at his old address – apparently the local residents threw him out when he started breaking into their houses....’
‘A hard case, eh?’
‘Hard, maybe – but not that hard. He’s not our man, sir. I’ll put twenty on it....’
‘Well, if you’re so damned sure, you’d best get out there and find out who is responsible....’
There was a lot to do. Apart from trying to find their only suspect, Mike Taylor, they also had to visit the City Slickers Escort Agency in order to get more information on the dead girl. And, after all of that, it would be a visit to Noel Harrigan in the forensics laboratory – provided they had the results to the many tests that were due to be carried out. Carroll didn’t feel quite up to it all, and Grant’s mind was far from being on the job.
Grant had spoken to Victoria on the phone the day after the night they had spent together – and the reception was frosty, to say the least. Whatever loving they had done, it all now seemed to mean nothing. He was back to where he started. Or so it seemed. Nothing was ever simple when it came to his relationship with Victoria. She had always been the one who took the lead, and now she appeared to be leading herself and their children in another direction. A direction that was far from the original tack taken by the Grant family in the six years before they had split up.
The first port of call for Grant and Carroll was a bookie shop on Upper Street, where Dan had arranged to meet his informant. While he wasn’t the best snout around, he had provided some good information in the past and Carroll knew when he could put the squeeze on him for more. Although Ted Rogers wasn’t exactly a mastermind criminal, he had enough stolen goods passing through his hands to make him interesting – should anyone care to take such an interest. Carroll saw to it that they didn’t. So what Ted got was peace of mind, and what Carroll got was information on more interesting individuals. It worked like a charm.
Ted Rogers was a dead give-away. Even old ladies on the street could recognise a small-time crook when they saw one, and Ted was just such a character. He was a Cockney wide-boy, complete with fur-lined jacket and a few gold chains to top off his uniform. A uniform that didn’t suit a fifty-something year old man who always appeared to have the shakes.
Carroll’s interest was drifting away from Ted Rogers and his information and on to the three-thirty at Newbury. There was a horse in the race that had come in for him before and, according to Carroll’s betting system, it was about time he came in again. It was a system that appeared to work – at least fifty percent of the time, anyway. Betty’s Boy was on the board at twelve to one, and was being ridden by an up-and-coming young Irish jockey called Declan Maguire. Carroll put a tenner on the nose and returned to his conversation with Ted.
Ted had heard that Mike Taylor was usually to be found drinking in a pub called The Bulldog. It was there that he did most of his business. Televisions, video recorders, Hi-Fi systams, credit cards – Taylor could get anything you wanted, according to Ted.
The three-thirty was under orders, and then off. Over six furlongs Betty’s Boy battled it out with Sloane Street Chique, ending with a photo-finish between them. Carroll stood motionless, staring up at the TV screen in the corner of the shop. Ted Rogers had disappeared by the time Carroll looked around for him.
Grant had waited out in the car while his partner went into the bookies, and was now growing ever impatient – especially since he had seen Ted Rogers scurrying away from the bookie shop like a worried rabbit. Carroll’s mood on returning to the car told Grant everything he needed to know. Whatever nag he had bet on, it hadn’t c
ome in....
‘The Bulldog – do you know where it is?’ Carroll asked, sounding more than a little agitated.
‘Roseberry Avenue?’
‘Yeah – that’s the one. Ted thinks we’ll find Taylor there – I reckon we’d best check the place out – what do you think?’ Carroll said wearily.
‘Let’s do it.’
The Bulldog wasn’t the sort of place you’d want to bring your mother or, to be more precise, your daughter – especially if you were a foreigner. The sign outside was emblazoned with a Union Jack and a bulldog – the signs inside were a little more stark, a little more off-putting.
Every eye in the place centred on the two detectives as they walked in. Of the fifty people in the bar, at least thirty were skinheads – most were pissed. Half four on a Thursday afternoon, and they were all smashed. Grant looked a little uneasy – especially when approached by several skinheads, who began making ape-like noises. Carroll flashed his badge.
‘All right, lads – get back in your cages....’
‘It’s bleedin’ Paddy the Pig and the talking gorilla....’ said a rather beefy-looking man at the bar.
‘Shut it, fatso, or I’ll have you down the station before you can say ‘Sieg Heil’....’ Carroll said.
The guy behind the bar didn’t look too happy. Over half the people in the pub were smoking dope, and a few looked like they’d had something a little stronger. Carroll called him over.
‘Listen pal, I need to talk to the landlord – understand?’
‘He’s busy,’ the barman said.
‘Well he’d better get un-busy very, very quickly, or he’ll be fighting to keep his licence – understand?’
‘Just a minute.’
The barman picked up a phone behind the bar and rang an internal number. He didn’t look too happy.
‘He’ll be down in a minute,’ the barman said.
‘We’ll wait out the back for him, okay?’ Grant replied, pushing past the barman and walking through to the yard at the back of the bar. Carroll followed.
Chapter 13
The Landlord of The Bulldog was around fifty, with a closely cropped hair-cut that made him look like a sergeant major from a Royal Marine boot camp. Only this was the landlord of The Bulldog, and he wasn’t too keen on talking to the pigs.
Carroll had met guys like this a thousand times – as had Grant. There was nothing special about him. A big beer-belly and an attitude – nothing more. The noise from inside the pub filtered out into the yard at the back of the pub where Carroll and Grant now stood, talking politely to the man in front of them.
‘Right, let’s keep this as simple as possible, shall we?’ Grant said, looking over at his partner before returning his glare to the Landlord.
‘Listen, I don’t know what you guys are here for, but everything’s above board – it’s all kosher, you know,’ the Landlord said.
‘There’s a lot going on in your pub, Mr...?’
‘Smith,’ he said.
‘Smith,’ repeated Grant. ‘And we are very interested in cleaning up your little establishment. You know, get rid of the skins, the swastika you have above the toilet door, your licence – those little things. You see Mr., er, Smith, we don’t like your grimy little pub, we don’t like the people you serve, and we don’t like you. You need to co-operate with us, Mr. Smith. Do you understand?’
‘This is harassment – I’m gonna get on to your boss about this, mate.’
‘Listen, if we were to close the doors of the pub right now, and search everybody for drugs and weapons, we could have your licence suspended in a matter of hours. And you know how long you’d be closed before you could appeal?’ Carroll said.
‘Okay, what do you want?’ Smith asked with an air of resignation.
‘We want your co-operation in a small police matter. We’re looking for one of your regulars. He’s not gonna be arrested, we just need to talk to him, understand?’
‘Go on,’ Smith said.
‘He’s called Mike Taylor – do you know him?’ Grant asked.
‘Mike Taylor? I know a guy called Mike, but I’m not sure if he’s a Taylor....’
‘He’d be around thirty, blonde hair, going a little thin on top – sells some hot gear occasionally...’
‘I’m not sure,’ Smith said, rubbing his chin and eyeing Grant up. ‘He does sound familiar though...’
Carroll had had enough of the ape in front of him. Pushing him backwards over a couple of beer barrels, Carroll made his point.
‘Don’t fuck around with us, you stupid little prick. We’ll have you closed down in a matter of hours, if that’s what you want....’
‘He drinks in here most nights. Comes in after eight and has a few beers, does a little business,’ Smith said, getting to his feet. ‘I don’t want any hassle from you two – if you come around again...’
‘If we come around again,’ Carroll interrupted, ‘we’ll find a nice clean pub with no drugs or stolen goods – and if we don’t, then you’d better start worrying, my pot-bellied little Führer. Verstehen Sie?’ Carroll added, using what little German he had.
Smith nodded the nod of understanding and adjusted his beer-stained T-shirt, before disappearing back into the pub. Grant followed him, with Carroll hot on his heels. Once they reached the bar the ape-like noises started all over again.
Grant had had enough, and took his anger out on the nearest ape-imitator, stamping on his foot and twisting his arm behind his back in a swift move that attracted a surprised and admiring look from Carroll.
‘Come on, Tonto, let’s get out of here before we have to nick the lot of them,’ Carroll said, tugging at Grant’s arm.
Grant disengaged himself and moved to the door, followed by the clientele of the pub, one of whom shouted:
‘Fuck off back to the jungle, bunny boy! Fuck off back to the jungle, and take Paddy with you!’
Carroll turned, caught the man who was shouting, and kicked him between the legs. Grant started the car, and Carroll got in as quickly as he could. The two detectives sped away from The Bulldog grinning like young children at Christmas.
City Slickers Escort Agency wasn’t too unlike the first escort agency that Carroll and Grant had visited after the death of Joanne McCrae. It had the same type of grimy stairwell leading up to it and a claustrophobic feel that got under your skin. The reception room was empty, and a kettle, sat on a little table, was on the boil. Someone was home, thought Dan, scanning the room with his eyes.
The sound of a flushing toilet and the unlocking of a door latch came from behind them. A rather thin door opened and a young woman stepped out. She wasn’t the sort you might expect to find working in an escort agency. Tall, slim and well groomed, she walked like a model and spoke like a privately educated princess.
‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ she asked.
‘I’m Detective Grant, and this is my partner, Detective Carroll. We have reason to believe that a girl called Isabella Visi used to work here.’
‘I’m sorry, the name doesn’t sound familiar...’ she said.
‘Can we have your name, Miss?’ Carroll asked, politely.
‘Jeanie. Why are you looking for this woman?’ she asked.
‘We’re not looking for her, we’ve just found her – she’s dead, and we’re conducting an investigation into her death,’ Carroll said.
‘Dead?’
‘She was found yesterday. We need your help in piecing together her last movements. We’ll need a list of her last couple of jobs – can you help us?’ Grant asked.
‘When... when did you find her? How did she die?’ Jeanie asked.
‘We have reason to believe that she was murdered while on a job – that’s why we need your help,’ Carroll said, looking over at his partner.
‘What do you want?’ Jeanie asked.
‘Well, she did work for you, didn’t she?’ Grant said.
‘Yeah, she did a few shifts a week. She was a good worker, always popular with
the punters, you know....’
‘Do you keep a list of calls your girls go out on, Jeanie?’ Carroll asked.
‘Yeah, I’ve only got five girls working for me at the moment, so it’s not a problem keeping track of them.’
‘We’d like a list of the jobs Isabella went on in the last few days,’ Grant said.
‘Okay, just a moment, I have the details in here somewhere,’ Jeanie said, opening a drawer in her desk. As she pulled out a ledger, the phone rang. Jeanie answered it.