by David Mark
Objection!
Smoke rising from notepads on the press bench. Sniffles and gasps from the gallery behind.
Cadbury, staring straight ahead, sucking his lower lip and rolling the rosary between a fat finger and thumb.
Then all of us, holding our breath, as Choudhury rises.
“You killed Ella Butterworth, Mr Lewis, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Yeah I did. Oh hang on a sec. No, now I think on, I didn’t. It was that fat fucker behind you. That cunt who’s wrecked my fucking life, you Paki bastard.”
And that was the tone of it. Almost endless, the questions. Shot after shot, blow after blow from the fat man, and Lewis just batted them all away with barked obscenities and V-shaped fingers.
“You had a key to Mr Cadbury’s apartment. You stayed there when he was away, sometimes. That is what happened here, is it not? My client will contend that he did not even return to his home that week, that he indeed stayed at your property and you stayed at his. That it was he who returned home and found her dead in his bed, and that it was you who put a knife to his throat and said that if he did not take the blame, you would kill him and his family? You who held a knife to him and made him have sexual intercourse with her dead body.”
“What is wrong with you, mate?”
“You were feeling angry, about your failing relationship, about the fact that the girl you loved was interested in my client, and you took that anger out on the first girl you saw…”
“Can you hear the words that are coming out of your mouth? I’ve never killed owt. I don’t even stand on spiders…”
And it built. Built until something had to give.
“In May of last year, Mr Lewis, you were in prison for a short time for selling drugs. Do you remember that?”
“Aye.”
“And do you remember sharing a cell with a gentleman named Minns? David Minns?”
“Bodybuilder.”
“Mr Minns contends that while you were his cellmate, you disclosed personal secrets to him. Do you remember that?”
“Told him I’d split up with my lass. Told him that copper had kicked my head in cause of that murder. Told him a mate of mine did it. No fucking secret. Everybody in there fucking knew I’d been questioned. Got my head kicked in twice before the rumours stopped.”
“You see, Mr Minns contends that while you were his cellmate, you told him that it was you who killed Ella Butterworth. That you tried to seduce her, she turned you down, and you plunged your knife repeatedly into her, then brought her body back to Mr Cadbury’s flat, where you made him have sexual intercourse with her body to cover your tracks. That it was you who…”
“Minns is full of shit!! He’ll say owt for steroids and smack. It weren’t me, it was him – that fat bastard sitting there…”
Wasn’t easy to take down in shorthand.
Tony H and me sitting next to each other. Loving it all. Loving the abuse going Choudhury’s way. The bare, raw indignation of a nasty little Hull shit who couldn’t understand why anybody would think he had anything to do with all this; his wounded pride being spat out in swear words and rage.
A fun morning. Solid gold.
Erased my memory for a time. Blocked it out. All the shit. Jess. The bodies in the woods. Petrovsky. Kerry. Roper. The gun.
The gun in my inside pocket.
Hissing directly into my heart.
“Best file it in a sec,” I say. “Don’t think I’m going back for round two. You?”
“Reckon I’ll see what’s happening with the murder case. Give Roper a call. What do you reckon about what Lewis said? About getting his head kicked in? Bollocks?”
“I think he’s capable of it. You’ve heard the stories about who he was before he got into character. We all are though. Capable of losing it.”
“Well you proved that,” he laughs, finishing his drink. “I’ll catch up with you in a couple of hours. I’m going to work the phones a bit. I know a guy in the same nick as Petrovsky. Be nice to see what he’s up to.”
“Cool. Enjoy.”
Tony pulls on his coat and gives me a slap on the shoulder as he leaves. A draught blows in as he pulls open the old oak door and I shiver into my jacket, my drink, my cigarette, my sudden, all-consuming loneliness.
Opening up my phone. Torturing myself. The image of Jess, asleep on her back, eyes closed, mouth hanging slightly open. Pink knickers and smooth legs. Soft, gentle fingers, always cold.
The phone chirrups into life.
I slam it shut, guiltily. Startled. Flustered.
Open it again, as the song continues.
And with Jess’s body pressed to the side of my face, I say: “Hello”.
A soft, accented voice.
“Mr Lee. I believe you may have killed a friend of mine. We have your sister.”
His voice is lost amid the waves in my head.
And the whisper of the gun becomes a scream.
35
Tony H.
Killing time.
Yellow eyes burning a hole through the tea-break quickie and waiting for the gobby cow to lock up the archives and click-clack her way home.
3 down. “Scum”. Five letters.
No fucking idea.
He takes a sip of cold machine-tea. Swills it around his mouth and spits it back in the cup. Looks up, past the muddy shoes that are steaming on the desk.
Under his breath: “Leave, you bitch.”
The newsroom’s nicely busy. There’s a pleasant buzz about the place: the early evening hubbub, when the junior reporters are looking at each other to see who’s going to be the first to go home. They all finished their eight-hour shifts ages ago, but they think it will look bad if they leave the building, so they sit at their desks, reading stories on the internet and watching videos on YouTube, fiddling with backgrounders and bashing out fillers from the press releases and fliers that litter their desks.
Tony’s sitting in the news editor’s chair, feet in the boss’s in-tray, stockinged feet dark grey with rain. He has a desk of his own, tucked away between the sports subs and the picture desk, but the cleaners made a stand several months ago and have refused to go near it until he unsticks some of the takeaway boxes and canteen dinner plates from the carpet under his chair, and a stand-off has developed. The keys on his computer are so encrusted with grime that he’s been reduced to a four-letter alphabet, and he feels that even with his own inestimable talents, he’d struggle to craft a front page splash using only two vowels, an apostrophe and the number 9.
He gives up on the crossword. Puts it back on the pile of nationals. Stands up. Wanders around to the far side of the desk and leafs through the diary. Upcoming court dates. Inquests. Local authority meetings. Press calls and photo ops and parish councils by the bucketful. There are initials next to most of the entries: a reporter already tasked with spending their evenings sitting in draughty village halls listening to blue-blood wankers in cravats talk about ways to stop the neighbourhood children from enjoying themselves and pissing up the cricket pavilion. Tony’s name isn’t next to any of them. He does his own thing. The bosses know the score. He’s left alone, and he delivers. The news editor, a panicky chap in his early forties who constantly looks like he’s going to tear his clothes off and make a break for freedom, doesn’t even like to talk to him. He knows this is Tony’s manor. Tony’s paper. The editor, bullet-headed southern cock that he is, has the power of veto on Tony’s exclusives, but he doesn’t use it. Doesn’t want to upset his star man. He’s happy to take the credit and bask in the awards. He has to endure the occasional angry phone call from people who don’t like his methods, but it’s a small price to pay for having a proper old-school hack on the team and valuable filth on the local great and good.
Tony knows his worth. Knows that if he ever decided to walk, there’d be an army of papers battling it out for his services.
He also knows he never fucking can.
He slumps back in the chair and opens up the newsdesk fi
le on the news editor’s PC. Looks at his watch, eyeing the door. Still no sign. Back to the computer. Double click with an ink-stained finger. A list of stories appear, all waiting to be assessed, digested, then sent onto the sub-editors to be chopped down to size and laid out for the morning’s edition. He opens one at random. The upper class knobs out in one of the West Hull villages are moaning about plans for a new mobile phone mast. One of the young lasses has written it, and it’s not badly put together. He looks around the newsroom and spots her. Twenty-two. Black hair and bangles. Bit of meat around her middle and a strong jaw. Not pretty, but interesting for the eyes. He searches his memory banks. Joined in September, straight out of university. Family from Leicestershire. Degree in East Mediterranean History. Lives with a photographer and a few other young professionals in a big house off Spring Bank. Drinks with the other reporters in one of the fancy wine bars on Princes Ave. Going to serve her two years as a junior, then fuck off to bigger and better things. Thinks that stories are things that come on pieces of paper with a logo and contact telephone number attached. Thinks she’s being adventurous if she orders a half of cider on a school night. About as far from Tony’s style of reporting as you can get. Her contacts are press officers and the occasional vocal councillor. Nobody in the gutter. Nobody wading through other people’s shit and sifting out nuggets of copy. As far as he’s concerned, there are two types of reporter. Those who know how far you can reach into a wheelie bin without toppling in, and those who don’t.
Owen knows. Hates himself for it, the soft shite, but he knows how to get a story. Knows how to get people to open up. Willing to use his looks. His silver tongue. Even a bit of menace, if nowt else is working. Used to, anyway. Been fucking moping the past few months. Let his misfortune turn into misery. Started doubting himself and feeling guilty. Clamming up when he should be spouting. Staring at nothing when he should be smirking at the tasty juror on the back row and taking a baby-step towards rummaging in her drawers.
His nose wrinkles, a little ripple of anger that he can’t keep down and which flashes across his face like the wake from a rowing boat. He wants to warn him. Wants to tell his mate that he’s getting tiresome. That he’s only where he is through Tony’s own good graces. That he’s sitting on what he knows because he likes the fucker. That the story can wait for years if Tony so decrees. That he doesn’t have to destroy Owen, as long as the soft shite stops being so bloody maudlin and starts playing the game again.
The young reporter looks up and catches him scowling at her. She gives a nervous little smile, then turns away. He keeps looking. Stares until he knows she can feel it. Until she looks up again. Sees him still staring. She smiles at him again. He doesn’t change his face. She looks away, and he looks back to the computer screen, smiling at his little victory.
He hates what’s happening to the industry. Hates these twenty-somethings who can live on Daddy’s money while they put in their two years in a town they know nothing about. That flows over them without touching. Always got one eye on the next step. All these Dick Whittingtons gazing at the bright lights of London and fantasising about the day they open The Express and see their by-line next to an in-depth analysis of the shadow foreign secretary’s latest speech. Not Tony. He likes to take a city and wrap it around himself like candy floss around a stick. Make it his own. Take a paper and put his stamp on it. His brand. His rag. His paper: My Times.
He deletes the story that the lass has sent across and a few others at random. Looks for young Tom’s by-line but can’t see it anywhere in the file. He’s annoyed. Wanted to drop in a few typos and spelling mistakes to get the good-looking bastard in trouble.
The screensaver comes up and he looks at his reflection in the dark screen. Long, lugubrious face. Teeth like widely-spaced cricket bats. Slicked back hair and eyes like smoker’s fingers. Shakes his head as he feels it wash over him. The familiar feelings. He feels like lighting a cigar, just so the news editor will have to get up and ask him, in his faltering little squeak, to put it out. Stands up. Ambles over to the nearest empty desk and starts rifling through the press releases. Usual shit. Pubs re-opening under different names. Local businesses celebrating anniversaries. Political parties criticising their opponents for not fixing the potholes on the Longhill estate. Bollocks, really. Tony doesn’t go near a story unless it’s a potential splash. He doesn’t do local news. He does news that happens to be local. Officially, he’s the crime reporter, but it’s a coat that buttons up tight over a multitude of sins. He does sleaze. Blood. Does anything juicy. If it doesn’t come festooned in one or more bodily fluids, he’s not interested.
He takes his phone out of his pocket. Nothing.
Pulls out the Batphone. 666999. It still makes him laugh.
One missed call and a voicemail.
Listens to the message and nods, a pen sliding into his palm, scribbling some names and numbers on the back of somebody else’s notepad. Hangs up. Takes another sip of stone-cold tea.
Christ but he’s bored.
Click-clack, click-clack.
He breathes out. About fucking time.
The librarian passes his desk, too-big slip-on shoes slapping against the soles of her feet. She gives him a smile.
“You gracing us with your presence?” she asks.
He gives her a grin. “I just love watching you leave,” he says.
She’s still talking as she walks away. Tony watches her ample backside swing. She’s a plump lass in her fifties and her arse is enormous. Could balance a beer on her coccyx if you were so inclined. Couldn’t fuck her on her knees though. Wouldn’t get close.
He studies the computer screen for another few minutes. Visits past glories. Looks up his by-line on Google and reads some scoops from back in the day. A stabbing in Basildon. Pretty young blonde diced in a car park on her way home from the opticians where she worked. He remembers the story. Remembers the car park. The uneven tarmac with the big puddles of oily water that stained his socks. Detective inspector had tipped him the wink. He’d got there first when they were still scraping her up. Allowed him inside the tape. Killer had done a fucking job on her. More than eighty stab wounds. Fucking exhausting. Tony had followed the story for weeks. They arrested her boyfriend but it never got to court. Frittered away. Story was dead before the last petal fell from the mound of flowers laid at the scene. Poor lass. Had been pretty. Too pretty for him.
He stands and slips his feet back into his shoes. They’re still wet, but it doesn’t matter. Puts on his coat and heads for the door, a trail of muddy footprints on the soulless blue carpet.
A nod to the news editor, and a promise to call when he knows any more about the Country Park killings. Then out the door and into the stairwell. Down a flight of stairs. Another. It’s dark beyond the frosted glass and the weather sounds ghastly as it hurls fistfuls of rain at the panes. How would Owen describe it? he asks himself, mockingly. Like soil on a coffin lid. Fingers twitching on a crystal whisky tumbler? Soft shite. He tries a metaphor of his own. Like piss on a metal urinal? Perfect.
The lights are off in the corridor that leads down to the archives, but Tony knows his way. Passes two closed office doors, then reaches out with his fingers to find the frame of the library door. Reaches into his pocket and pulls out a huge ring of keys. With a bit of wiggling, he can find one that will open just about any lock, and this one is familiar territory. By touch, he finds the key with the bit of masking tape around the stem, and slips it into the lock. A quick motion and he’s in, pushing the door closed behind him before switching on the bank of striplights.
He breathes in. Savours the smell of old newspapers. Decades of copy, slowly turning yellow in manila folders and burgundy leather ring binders. Row after row of metal shelves, stacked with yesterday’s news. The reporters upstairs treat it like a museum. Pop in on their first week to meet the librarian, say hello and marvel at the fact that somebody spends their day manually archiving every single story that’s ever hit the streets of Hul
l. Then they fuck off back upstairs to use the computer database for background info on current cases, and forget this subterranean treasure trove even exists. Tony loves it down here. Gets on well with Gillian, the gobby, wide-arsed librarian who makes up for barely seeing a soul for forty hours of each week, by gabbling on about shit whenever somebody crosses her radar. Some days, when the snouts haven’t rung and the coppers have got nothing more to offer than a half-hearted nonce, he comes down and picks a file at random. Holds it by the spine and lets it fall open. He always finds gold. A snippet from the Sixties about a drunk and disorderly. Young fella getting thirty days for pissing on a police horse outside Rayner’s on Hessle Road. Easy enough to jot down the name and find out where they are now. That particular lad had grown up to be one of the bigwigs for British Gas, then become a magistrate when he retired. A phone call and a subtle letter, and Tony had another VIP in his pocket, drip-feeding him exclusives, opening up forbidden files, looking through court records to find phone numbers and contact details, only too happy to play ball and keep his name out of the papers.
Tony walks between the shelves, his fingers tracing the spines of the bulging folders. Pulls one out at random. Selects a snippet of newsprint, glued on crumpled A4. A murder from 1963. Lad beaten to death at King George Dock. Body found in the water. Visiting seamen suspected. He makes a mental note to find out what happened, then carries on down to the far end of the room.
There’s a bucket of stagnant water in the corner, next to the radiator. It’s the Hull Mail’s answer to a humidifier and a vague attempt to protect these thousands of pieces of old paper from drying out and falling to bits. It’s not working.
He finds the little step-ladder that Gillian uses to reach the top, dust-encrusted files, and climbs up. Selects the file he came here for.
A–C, 1921.
Nobody’s looked in it for eighty-odd years. It had seemed the best place to hide his find.
He walks to Gillian’s desk and sits down. Leafs through the old pages until his fingers seize on a plastic folder. Retrieves it and stares for a few moments at the headlines. The name. Pulls out the documents. Flicks through them. Finds the page that had first caught his eye. The face. Younger. So much younger. But still a handsome cunt, even at nine years old.