by Blake Banner
“Because the victim was a couple of inches shorter than the previous victims? That’s pretty thin, Stone.”
I sighed. “It’s not just that. There are other things. Where has he been for the last fifteen years? Why has he suddenly come back, at the same time as Johnson? That is weird. Too weird. It’s what I said to you, if you accept that it is not a coincidence, but also that Johnson is not the guy, where does that leave you?”
“So, hang on, hang on there a moment. What are you saying? I’m getting two things from you. You’re saying you don’t think Johnson did it, you never did; but you’re going further. You’re also saying you don’t think the original killer, from fifteen years ago, did it either. You think this is a copycat.”
I nodded. “I don’t know if it’s exactly a copycat, but this was not done by the same killer.”
“How can you know? How can you be so sure? The height is not enough… That he was inactive for fifteen years doesn’t prove anything, Stone. There could be any number of reasons for that. He might have been ill, in China, in some kind of remission—hell, he might have been in jail!”
I shook my head. “Because the original killer was probably an American, or at least he was really into Don McLean. And the man who killed that girl in Halcrow Street was English, and definitely not into Don McLean.”
THREE
Before she could ask me any more, Harry stepped through the door and approached us on heavy feet across the bare, wooden floor. His eyes flicked over my face and Dehan’s and he said, “I gather we have talked it all through.”
I gave a single nod and stood, “Any news on the girl’s ID?”
“Not much. The landlord said her name was Katie, that’s all he knows…”
Dehan got to her feet too, frowning. “What about the rental agreement? Her name must be on that.”
Harry grunted. “She paid cash, no questions asked.”
We followed him to the door. As we stepped out into the leaden, gray heat, I said, “What about her accent? Was she American or British?”
“I knew you’d ask that. He said she was very posh.”
Dehan asked, “That means she’s British? Americans can’t be posh?”
Harry laughed. I shook my head. “We can have class, but to be posh, you have to be British. It’s to do with how you speak. Don’t even try to understand. Just accept that it’s so. She was British. More specifically, English.”
“OK, so that is out of character with the previous victims, plus she was shorter.”
Harry looked at her curiously, then turned to me. “How do you feel about talking to Johnson?”
“Sure. You brought him in, or do I go get him?”
“We have nothing to bring him in on, but it might be interesting to rattle his cage. From neighbor’s testimony, we’ve narrowed down time of death to the last twenty-four hours. The students on the ground floor, that’s the first floor to you, right? They saw her standing outside yesterday morning, smoking a cigarette.”
Dehan said, “So where is this son of a bitch?”
Harry smiled at her. “He’s at the Olympia, at Earl’s Court. He has a stand at the Dragons, Daemons and Dungeons exhibition.” He handed her two tickets and a folded, glossy leaflet. “Enjoy.” He turned to me and narrowed his eyes. “You sure about this? You want me to come along?”
“Too late for that, Harry. I’m in. But I’ll be honest with you. I’m surprised they agreed to your request. I’d have serious questions about my objectivity.”
“Yeah, the fact that you remarried helped. And I stressed you were only a consultant. That and the fact that nobody knows the case like you do swung it.” He pulled out the keys to his car. “It’s not a Jag, but it’ll get you from A to B. Try to stay on the right side of the road.”
“You mean the left.”
“That’s what I said.”
We watched him run across the road, dodging the traffic, then made our way to the VW Passat he’d parked opposite the entrance to the pub. I leaned on the roof as she opened the passenger door to get in. “He’s right about one thing,” I said.
She jerked her head at me. “What?”
“It’s not a Jag.”
London has one immensely long road that runs right the way through it and all the way out to Oxford. It has various names all along its length, including High Holborn, Oxford Street, Bayswater Road and Notting Hill Gate. We followed this road most of the way, except for Oxford Street, which is only open to big red buses and black cabs, and at Notting Hill Gate, we turned down Kensington Church Street and joined Kensington High Street. The traffic was heavy and the humid heat was oppressive. We didn’t talk, except that at one point Dehan asked me, “How do you want to do this?”
I shook my head that I didn’t know. Turned to look at her and shook it again. Pretty soon, we crossed the bridge over the subway and turned right onto Olympia Way. We eventually found the multi-story car park, left the car on the fourth story, and made our way on foot to the main entrance of the exhibition center. On the way I had a look at the leaflet Harry had given Dehan. It said:
SATAN’S CAVE
ONLINE STORE FOR KICK-ASS MERCHANDISE
AND MORE.
They had everything from leather cigarette pouches and customized Zippo lighters to Viking drinking horns and confederate flags emblazoned with the skull and crossbones. There was a picture of him in one corner. He had aged, but not much. His long, sandy hair was a bit thinner on top, his beard, which had been copper, was now turning gray, but aside from that, he was pretty much the same hard-ass desperado he had been fifteen years earlier. His stall was number six six six. It kind of had to be.
We stepped through the main doors and into Geek Junction. The entire hall, which is vast, was draped in black cloth, with bits of broken castle dotted here and there. Many of the larger stalls were designed like dungeon entrances or ancient taverns from Cimmeria.
We strolled down the central aisle. I glanced at Dehan’s face and smiled. She didn’t look at me, she just said, “What?” and before I could answer, “Did you ever play?”
“Dragons and Dungeons? No. You did, though, didn’t you?”
“You kidding? I wasn’t even born when it came out.”
“Yeah? I wasn’t born when Clue and Monopoly came out. I still played them.”
“That’s different.”
“Confess.”
“Yeah, OK, I was addicted for, like, two years.”
“It’s written all over your face.”
“So you’re smart. Who knew.”
“I am struggling not to imagine you in a brass bikini.”
“Try harder. Look, there it is, over there.”
We were at an intersection of two aisles. Two corners down on the left, there was a large stall, part castle wall and part bearskins. Sticking up over the corner pole was a luminous cube with the number 666 on it. Dehan looked up into my face.
“You want me to go talk to him? Get him onto the subject of gun control. How hard it is to get a piece in this country…”
I smiled at her. “He’s a white supremacist militia man. You are half Mexican and half Jewish. How do you think that’s going to work out?”
She slid her eyes sideways. “I could use the Force. I trained as a Jedi too, you know?”
“I know. But this time, let’s just pay him a surprise visit.”
He was crouching behind a counter that was draped with black velvet and laid on top with trays of silver rings and torques, mostly bearing either skulls, dragons or wolves. Hanging on the back wall were samurai swords, Viking swords and battle axes. There were also drinking horns, flagons and various other bits of kit for anybody bent on remembering their previous incarnation as a heroic barbarian.
I leaned on the counter and spoke quietly. “I hope you’re not hiding back there, Brad.”
He looked up and his eyes shifted from my face to Dehan’s and back again. They said he recognized me, but he asked, “Do I know you?”
I felt a slow, hot rage begin to build in my gut, but I kept my voice quiet. “Well, that’s a little rude, Brad, to kill a man’s wife and not remember his face. That’s not polite.”
He frowned at me, then began to smile. “No, not coming to me. But you know, when you do as much whoring as I do, it’s hard to keep track of every bitch you fuck and kill, and who she was married to. It’s a lot to remember. Was there anything else?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Where were you between the hours of ten AM yesterday and ten AM this morning?”
He burst out laughing. “You have got to be kidding me, man! I do not believe this! I don’t have to answer your fuckin’ questions, man!”
I nodded, “That’s true. But you know what, if I talk to my buddies at the CID about all the war games you get up to out in the wilds of Arizona, and your far right white supremacist friends here in the U.K., they might feel like asking you a few questions themselves. Do you know how long they can hold you without charge here, Brad? Fourteen days, and upon application by a police superintendent, that can be extended indefinitely.”
He shook his head, narrowing his eyes at me. “You can’t do this. You ain’t a cop here. I heard you went back to New York.”
Dehan smiled. “You know what? I think he does remember you.”
“Oh, Brad remembers me. We’re old buddies. We go back a long way, don’t we, Brad? Brad’s the man who killed my first wife. You don’t get much closer than that, do you?”
Beads of sweat had started to appear on his temples. “What the hell’s going on, man? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked at Dehan. “This guy is always trying to frame me. But I never done nothin’ ’cept try and make an honest living. He hates me because I’m a redneck, but hell! There ain’t no shame in bein’ a redneck!”
I let him run down. When he’d finished, I shrugged and said, “You know what the tragic irony of this whole thing is, Brad? I always believed you were innocent. That whole task force was convinced you were guilty, but I kept telling them, serial killing was not your scene. You might kill for an honest reason, but not just for kicks.”
He looked confused. “Well, that’s right. I ain’t never been into that weird shit.”
“So where were you, Brad? Or would you rather the antiterrorist squad ask you?”
“Oh, man!” He heaved a big sigh. “Last night? I was at home. I got stoned with some chick and watched a movie.”
“How about in the afternoon?”
“I was here, setting up the stall.”
“All afternoon?”
“Yeah, all afternoon! Of course all afternoon! This is my fuckin’ business. It’s what I live on. What do you think I was doing the day before opening at the biggest fuckin’ exhibition in Europe?”
“How about in the morning?”
“At my apartment, loading up the van, where do you think? You know, you cops make me sick! You shit and the department is there to wipe you fuckin’ ass. You need a car, you need a holiday, you need a doctor, you need a fuckin’ shrink. The PD is there to take care of it. Me? A regular guy like me? I have to do the whole fuckin’ thing myself. And believe me, it ain’t easy when some fuckin’ cop has decided you killed his fuckin’ wife and one way or another you are going down for it!”
His voice had been steadily getting louder, until his face flushed red and he shouted the last words. People turned to stare, then went on their way.
The three of us were quiet for a moment, then I said, “So what you’re telling me is that you have no alibi.”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I am telling you. And you have no evidence to put me at the scene, or instead of some crazy New York bozo and his girlfriend, they’d have English cops here putting me in cuffs. So get the hell out of my face.”
Dehan said, “What scene, Brad?”
He made a face that said she was stupid. “Seriously? What scene? What, you think you caught me out? Oh, wait, you’re asking me where I was yesterday just to pass the time? Or the crime was committed in a space-time vortex so there was no actual scene? Get real, sister!” He shook his head and said, “Now tell me not to leave town and walk out a here like you didn’t just make fuckin’ assholes of yourselves.”
I ignored him and asked, “Who was the girl you watched the movie with?”
“I’m going to count to three, then I’m calling security. Then I’m going to call my attorney and sue your ass!”
“Yeah, I remember you had an attorney back in the day. What was his name? You still got the same guy? Nigel? Nigel Hastings?”
“One, two…”
I sighed. “OK, Brad, we’re going. Just one question before we do.”
“What?”
“You know Don McLean’s song, Pride Parade?”
He screwed his face up at me like I was talking word salad at him. “What?”
“Don McLean. You know who Don McLean is?”
“Yeah, I know who fuckin’ Don McLean is. What I don’t know is what the fuck you are talking about. You want to get the hell out of here? I’m trying to promote my business.”
I raised a hand. “Bear with me, Brad. Don McLean recorded a song in 1972 called the Pride Parade.”
“So what?”
“What did you think of it?”
“Nothing. I didn’t think anything of it. I don’t know the fucking song. Pride Parade? What is he, gay? I know he married a Jewess and he has Jewish fuckin’ kids! Now stop wasting my fuckin’ time and get the hell out of here!”
I smiled at Dehan. “Thanks, Brad.” I winked at him. “Catch you later.”
We walked back down the aisle and stepped out of the exhibition hall into the heat of the late afternoon. We fell into step, walking slowly back toward the parking garage. I pulled my cell from my pocket and checked that I had recorded our last exchange. It was all there.
Dehan said, “You want to tell me what that was all about?”
I put my hands in my pockets. “Don McLean was married for thirty years to a Jewish woman, Patrisha. Both his kids were brought up Jewish.”
“OK…”
“Brad Johnson is an active white supremacist and, like most white supremacists, he is also deeply anti-Semitic and buys into the whole Rothschild, Zionist conspiracy for a one world government theory, all that crap.”
“So it makes sense that he wouldn’t be all that interested in… Oh, wait…”
“Exactly. The guy who killed Amy, Cindy, Sally-Anne and Kathleen clearly has an abiding interest in Don McLean.”
She frowned. “And Pride Parade?”
“He understandably mistook the meaning of the title, which has nothing to do with being gay. Gay used to mean happy, pride used to mean pride, now they are both associated with homosexuality, something which Brad abhors. So he asked if Don McLean was gay. Somehow, I think that our killer would not have made that mistake. Either way, the first thing that came to his mind was not American Pie. He may be many things, but he is not our serial killer.”
“What do you want to do now?”
I gave it some thought. “We go and have a talk with Harry. Let’s see what he’s found out about this girl, Katie. I also need to look at the file on Hattie. I’ve never…” I faltered. “I’ve never been able to bring myself to read the file. But I think it’s time, Dehan. Maybe I have a chance here to nail the bastard and lay her to rest at last.”
She nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. We have three crimes here, Stone, six murders and three crimes. We need to keep them clear and separate in our minds.”
“I know. Three crimes and only one suspect. That’s no accident.”
“What do you mean?” She stopped on the corner of the parking garage. “No accident how?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know yet, but I can tell you it’s no accident.”
I thumbed my address book and called Harry.
“John, where are you?”
“We just came out of the Olympia.”
“Excellent. How
did it go?”
I looked at Dehan a moment. “It was interesting. We need to talk.”
“Good, come over to the embankment. I’m in my office. I’ll tell them to expect you downstairs and show you up.”
“Harry? I’m going to need a couple of things.”
“Anything. Name it.”
“I need the file on Hattie’s death.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “OK, John, but let’s not get sidetracked.”
“Don’t worry about it. That’s not going to happen.”
He didn’t sound convinced. “Hang on, John, not so fast. Are you sure you’re up to reading that report?”
“Yes. Just please do it, Harry.”
He sighed, “OK, if you’re sure.”
“I am. Another thing. The note that was pinned to Katie’s eye. Have you got a copy of it?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I’m going to need that, and copies of the other four from fifteen years ago. Can you do that for me?”
I could hear him making notes. “Yes, sure,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, a big bottle of Bushmills.”
He laughed out loud. “Same old John Stone. I’ll have it all waiting for you when you get here.”
“Give me twenty minutes or half an hour.”
Dehan was standing with her hands in her pockets, shaking her head at her feet. She looked up and her face was eloquent of a curious mixture of admiration and despair. “A bottle of Bushmills? Seriously? A detective inspector of Scotland Yard asks you what you need, and John Stone, with his two king-sized cojones, says, a bottle of Bushmills. You are singular and unique, Sensei. They made you and they broke the mold.”
I gave a small laugh and started to walk again toward the entrance of the parking garage. “It’s not as outrageous as you might think, Little Grasshopper. There is, as the old cliché would have it, a method to my madness.”
“You have a reason for asking Scotland Yard to provide you with a bottle of Bushmills.”
I nodded. “I prefer it to Scotch. It is distilled three times, so it’s smoother. And did you know that the ten-year-old single malt is matured in bourbon casks as well as oloroso sherry casks?”