by Matthew Ross
For instance, I know Tommy supported Tottenham, took two sugars in tea but none in coffee and liked 90s Britpop, because these are things that arise in the present – a song on the radio, a headline on a newspaper back page, an order in the cafe. But beyond the superficial, how well are you meant to know anyone?
So many conversations, little more than ‘What did you get up to at the weekend?’ ‘Not much, you?’ ‘Not a lot’, and straight into the present, the here and now. It’s as if we understand the polite thing to do is show an interest, but we’d rather not actually know.
Should Tommy and I have tried more to scratch below the surface, perhaps trusted each other a little more? ‘How was your weekend?’ ‘Well I’ve just amassed a secret fortune, but shh it’s all highly illegal.’
The truth about that moment in the van? I discovered two things: one, I was embarrassed at being shocked, but more embarrassed for being so complacent and lazy, and two, Disco’s a terrible singer.
14
So, this is what an interview room looks like is it? This police station is quite new, I remember it being built about ten years ago after they decided to make it regional for the whole of Medway rather than modernise the old local stations. The new police station has been sited on what always used to be an indistinct boundary, an odd no-man’s land between Gillingham and Chatham.
Unless you knew the building’s true purpose you could be forgiven for thinking it was a new college on the edge of the nearby university campus due to the way its red brick and glass elevations dominated its corner location.
I’d lost track of how long I’d been sitting in there alone trying to mask out the stench of cabbagey farts that seemed ingrained in the place. I was just about to walk out when the only door in the room opened and in strode Senia, who took the seat opposite me and shot out his arms to adjust his shiny cufflinks. Another man followed behind him laden with files, notebooks and other paraphernalia.
‘Mr Poynter,’ said Senia, ‘Thank you for gracing us with your presence, you’re a very difficult man to get hold of.’
‘Not really. Just trying to earn a living, been a bit busy.’
‘Well, we’re all truly grateful you could make time in your very full diary to come and help us, it’s very much appreciated,’ he said, with all the sincerity of someone that didn’t have a single ounce of it in his body.
‘As you know I am the senior investigating officer and my name is Detective Chief Inspector Senia, and my colleague here is…’
‘Hello Nick, you alright?’ I said.
‘…Detective Constable Witham.’ Senia trailed his sentence to a slow halt.
‘Yeah, I’m fine Mark, you?’ was the cheerful reply from the aforesaid Detective Constable Witham.
‘Not bad, considering. I’m okay. I saw Tim the other day.’
‘Tim,’ his response had a fond, nostalgic tone.
‘I see that you and DC Witham are already acquainted,’ snapped Senia. He was unsettled by this. I liked it.
‘Not a problem is it, Mr Senia? After all, as you say, I’m only here to help, aren’t I? I’m not under arrest, am I? Do I need a lawyer present?’
‘No. You are free to leave at any time, Mr Poynter.’
The tone of his voice was resentful. Behind him I could see Nick Witham tense a little, he’d probably get bawled out after this by Senia, and it was my fault. I’d have to catch up with him later to apologise, as Nick was a decent guy, plus I could see the benefit of having an ear inside the investigation now I’m back in Hamlet’s debt.
Senia paused and looked straight at me. He’d done this to me before, which made me wonder if it was something he’d learnt on a course. The way he stared was quite unsettling. He took a deep breath through his nose, and then in a fluid motion heralded by the scrape of chair legs he sprung to his feet and left the room. Nick Witham looked at me, looked at the open door, looked at me again, gathered up everything from the table, then disappeared out of the door too.
After ten minutes of looking at the wall again, the door reopened and Senia reappeared, this time flanked by a young man who looked all of about seventeen; it was his turn to be laden with all of the files, notebooks and paraphernalia.
‘Detective Constable Witham has been called away on urgent matters. So, allow me to do the introductions.’ He was enjoying his little moment. ‘We are joined this morning by DC Nwakobu.’
Young Mr Nwakobu looked like he’d found his role model and mentor in Senia, judging by his matching navy-blue suit, white shirt and shiny cufflinks.
‘So,’ Senia took a deep breath and then exhaled. ‘We think we’ve identified the murder weapon.’
That took me by surprise. To be honest I hadn’t given it any thought. I remember seeing Tommy and his blood channelled in the square gridlines of the tile joints, bits of bone and gristle on his collar – but it never occurred to me look for a weapon, why would it? I’m a spark not Sherlock Holmes.
‘DC Nwakobu, the weapon if you please.’
With a loud thump that resonated off the room’s hard flat surfaces he dropped on to the table a transparent plastic bag through which I could see a 4lb hammer. The varnish to the wooden handle was worn and flat, one face of the hammer’s head was pocked and chipped from repeated use, the other face was matted with clumps of hair and blood. The hairs on my arms began to rise, a chill cold fell across my skin; suddenly, I felt vulnerable.
‘Do you know what this is?’ said Senia.
‘It’s a hammer,’ I replied.
‘Do you recognise it?’
‘No, it’s just a hammer, you can buy them anywhere.’
‘Anywhere?’
‘Anywhere. Any builders merchant sells them. Millions of them.’
‘So, it’s the sort of thing a carpenter would carry in his kit, then is it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or, maybe not. After all, this is a club hammer, is it not, the proverbial blunt instrument. It’s not a joinery tool, is it? People use these if they want to break something. Or someone. Is this your hammer Mr Poynter?’
‘No!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes! No! Well, like I say, they’re ten a penny, everyone’s got one!’ I protested.
‘True, but do they all have this?’ And with the great flourish and delight of a conjuror doing a magic trick, The Great Bastardo, he turned it over.
Exactly as I feared, the initials ‘MP’ were scratched deep into the wooden handle. I had to fight down the rising feeling in my stomach. The carved letters had been stained dark red by Tommy’s blood rinsing across them, and I could see more clearly the greasy, fatty smears on the hammer head. I hadn’t expected to see anything like this, not today, not ever. My tool had been used to end my friend’s life. I felt violated.
‘We shall be taking fingerprints from the hammer. And seeing as you and the lady of the house co-operatively gave us yours at the scene, we will be able to rule you out,’ he informed me, and then, as a cruel aside, added: ‘Assuming we find anyone else’s on it.’
I used that hammer every day, my fingerprints would be all over it. I wanted to faint. I wanted to vomit. I knew I mustn’t do either, I needed to regain control, I needed to say something, I needed to make sure he knew was mistaken.
‘So, back to my first question, is this your hammer?’ Senia’s arrogance was overwhelming. Nwakobu sat by scribbling down every word, the master’s eager student. ‘Your initials are MP are they not?’
‘Yes, but not just me,’ I protested. Nwakobu looked up from his notebook. ‘What about Monty Panesar?’
Nwakobu started scribbling again. ‘Panesar, how’s that spelt?’
Senia’s head snapped round to the young man beside him. He vented his substantial outrage, ‘Idiot! Do not write that name down. He’s a spin bowler.’
So Senia knows his cricket, he can’t be all bad then.
Seeing Senia’s fury directed at poor Nwakobu rather than me eased my state of panic and my conf
idence began to rise.
‘And Manny Pacquiao,’ I suggested, looking straight at Nwakobu, for it was for his benefit I added, ‘He’s a boxer.’
Senia stifled a grunt, I could see that he knew he was losing control of the situation.
‘And Michael Portillo, he’s a—’
‘Yes, thank you, we all bloody well know who Michael Portillo is, thank you very much. But seeing as the Right Honourable Mr Michael Portillo MP was not working at the crime scene on the date of the murder, I think it’s safe to rule him out of the investigation for now, don’t you? Likewise, Monty Panesar, Manny Pacquiao, Mary Poppins and Marco bloody Polo! You however, Mark Poynter, were there. So, tell me, please, is this your hammer.’
Of course it was my hammer, I knew it and he knew it. ‘No comment. You know it wasn’t me, I was out with my client at the merchants when he was killed, it’s in my statement, you haven’t got anything on me and you know it.’
‘I’ll grant you your statement matches Mrs Wilkes’s, and that is the only reason I’m not arresting you right here and now. But be warned, we’re looking at you.’
His words hit me, his meaning was clear, I’m his one and only suspect, and by the sound of it he’s not going to put too much effort into finding anyone else. I need to pay attention, sharpen up, as he’s going to use any opportunity he can to put this on me.
‘We know you’re skint. You have been for months.’
To be fair, months was a bit of an exaggeration, but I didn’t think it the best time to correct him so I kept quiet and shrugged.
‘He’d almost finished his works, you said yourself the client’s added a lot of extras to the job – did he want more money, money you haven’t got, is that why you killed him?’
‘I wasn’t there, you know that already.’
‘Convenient that, but then that’s what you do isn’t it, sub-contract? Get a man in?’
‘Yeah, great, very funny. Look, we all know, I’m potless, I can’t even afford to pay the window cleaner so how do you think I can afford an assassin?’
‘You could have come to sort some of arrangement.’
‘What, so you can get a hitman on instalments now can you?’
‘You tell me, you seem to know a lot about it.’
It’s started, he’s twisting my words, trying to catch me out. But I’m not being fitted up for anything, this is a fight or flight situation. I choose flight.
‘I think I’d like to leave now.’
Senia slammed his hand down on the table, he stared at me without speaking for a few seconds, then, ‘Nwakobu, please show Mr Poynter out. Just remember this, you are a person of interest.’ And with that he stormed out of the room.
Keen to obey instructions, complemented by a matching hostile attitude, young Nwakobu escorted me through the building to the street. I followed a pace or two behind him and spotted Nick Witham through a glazed panel. As far as I could tell he’d been called away no further than the vending machine. He’d seen me too, we gave each other a small nod of recognition and that little gesture lifted me.
I left the building and got into the van. As soon as I was out of sight round the first corner I pulled over, threw the door open and vomited in the gutter.
15
I found Disco in the same pub I’d left him in, chatting with great authority to the landlord. He saw me beckon him from the doorway, downed the final third of his pint in one gulp, and hurried towards me giving the landlord a cursory wave as he went.
‘You look rough,’ he said falling into the van with the ease of a collapsing chimney. He fumbled for the buckle of the seat belt and I thanked him for his welcomed opinion. After a moment or two he remembered where I’d been and asked, ‘How did it go with your mate, has he got someone in the frame for it yet?’
‘You could say that,’ was my non-committal response but, being a semi-professional rumourmonger, Disco couldn’t let it lie and kept asking who. I ignored him, but the questioning was relentless. In the end I broke.
‘I don’t want to talk about it, alright?’
Perhaps my tone of voice was a touch too aggressive, as he shut up and sat back, looked straight ahead for a second or two, then, ‘You? Seriously? You? Oh my god, that’s hilarious.’
Well, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. Disco roared a raspy, throaty laugh seasoned by twenty years of sawdust and roll-ups.
‘That is the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.’
His laughter rolled around the van and I must admit, despite my concerns, it was infectious and I began to smile, realising it was the first time in what seemed like ages I’d felt cheerful about anything.
The phone rang, I answered it, ‘Marky Mark, Hamlet here.’ His voice rang out loud and clear through the speakers as I slowed the van to a stop beside the kerb. Disco looked terrified by the disembodied voice, I held a finger to my lips to keep him quiet. ‘A little bird tells me you’ve just been to see our friend Mr Senia.’
Yet more eyes and inside men, I thought.
‘What did he want? What’s he know?’
So how close to things are your insiders? Why can’t they tell you? Or do you already know and this is a test?
‘Not a lot,’ I replied. ‘He asked a few questions, to learn a bit more about Tommy, you know? Habits, friends, lifestyle and the like.’
‘Anything else? Was I mentioned?’
Disco silently mouthed shock and awe profanities; I hoped my eyes looked angry enough to make him keep quiet and still.
‘No, you weren’t.’
I think I had reassured him as he said ‘Good’ and cut the call.
‘Hamlet? No. Don’t say you’re back in with him again Mark, not after… you know,’ said Disco, his tone implying panic more than fascination. I said nothing. ‘What was “was I mentioned” all about? Hey, did he kill Tommy?’
I tried to ignore him, but the bouncing of his leg and the clenching and unclenching of his fists was driving me mad, I needed him to calm down. I wanted to reassure him he had nothing to worry about, assuming he could break the habit of a lifetime and keep his mouth shut about everything he’d just heard. I pulled up outside the first pub I could find.
The Eagle. A small tatty-looking pub built as the end corner unit of a row of Victorian terraced houses that stepped out straight on to the pavement. Its white painted render had blown in places, the black gloss to the joinery had faded and lost its bloom, its two windows had heavy opaque frosting masking the interior. Despite having never set foot in this pub before I knew exactly what it would be like.
Sure enough – it was dark and dingy. The windows blocked any sunlight penetration, and the walls – lined with heavy deep brown wood panelling – added to the general gloom. The wooden chairs and tables were stained a deep brown too, the slightly sticky carpet was a dense pattern of dark colours and shades, and the smell of frying hung so thickly in the air you could feel it on your skin. It was exactly as I imagined, right down to the aged collection of wilting beermats pinned up behind the bar and a huge jar of copper coins, three quarters full, beside the till. It’s a talent I have, although I can’t see TV paying me for it just yet: ‘And your specialist subject is, shitty pubs of the Medway Towns.’
A bored, middle-aged barmaid leafed through a magazine, occasionally looking up to glance at the racing on a television behind her every time the old man perched on a stool murmured any reaction. They were the only people in the place, but privacy was prudent so I motioned for Disco to go and sit in the furthest corner whilst I got us drinks. The woman’s displeasure at being inconvenienced was all too evident from her clumsy serving and couldn’t-be-arsed attitude.
Disco’s hands shook as he reached for his medicinal pint.
‘Hamlet? I’m serious, Mark, I don’t want to get involved in anything if he’s part of it, no way.’
‘Relax. Take it easy for a second. He’s not part of anything. Just slow down and think things through: Tommy has died, Tommy had some work to
do, I’ve been asked to finish the work, I’m asking you to help me, that’s it. That’s all it is. It’s all okay.’ ‘I hope’, I thought but didn’t add.
‘What you were asking, earlier, about… what did you call it, low profile high value, do you think Tommy was involved with Hamlet, is that why he was asking if he’d been mentioned?’
‘No, of course not,’ I said, but I’d already given up trying to convince myself he wasn’t.
As the lager began to replenish his alcohol stream, Disco seemed to relax and by the time he started his second pint he was back to his normal gossipy self.
‘So, you know Hamlet, you know how he got his money don’t you? You know how he got where he is today?’
My answer to all three questions was yes, but one thing I have learnt is that there are some things you never, ever, talk about and this was one. There was no way Disco could draw me out on anything. I’m allergic to getting my head kicked in, it doesn’t agree with me.
I reached for my phone and made a great show of studying the screen, not answering or reacting to any of Disco’s fairytales, letting it wash over me, although the fantasies I was hearing were remarkable.
‘They say that he was the brains behind the Securitas depot robbery in 2006.’
He wasn’t.
‘…they got away with fifty-three million but the police only found ten, they say he’s got two million buried under his swimming pool…’
Apart from the fact he doesn’t have a pool.
‘They say he was involved with the Millennium Dome diamond raid in 2000, that he was going to ship the diamonds overseas…’
He wasn’t, now this is getting silly.
‘They say he’s the missing man from the Hatton Garden safety deposit break-in, you know the one they never caught…’
Oh, for god’s sake.
‘…they say he made a lot of his money out of Raves…’
That was true.
‘And that he’s been stabbed three times by a Triad with a sword…’