Death of a Painter

by Matthew Ross

  ‘Not yet. But there’s something I want to be sure about, the deal, still as agreed? I find you the name, you waive the debt? Yes?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Hamlet, but his tone was as non-committal as his posture. Leaning back against the chair with his hands behind his head, the sleeves of his T-shirt rode up exposing tribal tails and oriental finials of black ink. I wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Is that the agreement?’

  Hamlet was about to speak then paused, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and then a lazy, disinterested tone of voice followed an exhale of breath, ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Not good enough. I know how you operate. I want it confirmed, clear and beyond any doubt, otherwise forget about it, I won’t help you.’ I realised too late that I’d raised my voice to a shout and I was jabbing my finger at him as I spoke.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, with a derisive laugh in his voice. He rose to his feet and leaned across the desk towards me. ‘I do solemnly swear that if you can deliver me the scumbag who killed our Sally, I will waive your debt in full and final settlement. Happy?’

  We both sat down, the heat had gone out of the situation. Behind me the door slammed open and I saw Brazil framed in the doorway; he’d heard the raised voices.

  ‘It’s okay, stand down soldier, it’s all under control,’ said Hamlet to Brazil, who obediently sloped off.

  ‘Right, where were we?” asked Hamlet, he clearly remembered because in a heartbeat his body stiffened and his voice changed, becoming harder, ‘Be clear, if you can’t or won’t deliver your end then you will owe me the full value plus interest, understand?’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say in response and sat looking at him. Eventually I nodded my agreement.

  ‘Somebody put the kettle on,’ shouted Hamlet through the open door. The noises of taps running and the whoosh of steam rising quickly followed. Hamlet relaxed back in his seat, folding his hands across his stomach, the inked patterns disappeared as his sleeves dropped back into place. Before either of us said anything more, Dunlop poked his head around the door frame.

  ‘Visitor, Boss,’ he said. Hamlet gestured to bring them in then turned to me, commanding, ‘You, stay there.’

  Heavy footsteps tapped along the corridor, a sniff and the clearing of the throat, and then the visitor was there, framed in the doorway, six foot of aggression: Cookie, flanked front and back by Dunlop and Brazil.

  I’d seen him before he’d seen me, his eyes were fixed on Hamlet, but as he glanced around he recognised me and his shoulders stiffened, his lip snarled upwards, his hands curled into fists, he lunged at me, ‘Poynter –’

  I flinched, eyes closed, head down, clutching my big toolbox hoping it would shield me, and braced myself for the onslaught. Nothing happened. I looked up, Cookie was restrained by both Dunlop and Brazil, they had him locked up good and tight, flecks of white sputum sputtered from the corner of his mouth.

  Hamlet leaned back in his chair, and rolled his head, the sound of stiff bones crackled in the silence, eventually he spoke, ‘Hello Cookie, thanks for coming in today. Now, if the lads release you, will you sit down quietly like a good boy?’

  All eyes on Cookie, after what seemed an impossible age he nodded and the tension dropped out of his body. Hamlet nodded and Cookie, as promised, was released. Hamlet gestured at the chair opposite him. Cookie sat down.

  ‘Cookie, Cookie, Cookie. You need to calm down mate, you’ll give yourself a heart attack carrying on like this.’ Hamlet’s voice was patronising, deliberately so.

  ‘That little bollocks—’ said Cookie pointing at me, but Hamlet shushed him into silence, mocking him with his finger to his lips as though telling a toddler to quieten down.

  ‘Cookie. Listen very carefully, I shall say ziz only once – remember that, who used to say that? Anyway, pay attention. You are making a nuisance of yourself.’

  ‘Look, I—’ but Hamlet waved away his protests.

  ‘Your dispute with Mark, it’s over.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s over. Understand?’

  ‘No. That little shit owes me—’

  ‘Listen to me Cookie. You had your chance to settle it civilly. You had your chance and you blew it. You have been far too loud, far too…’ Hamlet took a moment to select the right word. ‘Far too obvious.’

  Cookie looked around the room, looked at me, but I was as much confused as he was.

  ‘Your carrying ons, smashing windows. Really?’ continued Hamlet, ‘It’s attracting attention. It draws a lot of attention to him, and I don’t want any attention being drawn to him in case it gets drawn to me, now do you understand?’

  Cookie nodded his head, he looked drained, exhausted, as his chin struck his chest with a slight bounce.

  ‘Yes,’ he eventually whispered.

  ‘So, you will leave Marky alone, understand. Any gripe is over, any debt is written off.’ Cookie made to protest but Hamlet pointed his finger straight into Cookie’s face. ‘You owe me remember Cookie, you owe me.’

  I had no idea what that was about, but I guessed it was one of those things you don’t want to know about. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

  Cookie slowly nodded and held up his hands, acknowledgement of his surrender and rose from his chair. He shuffled to the doorway with the jaunty stride of the gallows-bound condemned man. As he reached it, he turned back, and then pounced. He was quick, like a rattlesnake, his massive fist launched straight at my face. But Brazil was quicker, and got in between us taking Cookie’s haymaker right on the jaw. With a lightning quick reaction, he drove an elbow straight into Cookie’s cheek, flooring him. Hamlet leaped around from his side of the desk, and with a knee bearing down on Cookie’s chest he grabbed him by the hair yanking his head up – one, two, three – rapid fire jabs, powerful and delivered straight to the centre of Cookie’s face blood sprayed from his busted nose; even sat on the other side of the room I noticed a fine scarlet mist settling on the toes of my boots.

  Hamlet rose, a delirious grin on his face, eyes wide and the lightest sheen of sweat glossing his forehead. ‘Still got it! Fucking love it!’ he laughed to his underlings. He raised his fist to his face, and I’ve only ever seen a child on the playground do this, he dabbed his tongue on his bloody and damaged knuckles before caution caught up and took over. ‘Better not, don’t know where he’s been. Chuck him out.’

  Brazil and Dunlop hoiked Cookie to his feet and hauled him off the premises, ‘Remember, it’s over Cookie. Over, so behave!’ shouted Hamlet to his back as it disappeared through the entrance doors towards the street, ‘And you, you can fuck off too.’ I didn’t need telling twice, only I did because as I was standing to leave he spoke again, ‘You sorted those jobs out that Sally gave you yet? Get them done, tomorrow!’

  I flinched as the flash of silver came at my head, ‘And you’ll be needing these too,’ said Hamlet. I picked up the ring of keys from where they landed and left.

  At the entrance doors, I came across the returning Brazil and Dunlop, ‘It’s okay. You can go out there, he’s gone,’ said Dunlop.

  Brazil rubbed his jaw, it was already beginning to bloom its purple bruising, ‘Thanks. I appreciate it,’ I said to him, genuinely grateful for his intervention. He sent a hard, fast punch into my guts.

  ‘You’re lucky you’re his little pet.’

  They left me on my knees gasping for breath and walked back inside, slamming the door behind them.

  37

  I’d been to Sally’s flat before, several years ago to do some repair or other. It was one of Hamlet’s vast portfolio and if he wants me investigating Sally’s death, I figured I’d be better off starting off by investigating her life. Her flat was the obvious place to begin.

  Darland, a large imposing Victorian terrace house, sliced into two flats, one on the first floor and the other, Sally’s, on the ground floor. The painted brick frontage was a pleasant magnolia colour and the stonework painted white, with the ornate carved details expertly
picked out in grey. It looked clean and warm, as though it had been recently done, Tommy’s handiwork no doubt.

  Curiosity led me around the back, using the narrow alleyway that ran the length of the terrace. The back gate was locked, but with somebody’s recycling bin to stand on I got a clear view of the house’s rear. It had been a long time since it last saw a paintbrush, but the windows looked new. UPVC double glazed units, fairly robust and no obvious sign of damage. Likewise, the uPVC French doors looked secure and undamaged. Nobody had come this way to get to Sally.

  I returned to the front, paying attention to the entrance. There was only one door from the street and it gave access to both flats. That door too was robust uPVC. A silver box was fixed to the wall: controlled entry, no-one comes in without buzzing first and having the electronic lock released by the resident. The windows and door to the front all looked undamaged too, Sally’s killer must have been buzzed in. Did she know them?

  Inside the street door was a small lobby with two internal doors, one leading to the upstairs flat, the other with police tape stretched diagonally corner to corner. I slipped the key in the lock, shimmied around the tape and let myself in, black and yellow toolbox in hand.

  The flat felt musty and damp, I doubt it had had much of an airing in recent days, trapping the residual moisture from the clean-up operation. Retrieving Brennan’s file from the toolbox I held the crime scene photograph, and tried overlaying it against what was in front of me. The first thing I noticed was the carpet had gone. In the photo Sally’s blood had drained into it, spreading all around her like an aura. But there was no mistaking where she’d died, as the exposed floorboards were washed in pink, the volume of blood must have been that extreme it saturated the carpet and underlay to the point it stained the very structure beneath.

  As my eyes got used to the compare and contrast game I was playing, photo/room/photo/room, I began spotting gaps where things were missing: a silver laptop from the table, a red iPad from the mantelpiece, the second shelf in the bookcase looked sparser than the photo. I supposed the police took anything that might have been remotely useful to them, and I began to wonder what I was hoping to find. Without any kind of plan, I meandered around, looking and poking and rummaging, but nothing sprang out at me.

  I sat on the sofa and looked out at the street, Sally would have seen anyone approaching her front door sitting there, it gave a clear view. As I pondered what it meant, if anything, I saw movement around my van, parked on the opposite side of the street. I walked to the window for a better view, and I was right, someone was taking a keen interest in it: a tall-ish skinny guy, black jeans and grey hoodie pulled up over his face. I watched him circle the van, and peer through the windows, a junkie looking for tools he can steal to trade for drugs, and when he began pulling the door handles, I’d seen enough: ‘Hey, you, fuck off!’ I shouted, thumping on the window pane. He looked up, startled, darting his head left and right to find the source of the noise. ‘Go on, get out of here,’ I continued, until he looked straight at me, his eyes channelled by the tunnel of his tightly drawn hood. I paused my noise. No, it couldn’t be I thought as he took off, sprinting away. I watched him run, following the footpath around the corner until he disappeared from view.

  I realised my hand was still pressed against the window pane leaving a perfect greasy print on the glass. I began opening and closing kitchen drawers looking for something to wipe it off with, eventually finding some spray cleaner and a soft cloth. Slowly I sprayed and wiped, removing the print, waiting for the man to return, I wanted to see him again, I needed to be sure. But he was long gone, I’d spooked him and finally, leaving the glass polished to sparkling sheen, I returned the cleaning materials back where I found them.

  I spotted the landline phone standing upright in its cradle on the kitchen countertop, and remembering why I was there, I pressed the playback button, ‘You have six old messages’ said the lady robot voice and it began to play the first one, some cold call about insurance, I continued ferreting about whilst I listened to the messages tick over.

  On my hands and knees peering under the sofa, ‘Sally, hi, it’s Steve,’ I sprang up bolt upright, I recognised that voice from somewhere, ‘I had a really great time last night at the party, I hope you did, and I was wondering, like, if… err… perhaps you’d fancy going out for a drink. With me.’

  Where have I heard that voice? The lady robot told me that call was received a week before Sally died, then moved on to the next message: ‘Hi Sally, Steve again, you haven’t replied to my call. So, err, drink? Or food? My shout.’

  Lady robot gave the date as a day later than the other one. ‘Hi Sally, Steve here. Why are you blanking me? I thought we were friends?’ from the next day. ‘Sally. I don’t like this, I’m not impressed, who do you think you are, coming on to me and then blanking me, stuck up bitch!’ the day after. Whose voice is that? I know it, it’ll come to me, give it time. ‘Sally, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call you names, I hope I didn’t upset you, I hope we can still be friends. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.’ Bingo, I knew whose voice it was.

  Realising that if the voice did indeed belong to who I thought it belonged to, things had become a lot more complicated. I knelt back on my heels to consider my options and a shape passed by the window just catching the edges of my field of vision, snapping me back into focus. Could it be him?

  I froze and listened for the letter flap to rattle, hoping it was just a junk mail delivery. Instead I heard the metallic rasp and tock of a key being sunk up to the hilt in the latch. It must be the upstairs neighbour coming home, I thought, but to be safe I gathered up my belongings and hid in the bathroom. I pushed the door almost, but not quite, shut giving myself a narrow slit between the hinges to look through.

  Hearing the slam, I knew the street door had been closed. I held my breath waiting to hear the soft thud thud thud of feet climbing stairs but it never came. Instead I heard the rip of the police tape pulling away from the door frame, and another metallic rasp and tock as the key sunk into the latch. I heard the flat door open, sweeping across the coir matting.

  I looked around the bathroom, a tiny square window was set high in the wall, there was no emergency way out of here. I looked around for somewhere to hide, but nowhere was suitable. I was a sitting duck. The only way out of here would be by overpowering whoever was out there and hoping they didn’t wake up until I was gone. I gripped my toolbox, a good wallop across the back of the head should do the trick, I lifted it up close to my chest preparing to swing. I peered through the slit. I couldn’t see anyone yet but they couldn’t be far away as their cough sounded as though it was right beside me. I kept peering, then a shadow fell across the slit, he was directly outside the door, my white knuckles gripped the toolbox and goose bumps appeared across my arms. I have to do this if I want to live, my mind tried to rationalise what I was about to do. Daylight shone through the slit once again, he’d moved away, I peered through and I saw him, this was it.

  I peered again, and then once more to be sure, my knuckles released their grip on the toolbox. Nick Witham?

  Nick was slowly making his way around the room, lost in deep concentration, I shivered with relief that it was a friendly, but then new problems kept popping up: how do I explain being here? How do I get out of here without giving him a heart attack?

  Inspiration struck, I flushed the toilet, I saw Nick whirl round in reaction to the noise, confused. I swung the door open and sauntered out keeping my face pointing down whilst I pretended to fiddle with my fly, ‘What the bloody hell? Mark? What are you doing here?’ he said

  ‘What?’ I hoped he’d buy my fake astonishment. ‘Nick? What are you doing here? You scared the life out of me jumping out like that.’

  ‘Me? What about you?’ he said. ‘Anyway, this is a crime scene, why are you here?’

  ‘It’s not a crime scene any more, is it? Surely you’ve got everything you need?’

  ‘It’s a crime scene for as long as
we say it is, and stop trying to change the subject, for the third time, why are you here?’

  ‘Landlord test and inspection.’ I raised my set of keys and jingled them at him. ‘See, I’ve got permission from the landlord. He’s going to have to get it ready to re-let, asked me to take a look.’

  ‘We all know who the landlord is.’ Nick sounded disappointed, as though I’d let him down getting back involved with Hamlet. ‘You can’t be in here, you need to go.’

  I raised my hands and gave a single nod to show I conceded, and I picked up my toolbox. ‘Before I go Nick, what can you tell me, come on, you know me, we’re mates.’

  Nick puffed out his cheeks, and rubbed his palm across his shaved head; he continued for several seconds before saying, ‘You’ve probably seen it all for yourself already anyway: no forced entry, so either the killer had a key or was let in by the victim.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the upstairs neighbour?’

  ‘Believe it or not we have done this before, thank you. We spoke to them, a young lady, works in insurance up in London. Not aware of any false buzzes on the door entry, hasn’t heard any raised voices or fighting coming up from downstairs, and was out of the property at work all day the day it happened. We’ve checked the CCTV at the train station that shows her leaving, and the CCTV showing her coming back and she’s got at least a dozen people who say she was in her place of work in the City of London all day, so she’s clear.’

  ‘She’s not seen anyone or anything, no cars hanging about?’

  ‘Funny you should ask that, she said she saw a car parked up across the road a couple of times last week that she hadn’t seen before, a Mercedes. But nobody saw it the day of the murder, just ordinary cars: a few Fords, Vauxhalls, a Volkswagen, a Kia and so forth. But we’re interested in tracing the Merc though as she said it stood out, she said it was a nice one.’ Of course she did, and I know someone with a nice Mercedes, someone who sounds very similar to Steve, speaking of which ...