Blood Never Dies (11 page)

‘Act?’ Connolly queried.

Tommy looked hurt. ‘Yeah, you outsiders think there’s nothing in it, just get some wood on and bang away and that’s that. But I can tell you, real porn fans can tell the difference in a minute between a good skin flick and a bad one. I mean, we wouldn’t have got to
Office Orgy Thirteen
if it had just been a load of boring shagging. They’re real movies, with a plot, lines and everything. People love ’em. They’re classics. They’re witty.’

‘Yeah, I heard that,’ Connolly said. ‘You been doing this a long time, then?’

‘I’m a star, didn’t you know that?’ He grinned, full of himself again. ‘Want my autograph? I got an interesting way of writing it – you won’t believe how I do it. Can’t show you here, though.’

‘Love a God, would y’ calm down. Am’n’t I telling you, it’s Mike Horden I’m interested in. So you say he was good at the job?’

‘Yeah, he was top at it. He was a top geezer, too. We hung out together. We had a laugh, know what I mean? He useter come up my place and we’d have a few drinks and roll a doobie and mellow out. Listen to some sounds. He knew a hell of a lot about music – introduced me to some bands I’d never even heard of, but they were brilliant. This one—’

Connolly was not interested in his musical taste. ‘He took drugs with you?’

He looked hurt. ‘Weed ain’t drugs, man. Like vodka ain’t alcohol.’

‘Did he use charlie? E? Speed? Anything apart from marijuana?’

‘Not wiv me. But he asked me where he could buy charlie, didn’t he, so he must have.’

Connolly nodded. ‘So this great guy, your pal Mike – you haven’t seen him lately?’

‘Not for weeks,’ Tommy said, sniffing and wiping his nose on his forearm. ‘Man, you are really pulling me down with your questions. Seventy quid’s worth of best Bolivian marching powder up my schnoz and you’re bringing me right back down to earth.’

‘Never mind, Tommy darlin’. Nearly finished now, then you can go and snort till your ears meet. You know it’ll make your face cave in at the end? By the time you’re forty you’ll be breathin’ through a straw stickin’ out your neck.’

‘Christ, I hope I’m dead before I’m forty!’ Tommy said. ‘What else d’you want to know about Mike? Quick, get it over with.’

‘Did he tell you anything about his background? Family? What he did before?’

‘Nah, we never talked about that stuff. Just the job, sounds, movies, birds, that sort of thing.’

‘Did he have a girlfriend?’

‘He never told me about one. Never saw him with anyone.’

‘Didn’t you think that was odd? Good-looking geezer like him?’

‘Nah. It’s separate, innit, blokes’ time? You don’t wanna mix ’em. I mean, he didn’t come round and watch when I had a bird up there.’

‘Did you ever go to his house?’

‘I don’t even know where he lived.’

‘And you haven’t seen him lately?’

‘Not since he got sacked from Ransom’s. I thought I might see him at the club, but he’s not been in there either, not when I’ve been in.’

‘Why
was
he sacked? You said he was good at it.’

‘Yeah.’ For the first time, Tommy looked puzzled. ‘I dunno. He
was
good. And Ewan liked him – he’s the director – because he knew the ropes. He said he’d done film extra work, so he didn’t have to be told all the basic stuff. He knew a lot of technical stuff, an’ all. Him and Ewan got on great, chatting away about cameras and lighting and angles and frames and all that bollocks.’

‘So it wasn’t Ewan who wanted rid of him?’

‘No, that was down to the big boss, Mr Barrow. I see Mike trying to get friendly with
him
, and I thought, good luck with that, because he don’t do friendly, the boss. Mike was kind of hanging round him, trying to get him talking, and I s’pose it musta got on his nerves or something, because suddenly one day when I go in Mike’s not there, and when I ask Ewan about it, he says “Paul’s let him go.” That’s Mr Barrow. And he like gives me a look as if to say, “Don’t ask.” So I don’t. It was awkward, though, ’cos we were halfway through a film, so it must have took a lot of editing with one of the main actors suddenly missing.’

‘Yeah,’ said Connolly thoughtfully. ‘I can see it would.’

Tommy wiped his nose on his fingers, looked about vaguely, and then wiped them on his trouser leg. For the first time, curiosity dawned. ‘Why you asking all this about Mike, anyway? What’s he done?’

‘Nothing, as far as I know. Well, thanks for your help, Tommy. I’ll leave you be now.’

‘No, no wait! You must be asking for some reason. Why d’you want to get hold of him?’

‘Never mind,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re not in trouble, that’s all you need to know. But if you think of anything he said about his family or background or past life, the names of anyone he knew or any firm he worked for, you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

She gave him a card, and for a moment the old Tommy reappeared on the last fizzing of the fine Bolivian in his brain stem.

‘Woah! This your private line? Bay-bee, you can bet yo’ sweet ass I will be looking you up! And any time you want a bit of fi–i–ine lovin’ you just call for the Flynnmeister, babe! Light blue touch paper and retire, know what I’m sayin’?’

‘You’d want to listen to yourself,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Love a God, y’ sound like a total gobshite. On second thoughts, give me me card back.’ She whipped it out from his nerveless fingers. ‘I don’t want you usin’ it if for choppin’ out lines. If you think of anything, ring Shepherd’s Bush nick and talk to anyone, they’ll pass it on.’

She left him standing there, and as she turned out of the door towards the stairs she heard his forlorn little voice behind her still trying to be the big man. ‘Yeah,’ he called. ‘You an’ me, babe. We’re happening!’

I may be happening
, she retorted silently,
but you’re just a big owl messy accident
.

‘So you see, boss,’ she concluded her report to Slider, ‘there must have been a good reason for getting rid of him, to chuck him out in the middle of a film.’

‘Hm,’ said Slider. ‘But what reason? Flynn didn’t give any hint?’

‘No, boss. But I get the impression he spends most of his life jacked out of his gourd, so he probably wouldn’t notice if it was written on the wall in red paint. But wouldn’t you say it looks as though there’s something to investigate there? With Horden getting chucked out for nothing.’

‘The big boss, Paul Barrow, says he couldn’t act,’ Slider said.

‘Tommy Flynn says he could.’

‘Tommy Flynn doesn’t sound like the best judge of anything,’ Slider said. ‘But anyway, what are you suggesting?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said in frustration.

‘Don’t know what?’ Atherton asked, coming in.

‘What there is to know about Ransom Publications,’ Connolly answered.

‘Another known unknown,’ he said.

‘But we’ve learned a few things about Horden-stroke-Williams,’ Slider said. ‘He claimed to have done film extra work, he knew a lot about music, he sought out Tommy Flynn, who didn’t previously know him, to get the introduction to Ransom’s, he smoked dope and may or may not have taken cocaine, and he was thrown out in the middle of a film, which suggests some urgency on the part of the thrower.’

‘Interesting,’ said Atherton. ‘On that very topic, I’ve been looking into Paul Barrow.’

‘And?’ said Slider.

‘He’s not lily white, that’s for sure. His most recent bust is for speeding on the M40 near High Wycombe – doing a hundred and twenty in a Maserati at two in the morning. Those Buckinghamshire cops don’t take prisoners.’ He looked at Slider. ‘You know where the M40 leads?’

Slider got it. ‘Birmingham. Ransom’s works in Solihull?’

‘It’s an even bet. That was back in April this year. Before that, two years ago, he had a bust for possession of and driving under the influence of a class A substance, to whit cocaine. On the M25 near Staines. Going further back, there was an arrest for affray outside a club, Vanya’s, in Soho. That was ten years ago. He plastered two blokes all over the pavement – claimed they had picked his pocket. They were low life, but the magistrate decided the beating was out of proportion and gave him a six month suspended. The most serious bust was for sexual assault of a young woman at her flat. That was fifteen years ago. He ripped her clothes off, blacked her eye and broke her arm. A neighbour called the cops and they arrested him but the girl wouldn’t make a charge and in the end it was dropped.’

‘Nice class of feller,’ Connolly said.

‘A prince among men,’ said Atherton. ‘I spoke to a bloke at Central and apparently and unofficially it seems the girl was working for him and he accused her of stealing. He tore her clothes off to search her, not as a precursor to rape, hit her to stop her screaming, and broke her arm accidentally because he didn’t know his own strength.’

‘Stealing what?’

‘It didn’t emerge. Anyway, once she’d calmed down she refused to cooperate with any kind of charge, and before they could work on her she discharged herself from hospital and disappeared.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Connolly remarked.

‘Was he working for Ransom Publications all this time?’ Slider asked.

‘No, he was manager of Vanya’s when the affray incident happened. Lost his job, apparently, on account of it, but shortly was known to be managing another club, the Hot Box, also in Soho – Greek Street. He went to Ransom Publications ten years ago. Going way back it seems he did a course in film and photography in Holloway, so that’s how he had the qualification for it. Although I expect other qualities would also be needed for that particular job. Further back still he studied accountancy at Brunel University. That’s where he started. Moved on a long way.’

‘How was the girl he assaulted connected to him?’

‘According to my Central contact, they’ve long suspected him of running a string of girls on the side, but they haven’t been able to prove anything. They think she was one of them, and he suspected her of holding money back, but as she disappeared they couldn’t investigate any further.’

‘Private life?’ Slider queried.

‘Nothing much. He’s fifty-six, born in Bermondsey – south of the river and beyond the pale – father was a print worker. Lives in a luxury penthouse, Flat Twelve, Chiltern Mansions, Chiltern Street – just opposite Baker Street station. Was married in 1989 to a Mary Lynnette Scott, but according to the electoral register he lives alone, so presumably they’re separated or divorced. Has a red Maserati – as we have noted – and Chiltern Mansions has its own underground garage to keep it safe,’ he added, ‘so we needn’t be anxious on its behalf. It would be a crime if it got scratched.’

‘Well, what’s all this got to do with our body?’ Connolly asked in some frustration.

Atherton looked at her blankly. ‘Search me. It does make him very, very tasty, however – especially the living alone. Creepy! The more I learn about him the more I fancy him for the job.’

‘Ye–es,’ said Slider thoughtfully. ‘As against which, we still don’t actually know who our body is. Michael Horden had no criminal record, the address he gave was false, and though we know he worked briefly as a porn movie actor, that’s all we do know.’

‘And he wasn’t even still doing it when he was killed, so why should your man Barrow have anything to do with it?’ Connolly finished for him.

‘I don’t know,’ Atherton said, ‘but I just bet he has.’

Late in the day, Bob Bailey appeared in Slider’s room, smelling of soap and the washing-powder halitus of a clean shirt. He was freshly shaved and his hair was in damp spikes at the front.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.

Slider, feeling grubby and armpit-marshy from a hot day in the office, looked at him resentfully. ‘You look as though you’ve just come out of a car wash.’

‘I popped in to see you, give you the news, and had a go of your showers while I was at it,’ Bailey burbled shamelessly.

‘You never used to pop in. A phone call was the best I could hope for. Now suddenly this personal service?’

Bailey grinned. ‘You didn’t use to have that cute new detective.’

‘Jerry Fathom? Well, he’s new, I grant you, but cute?’

‘Don’t be a git. You know I’m talking about the lovely Rita, the green-eyed goddess from Oiled Oiland.’

‘In the first place Detective Constable Connolly is from Dublin and they don’t talk like that,’ Slider said sternly. ‘In the second place if you upset any of my firm I’ll personally remove your intestines, dry them in the sun, and string you up by them.’

Bailey lifted his hands in wide-eyed innocence, though still grinning, which spoiled the sincerity of the gesture. ‘Who said anything about upsetting? Window shopping, that’s all. My Mastercard won’t run to that sort of luxury.’

‘Not with two expensive divorces behind you,’ Slider said brutally.

‘Two divorces only means I’ve got a vacancy to fill. It can’t hurt to ask her out, can it? She can always say no. She’s a big girl.’

‘That’s what worries me. Anyway, you can wait outside and ask her on your own time.’

‘You’re a miserable bastard. Case getting you down?’

‘A little help from you would go a long way,’ Slider said. ‘What’s this “thing” you had for me – or was it just an excuse?’

‘No, no, it’s a real “thing” all right. There was a bottle of vodka in the fridge, about three quarters empty, and in the fullness of process we’ve just got round to dusting it. Very nice palm and fingers gripping the bottle, a lot of fingers on the screw cap – a bit muddled, those, not sure if we’ll be able to unscramble ’em. But you see –’ he demonstrated with an imaginary bottle – ‘she holds the bottle in her left hand while she unscrews the cap, then switches it to her right hand while she pours the drinks. Something you do so often you never even think about it, completely automatic, then you slam the bottle back in the fridge, also automatic – which is why, when you’ve gone round the room wiping every surface you’ve touched, it’s easy to forget old Mr Stolly sitting in the fridge door.’

‘She?’ Slider queried.

‘It’s a woman’s prints,’ Bailey said, pleased with himself.

‘It couldn’t be the shop assistant who sold it to Williams?’

‘They aren’t the only marks – there are a lot of old smudges, and we’ve picked out a couple of dabs from Williams, but these are over the top, the last lot of marks made. “You hop in the bath, darlin’, I’ll knock us out a couple of drinks,” he offered in a ludicrous falsetto. Slider winced. ‘Now,’ Bailey continued, ‘it may well be that this Mata Hari doesn’t have a record, but with two full hands, plus you’d expect a certain degree of nervousness in the circs, it’s just about possible they can get enough DNA off the bottle to work up a profile. I’ve sent it off to Tufty, anyway.’ He looked at Slider hopefully. ‘So now am I back on your cake list?’