Blood Never Dies (13 page)

Slider told him. ‘And I’d like to get someone into the club he used to frequent, possibly some others that may be linked, as well. Find some people who knew him.’

‘Right,’ said Porson. ‘There’s a uniform lad you might be able to use, keen to get into the Department – bright lad – couldn’t hurt to try him out. Phil Gascoyne – come across him?’

‘I’ve seen him about,’ Slider said. ‘I used to know his dad, Bob – he was a lecturer at Hendon.’

‘Oh yes, I know who you mean. Is that his dad, then?’ Porson frowned. ‘I never knew why he was called Bob, when his name was Harry. Bob’s not an abbreciation for Harry, is it?’

‘No, but back when
he
was a lad, the coin you put in a gas meter was a shilling – a bob.’

‘Right! Gas coin. Got it,’ Porson said, and looked pleased with the enlightenment as he mouthed the words to himself a couple of times. Then his phone rang. He focused sharply on Slider and his brows snapped down like an atomic-powered Tower Bridge. ‘Well? What are you standing there for? Two days in and nothing to show for it – you’ve got no time to waste, laddie.’ Slider headed for the door. ‘And if you don’t find out who he is by the end of today, we’ll have to go public, so get a breeze on!’

It didn’t last long, Slider thought. But it had been a nice change.

Gascoyne joined them for the morning meeting, looking self-conscious in his ‘civvies’, into which he had changed downstairs with much joshing from his fellow woodentops, and solemn warnings from Organ that they were all nuts up there. ‘Watch your step.’

‘And don’t forget who your real mates are,’ said Gostyn sternly. ‘You can take the uniform out of the man, but you can’t – no, hang on, I got that wrong.’

‘Piss off, Gostyn, you dip,’ Gascoyne said affectionately, and straightened his face to a seemly gravity and earnestness as he trod up the stairs to CID heaven.

Slider welcomed him, finding a tall young man with a broad, pleasant face that missed being handsome by such mere millimetres it was hard to pin down why, close-shaved fair hair, and candid blue eyes. From the open honesty of his face to his large well-planted feet, he looked so quintessentially a copper that Slider cancelled at once the half-formed thought he’d had in Porson’s office of putting him into the clubs. He’d be clocked in an instant. McLaren would have been the obvious choice before, but McLaren’s edge had been blunted by salad and callisthenics. He had an undeniably clean-living look about him these days, as he drooped in the background, perched on his desk with the hunched-shouldered look of an unhappy budgie. Atherton had brought in a box of doughnuts and McLaren didn’t take one, that’s how bad it was – though he did sigh, which Slider took as grounds for hope that there was something left alive inside that might one day be revived. No, he’d have to put Mackay into the clubs, and use Gascoyne on Mackay’s jobs.

Fathom had been working on alibis. ‘Botev claims he was home all Sunday night, guv, with his wife and kids. Trouble is, his wife doesn’t speak English – or he claims she doesn’t – so he has to translate for us. And o’course he says
she
says he was there.’

‘What about the children?’

‘Four little kids, eldest one is eight,’ said Fathom. ‘So unless you want me to put pressure on him – get the kids aside, bring the wife in, get a Bulgarian interpreter . . .’

Slider saw the point. They had nothing on Botev, except that he had a key. His fingermarks had been found on the door, the radio, and the bathroom door-frame, but so far nowhere else. And they knew he was not black-sack man. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Can’t do that, unless we get something else on him. Any more witnesses among the neighbours?’

‘No, guv,’ said Hollis. ‘So far nobody else has seen the victim go in or black-sack man come out. Two in the morning on a Sunday to Monday night . . . now if it had been Sat’day to Sunday it might’ve been different.’

And it was an inner-London problem, Slider thought, that other people just became wallpaper and you didn’t tend to notice them. It might have been different in the suburbs, but in Shepherd’s Bush you expected there to be people about late at night, so why should you bother to remark it? ‘What about the Pakistani boys?’

‘It seems there
was
a party, guv,’ said Fathom. ‘House in Cobbold Road. Talked to a couple of the guys living there. It’s hard getting anything out of ’em – too monged and too scared – but it seems our two
was
there, and it didn’t break up finally until about four. And they said they’d never heard of Williams. I had another go at our two, threatened to search their gaff if they didn’t tell me everything they knew about Williams, but they stuck to it they’d never seen him or heard of him and I believed ’em.’

Slider nodded. ‘We’ll keep an eye on them, but I don’t think they’re involved. The job was too controlled to be carried out by substance abusers. Anything on the car?’ he asked McLaren.

‘No, guv,’ McLaren said, and defended himself. ‘It’s not easy when we haven’t got the reg number or make. Even two of a Monday morning there’s a lot of motors about in the Bush. And there’s no camera showing either end of Conningham Road, so any cars caught on Goldhawk or Uxbridge needn’t’ve come out from there.’ He shrugged to show it was what Mr Porson would have called looking for a needle in a woodpile. ‘I’m working my way through everything from ten minutes before to ten minutes after, but so far they’re all legit.’

Slider nodded. ‘Well, keep at it. Anyone with connections to anyone in the house, or Botev, or Ransom House. Or anyone dodgy to any degree. When you run out of options, extend the time another five minutes either side. We’ve only Mish’s word for the time, and she only said “about” two o’clock.’

‘Wouldn’t’ve been much later,’ Hollis observed. ‘I’ve never known a pross willingly go over time.’

‘Norma – anything?’

Swilley glanced at her notes. ‘I’ve been looking into the Marylebone Group and Ransom and all that set-up. It’s not easy, as you know – it’s been set up not to be easy. We can’t get information out of Cyprus without prima facie evidence, and Ransom being a branch, they don’t have to register with Companies House. All they have to do is provide a set of accounts to the Revenue for tax purposes. That’s done by a firm of accountants – Adamou and Magnitis in Clerkenwell. And they don’t have directors, just a legal representative, which is a firm of solicitors, Regal Forsdyke. The top man there is David Regal. The beauty of the system as far as they’re concerned is provided they pay a decent amount of tax to HMRC, no one bothers to ask any questions. And any legal liability for anything at all falls on the parent company in Cyprus—’

‘Which you can’t get any information out of,’ Atherton concluded. ‘Brilliant! Colossal dead end.’

‘I didn’t say I hadn’t found out
anything
,’ Swilley said, giving him a look that could have deboned a leg of lamb. ‘I had a look into the Forty-Niners club, because that’s one place we know Williams hung out. It turns out it’s part of the Apsis Leisure Group. Also in the Apsis group is the Hot Box – where we know Barrow worked – and a couple of others. And Apsis is part of the Marylebone Group – who also own the buildings, and a lot of other property in Soho.’

‘And Marylebone also own Ransom Productions,’ Slider said. ‘That’s very good.’

‘So now we’ve got a line through Ransom Productions, Tommy Flynn, the Forty-Niners, Williams and Barrow,’ said Swilley.

‘But I still don’t see that it helps,’ Atherton persisted. ‘Williams uses the club – why not? Lots of people do. He asks Tommy Flynn, who also uses it, about a job. Flynn has a job with a company that’s affiliated with the club – which is probably how he got it in the first place. So what?’

‘The “so what” is that Williams ends up dead,’ Swilley said.

‘Well, excuse me if I don’t see a grand conspiracy there,’ Atherton retorted coolly.

‘I didn’t say there was a grand conspiracy. I just said there was a connection,’ said Swilley.

‘And what is there about this connection that gives a reason for his murder?’

‘Well, why don’t
you
tell us why he was killed, Jim?’ Swilley asked sweetly.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Connolly interrupted impatiently, ‘would yez listen to the two of you. We don’t even know who the fecker was, yet.’

The telephone rang at that moment and Hollis answered it. He held out the receiver to Atherton. ‘Someone asking for you.’

‘Detective Sergeant Atherton,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the desk and turning his back to cut out the sound of the continuing talk.

‘This is John Johnson here. You know, Honest John? Blues ’n’ Tattoos Parlour?’

‘Yes, Mr Johnson. What can I do for you?’

‘Well, you did say if I remembered anything else about that poor young man – however trivial, you said. This is really trivial, but I thought p’raps I’d better mention it. I hope I’m not wasting your time,’ he concluded doubtfully.

‘The smallest thing can turn out to be important,’ Atherton said reassuringly. ‘What have you remembered?’

‘Well, when he came in, he was carrying a bag from Vinyl Heaven. That’s a shop just down the road from here, deals in old LPs, vintage CDs, obscure bands and so on. Bit of a niche market. It was a CD-sized bag the chap was carrying, and it looked new. Well, you wouldn’t keep a bag of that size to carry anything else in, would you?’

‘No, I take your point.’

‘So it occurred to me that if he’d been in the shop that day, they might remember him. I mean, I don’t suppose they’re stuffed with customers at the best of times. And with a niche market, you do tend to know your customers – they come back. It’s a small world and a bit nerdy. So they might possibly be able to tell you his name, or something about him. I mean, I know it’s a long shot, but . . .’ He trailed off as if expecting to be shouted at.

‘That’s a very good idea,’ Atherton said. ‘You were quite right to mention it, and we’ll certainly look into it. Thanks a lot.’

‘Just trying to help,’ Johnson said, pleased. Or was it relieved?

‘T
attoos were not my thing. Vinyl is,’ Atherton said, arguing to be the one to go. ‘I’ve looked up the address, and it’s on the corner of Brook Green – the road, I mean.’ Brook Green was not only the name of an area and a green space but of the road which ran along the side of the green and debouched into Shepherd’s Bush Road. ‘Just round the corner from Ransom Productions, in fact – another connection.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in connections,’ Swilley sniped.

‘If you two can’t behave I’ll send you to your rooms,’ Slider said. ‘Atherton, go. He’s right, it is a long shot, but we haven’t got any short ones. Good luck. May the force be with you.’

‘You’re not allowed to call it the Force any more,’ Atherton said, turning away. ‘It’s the Police
Service
.’

Vinyl Heaven was so niche it had a hand-painted fascia instead of the usual glossy plastic or glass job: a pale blue background with the name in black capitals in the middle and two overlapping LPs painted on either side of it, black, of course, with red labels.

Inside there were records and CDs in wall racks on either side and in a rather home-made-looking double-sided wooden stand down the middle. There was a counter across the far end, and on the walls were a number of posters, pin-ups of bands and artists and vintage bills advertising gigs, some framed, and evidently also for sale. The carpet was worn threadbare down either side from the fidgeting feet of aficionados rifling through the goodies – though Atherton guessed it had never been very good carpet, perhaps not even new when the shop was established. The place had that air about it of hanging on by its fingernails.

However, even on a weekday morning it already had two customers – or at least, there were two people in there when Atherton walked in. The air was bouncing with the relentless dub-beat and shuffling high-hats of a garage CD being played over the loudspeakers – had Atherton known it, it was DJ Luck & MC Neat – and two young men were idling about in front of the racks, twitching to the music and pretending to look at the stock.

Atherton drew his eyes firmly away from the vintage classical LPs and eased past the twitchers to the counter, where a skinny young man with wild hair, a tattooed neck and a stud through his lip was standing watching him hopefully.

Atherton showed his brief and the hope faded rapidly, to be replaced by an unfocused apprehension. ‘Are you the owner?’ Atherton asked.

‘Yeah, I’m Steve.’ Into Atherton’s insistent silence he added, ‘Steve Chilcott. This is my place. Is something wrong?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ Atherton said. ‘I wanted your help with something, if you wouldn’t mind.’

He relaxed a little, and said, ‘Yeah, OK. If I can.’

The music came to an end, a split second before Atherton was going to ask him to turn it off. ‘I wonder if you can remember this man coming in,’ he said into the ringing silence, handing over the mugshot. ‘It was a while ago.’

Chilcott was looking puzzled and already shaking his head, and Atherton went on, ‘We think he came into your shop on the Tuesday after Easter. It would probably have been a quiet day, so we hoped you might remember him. He was wearing cords and a sports jacket, slightly posh-looking bloke. He bought a CD from you.’

‘Oh, yeah, I remember
him
,’ Chilcott said. ‘I wouldn’t have known him from this picture though. What is he, asleep?’

Atherton sidestepped that one. ‘You do remember him?’ he insisted.

‘Yeah. Actually, now I know who you mean, I can see it’s him. But it’s a funny picture. He was a walk-in. I saw him going by, as if he wasn’t going to stop, but as he passes the open door he sort of stops. Must have heard the music. It was a Blur single I was playing – I think it was
Beetlebum
. So he comes in. He looks like a Blur, Oasis kind of guy – you know, a bit older, dressed like a grown-up.’

‘Had you seen him before?’

‘Not that I know of. Anyway he gives me a sort of nod, and starts looking through the racks but I could tell it was the CD he was listening to. It happens all the time,’ he said with a faint sigh and a glance towards the two lingerers, who were evidently waiting for him to put something else on, pretending to be occupied while watching him out of the corner of their eyes, like dogs hanging about near the biscuit tin. ‘They just come in for the music and don’t buy anything. But you gotta get ’em in first, so when the Blur single finishes I put something else on, and suddenly he’s not looking any more, he’s listening like someone’s put a couple of thousand volts through him.’