Blood Never Dies (21 page)

Slider agreed it was hopeless. ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t leaked out before this. Apart from anything else, the porter knows who he really was. But maybe he’ll keep quiet out of loyalty to the family.’

Porson snorted. ‘Hope springs internal!’ he mocked.

M
ackay hadn’t been there first thing, and as Slider returned to his office from Mr Porson’s, he met the delinquent DC on the stairs, looking ragged.

‘Sorry, guv,’ he got in first. ‘Very late night, doing the clubs, didn’t hear the alarm.’

‘I hope it was a productive late night. You look like a piece of cheese. I’m not signing an expenses sheet for a debauch, you know.’

‘It wasn’t the drinks, guv, it was the noise,’ Mackay said. ‘Trying to ask questions
and
hear the answers. But I did get something.’ He managed a smile, the sort a dog gives you when your sandwich has gone missing. ‘Something good.’

‘All right, let’s all hear it,’ Slider said, leading the way. He cast a sideways glance at Mackay as he tramped beside him. The strip lighting was not doing him any favours. ‘You’re not going to throw up, are you?’

‘I hardly had anything,’ Mackay protested. ‘I just need a cuppa and an aspirin the size of Middlesex.’

Mackay had gone first to the Forty-Niners. He had a new photo to show round, not the corpse mugshot but a good one taken from the Wynnstay Gardens flat and photo-shopped to remove the beard and change the hair. He had not seen Tommy Flynn, and when he asked after him casually, no one seemed to have seen him for a couple of days.

‘It was a smart crowd,’ he said. ‘Notting Hill types. Loads a dosh, and a lot of people kept nipping off to the bogs, if you know what I mean.’

‘We know what you mean,’ Atherton said.

‘Yeah,’ said McLaren. ‘The day someone goes in the gents and actually takes a dump it’ll be like a breath of fresh air.’

‘There was a lot of monged kids around, I can tell you. I didn’t have any trouble getting ’em to talk, but when they weren’t talking rubbish they didn’t seem to know anything about Corley. One bloke looked like he might be gonna recognize him, but then he just said he looked familiar.’ He looked at Slider. ‘Maybe it was Ben Jackson he was recognizing.’

‘That’s always a danger,’ said Slider.

Mackay gave up in the end and went on to Vanya’s, where the crowd was so thick it wasn’t far off achieving critical mass and collapsing into a black hole. The noise was so loud he was afraid he’d spontaneously combust. ‘I couldn’t get anything out of anyone, they were all just jiggling about looking stupid, right out of their trees. I asked all the staff I could find, but they just shrugged. Most of ’em seemed to be East Europeans, so I’m not even sure they understood the question. In the end I gave it up and went to the Hot Box.’

It was quieter in the Hot Box, not because the music wasn’t loud but because there were fewer people. Fewer and richer seemed to be the Hot Box’s philosophy. ‘I’ve never seen so many bottles o’ champagne outside of a wedding,’ Mackay said. Seduction seemed to be the dominant theme. There were older men trysting young people of both genders; businessmen fêting other businessmen, both sides desperately pretending this was what they really enjoyed; well-heeled couples in their thirties and forties; twenty-something singles on dates, and gangs of both sexes on the hunt. The décor was Las Vegas Lite, featuring a lot of chandeliers, multiple shades of pink, and shiny and sparkly surfaces. There were strobing lights, the barmen were in pink waistcoats over bare chests, and the table staff were all female, in pink hot-pants, high heels and sequinned bras.

The Hot Boxes themselves were small round raised platforms, each with a pole going up through the middle, on which girls danced wearing only a thong. There was a raised rim about six inches high round each table, either to stop the dancers falling off or, more likely Mackay thought, to stop punters absent-mindedly putting their glasses down on them, since they strongly resembled the ‘stand-up’ tables in pubs – except for the gyrating flesh above.

Fathom listened to the description with his jaw dropping like the ramp of a horsebox. ‘Gor, you lucky bastard,’ he said, when Mackay got to the naked dancers.

Mackay shrugged. ‘When you’ve seen one pair o’ tits, you’ve seen ’em all,’ he said, with massive sangfroid and even more massive untruth.

‘Never mind the ornithology,’ Slider said sternly.

‘Orni – what?’ Fathom queried.

‘Birdwatchin’,’ Connolly helped him. ‘Only these tits weren’t blue. Love a’ God, Jerry, could you not knock off the dribbling? You’re soaking me arm.’

‘You said you’d found something out,’ Slider prompted.

‘Yeah, boss,’ Mackay said, lurching back on track. ‘This barman I spoke to, middle-aged bloke, been at the Hot Box years, name of Terry Villiers, he took a good long look at the photo and said he knew him.’

‘Only he had face fungus then.’

‘You mean a beard?’ Mackay offered.

Villiers shook his head, still staring at the picture. ‘No, just pooftah stubble,’ he said, gesturing with his free hand. He had a residual Australian accent, but had obviously been away from God’s Own Country a long time. ‘And his hair was different. Shorter. And he had an earring, ya get me? But it’s the same bloke all right. Reddish hair, brown eyes, right?’

‘Right,’ said Mackay. Coloured contacts – you could buy them on the Internet, right alongside the joke ones, vampires and devils and cats. And hair could be dyed.

‘So what’s he done, this joker?’ asked Villiers.

‘How d’you know him?’ Mackay countered.

‘Used to work here,’ said Villiers. ‘Temporary barman. He was here about six weeks, then he left. Well, they never stay long. Pity though – he was OK. I reckon he’d done it before. And it makes a change to get one ’at speaks English. The guys we get work hard, all right, but it’s a strain tryna talk to ’em.’

‘How long ago did he leave?’ Mackay asked.

‘Must a’ been – what – about the middle of July? He started the sixth o’ June, I remember that, ’cause I’d just got back from me holidays and he was starting the same day. He was here six weeks. Good little worker – keen. Asked a lot o’ questions. Cos o’ that, I thought he wanted to work his way up – thought he was a stayer. But no, he comes in one day and gives his notice. Says he’s got an opening somewhere else, more money. Can’t argue with the moolah, can you? So off he goes, and I haven’t seen him since.’

‘Did he say what sort of opening?’

‘He said something about dancing.’ Villiers said. ‘He’d never said anything to me before about being a dancer, but I s’pose he could’ve been.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe he was just resting between parts, like a bloody actor, eh? There’s a lot o’ musicals on in the West End these days, he could be a show dancer, chorus line, that sort o’ thing.’

‘You didn’t ask?’

‘Not interested enough. And too busy. He was like wallpaper, ya get me? He came, he went, like they all do. What’s he done, anyway? I can’t stand here talking all night.’

‘He’s dead,’ Mackay said, trying a bit of shock tactic.

Villiers stared at him a moment, and then said, ‘That’s different. Poor bastard. Well, I don’t know what else I can tell you.’

‘Did you see him talking to anyone in particular while he was here?’

‘Not really. He was a friendly geezer, chatted to everyone. Like I said, asked a lot of questions, seemed interested in everyone. The big boss took quite a shine to him. Another reason I thought he was gonna stay and work his way up.’

‘Big boss?’

Villiers threw a conspiratorial glance sideways and leaned forward a bit more. ‘We’re not supposed to know about it. He’s supposed to come here incognito – I dunno if he’s checking up on us, or he just likes a night out. But I’ve been here so long now I know all about this place. The managers come and go – not as often as the staff, but they get moved on eventually – but the bloke they report to never changes. He’s a good-looking geezer, got a tan and silver hair like Richard Gere, you know? Well, he quite took a fancy to this bloke, like I said, always waited to be served by him, they’d chat away for hours. The big boss looks like the kind of bloke who might back West End shows, you know? Nice suits and bags of money. So maybe he got this feller a part.’

He paused, looked at the photo again, and remembered why they were talking about him. ‘Poor bastard,’ he said again. ‘He’s young to croak like that. Funny thing, I always felt I’d seen him somewhere before, but I couldn’t put me finger on it. Seeing him without the face fungus, he looks even more familiar, but I can’t think why.’

‘Names, give us names,’ Atherton demanded. ‘Or didn’t you think to ask?’

‘’Course I asked. What d’you take me for?’ said Mackay indignantly. ‘He said our man gave the name of Colin Redgrave.’

‘Colin? With an “L”?’ Atherton said. ‘He did like his little joke, didn’t he? For a man with a broken heart.’

‘Maybe he was leavin’ a trail o’ breadcrumbs, case anyone had to try and find him,’ Connolly suggested.

‘Well, it does give us an indication that it really was Corley,’ Slider agreed. ‘Any other names?’

‘The manager’s called Eugene Kumis,’ Mackay said. ‘I managed to get a quick chat with one of the kitchen staff, who’d gone outside for a smoke, and he said Kumis is from Kazakhstan, wherever that may be. I asked him to describe him, and he says he’s a big, burly dark bloke with a five o’clock shadow, which doesn’t match Villiers’s description of the big boss. So this Richard Gere type is obviously higher up. But he didn’t know his name.’

‘If he
was
the big boss, why would it be a secret? More likely he’s a pal getting free drinks and the manager doesn’t want it known,’ Atherton said.

‘Well, whatever it is, it’d be nice if we knew,’ Slider said. ‘Swilley, find out what you can about this Kumis and whether there are any connections with anything else in the case. Gascoyne, you’re still on pizzas and Italian restaurants in general.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘McLaren, cars?’

‘Yes, guv. Nothing so far.’

‘And the rest of you, back to the flat. Atherton, you were checking on Guthrie?’

‘I’m just going to.’

‘I wonder if Tommy Flynn would be worth another pass, now we know a bit more.’

‘D’ye want me to go round there?’ Connolly asked, pausing on her way back to her desk.

‘No, I think we’ll bring him in. Might concentrate his mind. I’ll get uniform to go round and give him a tug.’

It was not long before Atherton was back at Slider’s door, with a face that foretold difficulties. ‘I rang the Murray Mann agency, spoke to the Mann himself. We’re not going to get to talk to Guthrie. He’s dead. Overdosed on cocaine, apparently.’

‘Apparently?’

‘He didn’t turn up to work, so one of the other members of the crew went round to his flat after work. Couldn’t get an answer, got worried in case he was ill, rang his sister, who had a key, to come round, found him dead in bed.’

Slider considered. ‘If Corley was right and Guthrie was a supplier, he’d surely be too savvy to take an overdose. On the other hand . . .’

‘On the other hand, there’s no getting past the stupidity of people who take drugs,’ said Atherton. ‘The interesting thing from our point of view is the timing. It was just less than a week after his little bust-up with Corley at Vanya’s.’

‘You’re not suggesting—?’ Slider began.

‘Certainly not, guv. Not suggesting anything. Just said it was interesting.’

‘Interesting. Yes,’ Slider said. ‘Someone from the local police must have investigated it. I’d better have a word with them. Did you get Guthrie’s address?’

‘Yes, guv. Ex–council flat off the Holloway Road.’

‘That’s Islington,’ Slider said, reaching for the telephone.

Islington Police Station was a rather agreeable-looking building in Tolpuddle Street, of yellow London stock bricks, square and three storeys high, with arched windows on the ground floor, edged with red brick, and a three-arched entrance porch. Nice for some, Slider thought. The DI in charge of the Guthrie case was John Care, though as Slider saw from various bits of paper around his office he called himself Jonny Care and spelled it without an ‘H’. He was a lot younger than Slider, and taller, with light brown hair cut very short, and a pleasant-looking, nondescript sort of face – the sort of face you would have difficulty remembering as soon as you had left him. He would also, Slider thought, be almost impossible to photofit: bit of a waste he wasn’t a criminal, really. Or a spy. You could feel yourself forgetting him even as he spoke.

‘So, the Guthrie case,’ he said, giving Slider a very sharp once over that proved him a copper. A young woman in a black skirt suit and green blouse brought in a tray of coffee and biscuits. ‘Thanks, Sara,’ he said. She also clocked Slider good and proper as she put the tray down on the desk, gave him a smile and went away. One of Care’s DCs, he supposed. He must have them well trained – no order for refreshments had been given in his presence. He rather wished it had been. It was instant coffee – he could smell it – and he hated instant. But in the interests of good relations he would have to make himself drink it.

‘Not that it was much of a case,’ Care went on. ‘It went down as accidental death in the end.’

‘But you always had suspicions,’ Slider said, as though he was finishing Care’s sentence.

‘Well,’ Care said doubtfully. He pushed a cup towards Slider. ‘Sugar?’

‘No, thanks. Would you tell me what happened, from the beginning?’

‘What’s your interest in it?’ Care countered. He had a very slight accent Slider was trying to pin down – Hertfordshire? Something country, anyway.

‘We were hoping he would be a witness in a case we have on at the moment. A murder case.’

‘You think he was involved?’

‘We really haven’t got that far yet. He was just someone we were going to interview for background information, and finding out he was dead was a bit startling, that’s all. How did it happen?’

Care sipped his coffee and gave in. ‘He hadn’t showed up for work, and wasn’t answering his mobile, which was worrying – these people live by their mobiles. So a colleague went to look him up. I suppose you know what line he was in?’