Blood Never Dies (23 page)

‘I could hear it as soon as I got out of the car, sir,’ he said, ‘and I could see the window was partly up. But when I rang the doorbell there was no answer. I rang the other bell and got her downstairs.’ He made a graphic face. ‘She said she was fed up with the noise, she’d been banging on the ceiling but it made no difference. She said she heard him come home in the early hours, he’d put the music on then and it hadn’t been off since. I went upstairs and she insisted on following me up, but there was no answer when I banged on the door. She said she wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t overdosed and what kind of policeman was I?’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Well, sir, she didn’t have a key and the lock looked pretty frail so I thought I’d better shoulder the door. It was easy – that old Yale was half off anyway. Unfortunately, she got a look inside before I could stop her, and she was off, screaming like a banshee, so I had to deal with her before I could radio in. I haven’t been inside but you can see from here he’s dead. With all the blood in there, I thought it better not to step in it.’

‘Good thinking,’ Slider said. ‘We’ll wait for the forensic boys. I’ll just take a look from here.’

‘Funny, with all that blood, there’s no footprints on the stairs,’ D’Arblay said over Slider’s shoulder as he looked in. ‘You’d think the murderer could hardly help . . .’

Tommy Flynn was naked, lying on his side half way between the bed and the window, in a positive welter of gore. The reason was easy to see – his throat had been cut right across and to the bone, so that his head lolled back, only held on by the cervical spine. Even for a policeman, it was as nasty a sight as you’d want to bargain for in a lifetime. Near his outflung hand, Slider could see a bloody knife with a decorative ivory-inlaid handle and double-sided blade about a foot long – the sort of thing years ago people brought back from Africa as a souvenir. There wasn’t much else to see without going closer. The music was coming from a sound system in the chimney alcove near the window. The bed was up against the wall, the covers rumpled and thrown back, and there was an open door on the back wall through which could be seen a corner of the kitchen, which was at the back of the house overlooking the garden and the railway line. Presumably the bathroom was through there too. It was a tiny place, the original two bedrooms of a two-bedroom terraced house – but presumably it had been cheap. Nothing in the furnishing or accoutrements suggested Tommy Flynn had ever had more money than it took to keep him going from week to week.

‘Right,’ said Slider. He looked at D’Arblay. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, guv,’ he said sturdily. ‘I’ve seen worse road accidents.’

‘Good lad. Hang in there.’

Lawrence had done a good job of calming Panda Woman, whose name turned out to be Kelly Watson, so that she had stopped shrieking and was now bravely cradling a cup of tea and demanding her kids back. ‘They’ll be going mental wivout me,’ she asserted. Slider asked her a few questions while they were being fetched, but it was obvious she didn’t know anything. She had heard ‘him upstairs’ come in in the early hours, banging the door and going up the stairs. She didn’t know what time, but she had been watching a movie on TV until 12.30 and then gone to bed, and she’d been asleep so it must have been after one. Then she’d heard the music go on, but she’d fallen asleep. The next thing she’d woken with her baby crying, and it was seven o’clock. Once she’d got the kids up and fed she’d noticed the music was still going. After a bit she got fed up with it and banged on the ceiling with the broom handle, but to no effect. Then that policeman had arrived.

No, she didn’t know if he’d come home alone. No, she hadn’t seen him, only heard him – she was in bed. No, she hadn’t heard any sounds of rumpus from upstairs, nor anyone leave. He had friends back a lot but she didn’t know any of them. She didn’t know if he had a girlfriend.

The children arrived and interrupted this litany of negatives. They were as stolid a couple of little nose-miners as Slider had ever seen, and plodded in with nothing more than mild enquiry on their faces as to what was going on. But their mother flung herself at them with shrieks of anguish and clutched them to her bosom, which soon had them bawling in sheer fright in one-and-a-half-part harmony. Slider was glad of the excuse to leave.

Outside, Connolly was just arriving, despatched by Hollis as reinforcement on the grounds that she knew more about Flynn than anyone else. She brought the news that the doctor and forensic were on the way, and that Mr Porson was asking Hammersmith central nick for manpower to cover the basics, since they were already stretched.

‘Jeez, the poor bastard,’ she commented on Flynn, having had the permitted look through the door to get her up to speed. ‘He was a mouthy skanger, but he didn’t deserve that. What does your wan downstairs say?’

‘She knows nothing, except that he came in in the early hours. Heard, not seen.’

‘Is it to do with our case, boss? Sure it must be? Corley and Guthrie and now your man, all killed in the early hours with music on in the background.’

‘If you so much as think the words serial killer you’re going straight home,’ Slider said.

‘I wasn’t going to, honest. But doesn’t it look like they’re popping anyone who might be able to lead us to them?’

‘And who is “them” in your script?’

‘Them that’s doing the popping,’ she said unhelpfully. Something occurred to her. ‘Boss, d’you need me here? Only it might be worth seeing if Tommy Flynn’s pal is up the pool room again. It was their usual hang-out.’

‘Good thinking,’ Slider said. ‘Go.’

The local doctor on call pronounced life extinct – these little rituals had to be performed – and left with his eyes on stalks and his mouth distinctly wry. The inside of the human neck had not been designed to be seen. By the time Freddie Cameron arrived, forensic was in, and he clothed up and oozed up the stairs to insert himself into a distinctly crowded room.

He came down to make a first report to Slider before going back to secure the body for removal. ‘Well, the weapon looks right for the weapon,’ he said. ‘It’s hellishly sharp. Cut was made from behind and from left to right, which gives us a right-handed murderer.’

‘No chance it was self-inflicted?’

‘None. Angle’s all wrong.’

‘Would it have taken a lot of strength?’

‘Strong hands, perhaps, but determination rather than mighty muscles, provided he didn’t struggle – and there’s no sign of struggle. It’s more a knack than brute force. Judging by his pupils he had ingested a large dose of something, which probably rendered him docile. The murderer would only have to manoeuvre themselves up behind him and be quick – tug the head back by the hair and make one quick, hard movement. The droplet pattern suggests he was killed where he fell; and of course the murderer would have been shielded by his body from most of the blood.’ He regarded Slider a moment. ‘No attempt to make this look like suicide. If it’s the same killer as in the Corley case, it looks as though he’s getting more impatient.’

‘Thanks for reminding me I’m getting nowhere fast,’ said Slider.

‘No charge,’ said Cameron elegantly, and went back upstairs.

Connolly had a distinct Groundhog moment when she entered the pub. The scene was unchanged. It could have been the same men sitting there staring at the television screen – it could even have been the same sporting event for all she knew. As she slipped discreetly upstairs, she toyed with the idea that the broadcast companies had been showing old tapes for years without anyone noticing.

In the pool room she struck lucky. In a lazily-moving curtain of illegal smoke, there was a group of young men standing around the table, two playing and the other three watching, and one of the onlookers was the lad she had seen with Tommy Flynn. As soon as he spotted her he started to sidle, but she had positioned herself between the exit and the only other door – to the gents – so she could reach either before he could.

‘I just want a chat with you,’ she said, holding eye contact. ‘It’s not trouble for you, I swear on me mammy’s grave.’ His eyes were flitting about, looking for escape, and the others had now had their attention caught and were looking at her with their mouths open. ‘Ah, c’mon, what harm? I’ll buy yez a pint,’ she said, giving him a friendly smile and gesturing to the door.

‘Kin’ell, Baz, if you don’t I will,’ said one of the others. ‘You don’t get offers like that every day.’

‘Yeah, get it on,’ said another.

Her quarry gave a foolish smirk and came towards her, trying to put on a swagger. Through the door on to the landing outside, with Connolly close behind him; and just at the point when she felt him think about bolting, she caught his wrist and snatched his arm up behind his back. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said grimly. ‘Ever heard an arm break? It’d put y’off your lunch.’

‘Lemme go, y’ lousy bitch!’ he squealed.

‘Now, now, none o’ that. Don’t show yourself up in front of your mates. I just want a talk. No harm to you. Walk downstairs nicely now, because if you trip and fall y’arm might come right off in me hand.’

At the bottom of the stairs was the room she had noted before, where special matches were screened, but there was nothing on today and the room was empty. She marched him in and sat him down behind a table, and sat herself on the other side as he rubbed his arm and looked sulky.

‘That bloody hurt,’ he complained. ‘Whadda you want, anyway?’

‘You’re Tommy Flynn’s mate,’ she said. ‘I just want t’ask you about Tommy.’ He seemed to find that consoling. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

She had though it would be Barry, because they had called him Baz, but it turned out to be Derren Basilides. He was a skinny creature in his early twenties, with a spotty, underdeveloped face and greasy no-coloured hair, and he was wearing what seemed to be the uniform of baggy khaki pants, trainers and a grubby top: a Staxx T-shirt with the annoying words DON’ NO NO BETTA printed under the name, which in his case was probably true as well as making it an antique.

‘When did you last see Tommy?’ she asked.

A look of low cunning crossed his face. ‘Get us a pint an’ I’ll tell ya.’

‘No, Derren, you tell me and then I’ll get yez a pint. Love a God, d’ya think I fell off the Christmas tree?’

‘Baz,’ he said sulkily. ‘Me name’s Baz.’

‘OK, Baz, here’s how it’ll be. I ask you questions, you answer them, you get a pint and no trouble from me. Got it?’ He nodded, resigned. He had caved in so easily, Connolly wondered whether he had a tough Greek mother who kept him in line. ‘So when did you last see Tommy?’

‘Las’ night. He was here. We played a bit o’ pool, then he went off.’

‘Off where?’

‘I dunno. He was meetin’ someone. A bird.’

‘What bird?’

‘I dunno. He didn’t say.’ To Connolly’s insistent look, he amplified. ‘He had this phone call. Then he says, “I gotta go, I’m meetin’ this bird.” And he like makes kind of yum-yum faces.’ He demonstrated, ludicrously, rubbing his stomach with one hand. ‘Showin’ off she was tasty. He’s always like that.’ he grumbled. ‘Yeah, we get it, Tom, you have a lot o’ sex. Don’t haveta rub it in.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Be about, I dunno, half eleven, quart’ to twelve. It was near on closing, anyway.’ He seemed to suffer a spurt of backbone and asserted himself. ‘What’s this about? What’s Tommy done?’

‘Tommy’s dead, Baz,’ Connolly said. ‘Someone killed him last night.’

Baz blenched; all his blemishes stood out against the sudden pallor. ‘Killed him?’ he bleated. ‘Who killed him? What – is he, like, dead?’

The boy was quick, you had to hand it to him. ‘Dead as a fish, Baz me boy, so now you see why it’s very important that you help me out here. This woman he was meetin’ – have y’any idea who it might be?’

‘No, he never said.’

‘Is he seeing anyone regularly?’

‘Nah, you know what the Flynn’s like – different bird every night.’

In his dreams, Connolly thought. Not on cocaine. ‘Did he say where he was meeting her?’

‘Nah, that’s all he said – gotta go, I’m meetin’ this bird. I’d tell you if I knew. Honest.’ He tried to give her a reassuring look, but it was smeared with alarm, and his knee was jiggling under the table. ‘He’s dead? Tommy’s dead?’

‘Yeah, they got him, all right,’ she said, hoping to spark a reaction.

‘What, the drugs people?’ he said, his eyes widening.

‘It’s possible,’ she said, concealing her satisfaction. ‘Tommy dealt drugs, didn’t he?’

‘Nah, not
dealt
. He’d get it for you, but he only like sold it to his mates and that. He didn’t go out like on the street or anything. And it was just a few wraps. I mean, if he was like
dealing
, he’d have been rich, right?’

‘But he would supply charlie if you asked him?’

‘Yeah, and E, and Viagra. Bit o’ speed sometimes. But that’s all.’

Viagra to counteract the effects of the cocaine, Connolly thought. So that’s how he kept the women happy. ‘And where did he get the stuff from?’ she asked.

Now he looked really alarmed. Beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip and his leg was doing a fandango. He stuffed a dirty and bitten fingernail into his mouth and tore at it. ‘I dunno! I swear I dunno!’

‘Don’t bite your nails, it’s a dirty owl habit,’ she said sternly. He dropped his hand as if he’d been slapped. ‘Sure, you must have asked him?’

‘No! Tommy never said and I never asked. I never wanted to get into all that. Them people – you don’t wanna get mixed up wiv ’em. I told him that. But he liked the money. And it was the only way he could pay for the stuff. He took a shed-load o’ charlie, Tommy did. He was mental.’

‘C’mon, Baz, you’ve known your man, how many years?’

‘Since school. We was at school together.’

‘Right, all those years, you’re his best friend –’ She was punting here, but he didn’t deny it – ‘and he’s never told you where he got the stuff? Not a hint?’

‘All I know is, he picked it up at the club.’

‘The Forty-Niners?’

‘Yeah. But I don’t know how, or who sold it him. I swear. He would never have told me. He was careful, Tommy. He’d’ve knew it was dangerous.’ He licked his lips. ‘How – how’d they do it?’