Kill and Tell (8 page)

‘Ahaa. Abie Myers revisits his past,’ says Josie, watching the old boy amble from the parked Bentley towards the grandstand.

Flicking through the racecard, Staffe says, ‘He’s got a horse in the three-fifty – View From Above.’

‘Not trained by Attilio Trapani?’ says Josie.

‘I’m afraid not.’ He scans the rest of the meetings at the back of the racecard to see if Abie Myers has any other horses running today. ‘He’s got another, at Newmarket in a Group Two race. This one is a seller.’

‘What language are you speaking?’

‘He’s come here with an outsider’s chance of winning £1,300, rather than go to Newmarket to see probably the best horse he has got racing for a first prize of nearly £100,000.’

‘It’s not the money that matters, though, surely. Not for Abie, when he’s just come into twenty million quid.’

‘It’s about the winning.’ Staffe locks the car, parked up at the side of the Fox on the Downs pub, opposite Brighton’s racecourse high above the town. You can see the sea, a smear of battleship grey today, and a hint of Europe. A steward on the door of the Prince Regent Suite actually bows as Abie and his minder pass.

Staffe punches a number into his phone as he and Josie join the scant midweek gathering. ‘Fin?’ Staffe keeps an eye on the balcony of the Prince Regent Suite, sees Abie’s minder checking the place out. Finbar Hare answers and Staffe says, ‘Abie Myers? How much of a player is he in the racing game these days?’

‘Hang on.’ The line clicks off and a few seconds later, Finbar Hare is back – Finbar Hare whose spread-betting firm sold out to a big boy five years ago, netting Fin a few million. ‘Twenty-five horses in training, down from over sixty a few years back.’

‘I don’t suppose he’s got any with Attilio Trapani.’

‘Wait.’

Staffe borrows a brush from Josie and grooms his hair.

Finbar says, ‘Myers has six horses with Trapani. All promising two-year-olds and switched there from Ransome’s yard just a month or so back. There’s bad feeling in the game against Trapani, so my boys say. For what it’s worth, Abie’s horses are a class above anything else in Trapani’s yard. You in Brighton?’

‘How do you know?’

‘Seagulls. Who’s the detective now? Abie’s got one down there today. View From Above.’

‘Do you fancy it?’ The suede-head clocks him from the balcony.

‘No.’

Staffe hangs up and buys a trilby and a tie from the Brocklehurst stall, to which Josie says, ‘Oh my, doesn’t sir brush up mighty fine?’ She hooks her arm through his and says, with a nod of the head and a pucker of the mouth, ‘Shall we?’

In the bar upstairs, overlooking the winning post, Abie Myers is surrounded by a group of men in suits, binoculars festooned with racing badges, and on their arms pretty, younger women, with exceptional legs and cheekbones like wing mirrors. This is not-so-new money maintaining an ascendancy.

Abie’s gang stand around a large wine barrel and drink from flutes charged by two bottles of Veuve Clicquot. Someone toasts Carmelo Trapani and for a moment the laughter subsides and they nod, earnestly, chink glasses and slowly resume. Abie is centre of attention and his eyes are bright, his voice strong. When he speaks to the women, Abie places his thick-veined fingers on their arms and makes them smile even more brightly. Here, thinks Staffe, is a man absolutely in his element: at the centre of his world.

At three o’clock the gang drain their drinks and follow Abie to the parade ring. They laugh and joke as they go, any problems in the world reduced to a few known elements. Are the odds right? Is the horse being sent out to win? Are you on or are you not? All of which is not known to everyone on the track.

In the ring, the trainer, Ralph Hambro, a quintessence of the English country gentleman, introduces his jockey to Abie. The jockey is a young one and he removes his riding helmet, pats down his hair. As Abie whispers in his ear, Hambro looks away. The young jockey smiles – quickly covers it up.

Staffe and Josie take up a position in the stands and can see onto the balcony of Abie Myers’ box. From the start, View From Above
is settled in behind the front horse and for the first three furlongs the jockey has his work cut out in holding the horse up. ‘He’s got a double handful there,’ says Staffe.

‘What?’ says Josie. ‘Does that mean he’s going to win?’ She pulls out a ticket from her pocket. ‘Look, a fiver at five to one.’

‘He
should
wipe the floor with them.’

Entering the last furlong six lengths behind the leader, the jockey on View lets his reins out an inch or so and Abie Myers’ horse accelerates, but the leader gets a slap down the shoulder from its jockey.

‘Come on, View!’ shouts Josie, her call drowned as the crowd thunders its encouragement for the favourite, which holds View From Above at bay all the way to the line. Five yards past the post, View From Above surges ahead. Too late. ‘Damn! He should have won.’

‘Should,’ says Staffe, looking across to Abie Myers’ box, where the gathered contingent isn’t unduly downcast. ‘That’s a big word.’

‘Abie will be pissed off.’

Staffe looks down at the ring as queues form to get paid out on the favourite. Down on the rails, where the big money moves, Abie’s suede-headed heavy sidles up to Vinty Chamberlaine, one of the old school bookies. Vinty hands across a wad and shoots the sharpest knowing glance up to Abie’s box, to say, ‘I’ll get you another day, you old bastard.’

Abie raises his flute an inch or so and smiles, then turns slowly around, in response to someone addressing him from behind: Maurice Greene.

Maurice shakes Abie by the hand as if they are business acquaintances, and within seconds the rest of the box empties, leaving the two beneficiaries of Carmelo’s estate alone.

Maureen Pulford bows her head into the north wind on McIvor Street. She hasn’t been out of the house in days and knows she shouldn’t let things get her down, but since David went to work in London . . . That was six years ago, and before that he was at university and before that away at school. Just thinking about him makes her both joyous and sad. Maureen looks to the sky, sees the sun is lighting the thin edge of a cloud. It will soon break through.

As she walks, she calls, ‘Simba!’ but more in hope than anything. He has been gone three days now. In the fourteen years she has had him – to replace David when he won his scholarship to that wonderful school – Simba has never strayed more than twenty feet. She fears he has taken himself off somewhere. The vet said he had a cancer and was too old to operate on but he had at least a year left in him. ‘Simba!’ she calls, passing a large car that reverberates with deep bass music. She thinks it is hip-hop, which is unusual for round here. It’s a decent area and mostly the young ones behave. The two men in the car pull their baseball caps down.

She turns left onto Salt Street and the sun breaks through. On the corner just before the police station, she fixes her tights and puffs her hair, takes a deep breath, not wanting to know.

Ray Greaves is on the desk. She hasn’t seen Ray in a long while. When David first started talking about going into the police, it was Ray who Maureen asked to dissuade him. That failed.

When Ray sees her, his face drops. Perhaps he thinks she blames him for David going into the police, but she doesn’t. Ray was a friend of Maureen’s husband, Bill, and he was very kind to Maureen when Bill deserted her. Ray turned his back on Bill and for a while dropped in on Maureen. Once, when Ray came round, he said he had the day off and was going for a drive, just down to Seahouses and would she like to come? She said ‘No’ without thinking. She was only forty. She’s fifty-two now and she thinks how young she was then, so young to be putting herself on a shelf.

Ray looks at Maureen as if he is about to break bad news and she can’t help herself. She bursts into tears and Ray rushes from behind his counter, wraps his arms around her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ says Ray. ‘I should have come round.’

‘I feel so alone,’ she says to Ray.

‘We’re keeping an eye on you.’

Maureen looks up, says, ‘You are?’

‘I’m responsible, in a way.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Maureen.

‘You came to me. You asked me to talk him out of it.’

‘What’s happened, Ray?’ says Maureen, seeing something in his eyes, feeling deep in her heart that something is wrong. She clutches her stomach and Ray reaches for her. ‘Is it David?’ Even before Ray answers, she feels as if she will be sick.

‘I’m so sorry, Mo. It looks as if there’s going to be a trial.’

Which is when Maureen’s legs give way and Ray Greaves stoops down to catch her.

Emma Thyssen-Wills, of whom there is only one on the electoral registers for the inner London boroughs, lives in Kensington and Chelsea. Specifically, she chose 5 Launceston Mews on the sweetest row you ever did see, just around the corner from Staffe’s own place and worlds removed from the seamier spots in this great city. Outside number five, a yellow Porsche Boxster is parked on the cobbles.

As the handle turns, Staffe expects to see the jet-black hair, green eyes and porcelain skin that will turn heads in any street. But this evening, Emma holds a packet of Waitrose frozen peas to her eye and when she says, ‘Hello,’ she shows a broken tooth. ‘Lacrosse,’ she says, in explanation.

‘Really?’

‘I used to play county,’ says Emma, stepping to one side, inviting Staffe to enter. ‘I was just going to have a gin.’ She removes the frozen peas to reveal a closed eye, puffed maroon. It looks like the satin cushion that rings are boxed in.

‘Did Anthony tell you about the reading of the will?’

‘Anthony? The bastard is what I call him now. Yes, the bastard told me the gist of it.’

‘He’s upset you?’

‘He’s sacked me, the bastard.’ Emma cuts a curl of lemon zest with a paring knife, pops it in his gin and hands Staffe his drink, plonking herself heavily beside him on the sofa, crossing her legs. ‘Carmelo was his main client, you see.’

‘Surely he saw it coming, that Carmelo wouldn’t last for ever.’

‘That’s why he feathered his nest with Attilio.’ When she says ‘Attilio’ her voice cracks. ‘Poor Attilio.’

‘You like him?’

‘I don’t see why he was cut out of the will like that. From what I saw, he adored his father.’

‘Tell me about Abie Myers.’

Emma takes a sip of her gin, grimaces and looks at her watch. ‘I have to go to the dentist. It’s a friend of my father’s and he’s fitting me in after his last patient. I’m sorry, a girl has got to put her looks first.’ She beams a broad smile and shows her broken tooth.

‘You do know Abie, don’t you, Emma?’ says Staffe.

Her smile goes out, like a slap.

‘I think you probably know him rather well.’

Emma prods the little cut on her lip with the end of her tongue.

‘How did you really come to have a broken tooth?’

‘I’m a bright girl. I’m not such a fool as to ignore the fact that this’ – she points to her face – ‘is my best asset. It’s what I call my gun.’

‘Your gun?’

‘And my brain is a kind word.’

‘Aah,’ says Staffe. ‘A kind word will get you so far, but a kind word and a gun will get you further.’

They both laugh.

‘But seriously,’ says Staffe.

‘Seriously! I have got a brain and it tells me not to say anything, except . . .’

‘Go on,’ urges Staffe.

Emma looks pensive and her meticulously crafted eyebrows pinch together, as if calculating whether something might damage her. ‘It’s the servant they seem to be worried about.’

‘Jacobo? What would Jacobo tell me?’

‘Anthony said something about a secret to his father, Leon. No. Actually, he said, “the secret”.’

‘
The
secret?’

‘I think maybe it’s sometimes better not to find some things out.’ She takes Staffe’s untouched gin and tonic, drinks it in one.

‘You should take it easy,’ says Staffe. ‘They’ll be giving you an anaesthetic.’

‘No, they won’t. Didn’t I tell you, inspector? I like the pain.’

Vanya Livorski’s jaw drops an inch. Holding baby Gustav in the doorway of her flat, she gawps at Staffe’s warrant card. Within, a smell of vinegar.

Staffe suspects the Livorskis’ legality and is curious as to how the husband, Bogdan, makes ends meet. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘It’s not what you think, but I need to see your husband, too.’

Vanya shakes her head, the way a guilty child would.

‘I know he’s here.’ Staffe puts the middle knuckle of his index finger on baby Gustav’s podgy cheek and rubs it, gently. Baby Gustav chortles. ‘You’re blessed, Vanya. Please let me in so we can all sit down and you can hear my good news.’

‘What is it you want?’

‘I’m here on Carmelo’s behalf.’

Over her shoulder, Bogdan appears. He is not so tall but stocky and with a wide face. When he turns to close the kitchen door behind him, Staffe sees his head is flat at the back. Flat as a chopping board.

‘He’s been kind to us. Very kind,’ says Vanya.

‘We have our papers. We’re legal,’ says Bogdan.

‘Is Mister Trapani all right?’ says Vanya. ‘He is a very kind man.’

‘I’m afraid he is not all right.’ Staffe keeps his eyes on Bogdan as he says it. Vanya is scared of life, but Bogdan is scared of something very particular. ‘When was the last time you saw him? We’ll have to check it out, so there’s no point telling me lies.’

‘I heard you from the kitchen,’ says Bogdan. ‘You said there was good news. This doesn’t sound like good news.’

‘Can I come in?’

Bogdan says something in Polish and Vanya nods, quickly, like a child accepting a punishment, and Bogdan leads them through one of four doors in the flat into a small lounge-diner, no more than twelve by twelve. They have a nice TV and the place is kitted out with good stuff – courtesy of Carmelo, perhaps. In the corner, a low table has a wooden crucifix on it and a figurine of the Virgin. Church candles flicker and on the wall above, a picture of the Pietà taken from a book.

‘How did you come to know Carmelo?’

‘What makes you think we know him?’ says Bogdan.

‘You’re choosing to lie to me, Mister Livorski. Carmelo has left you a large sum of money in his will, so I know you know him. And now I also know you have something to hide.’

‘A
lot
of money?’ says Bogdan.

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘A few days ago,’ says Vanya. ‘He liked to come to see Gustav.’ She strokes the baby’s downy head. ‘He wished he had a grandson of his own. Carmelo
is
all right. You said something about a will.’

‘What day?’

‘It was a Tuesday. He always came on a Tuesday.’

‘Aaah.’ Staffe goes to Vanya. Down on his haunches, he takes a hold of both her hands. ‘He is missing. He went missing last Tuesday.’

Bogdan says, ‘A large sum of money?’

‘If he is dead, you inherit four hundred thousand pounds.’

‘My God! That’s too much.’

‘It’s far too much,’ says Bogdan, with meaning.

‘Tell me everything about that last visit of his.’

Vanya looks across at her husband and seems on the verge of tears. ‘My mother has never seen the baby. We didn’t even tell her about the baby until he was born.’ She clutches baby Gustav so tight Staffe fears the infant might not be able to breathe. ‘We didn’t dare hope he would survive. I still can’t believe he won’t be taken from us, and it’s all because of Carmelo.’

‘You really are in Carmelo’s debt,’ says Staffe.

Bogdan looks ashamed as Vanya tells Staffe precisely when Carmelo came and went on that Tuesday. When she is done, Vanya shows him out, down the narrow stairs that leads to the front door, sandwiched between AB Taxis and Kenny’s Fried Chicken.

Vanya tugs at his sleeve, whispers, ‘Bogdan is a good man. He is anxious because he can’t believe that the harm in his life will not be visited on Gustav.’

‘What harm?’ Staffe enquires.

Vanya looks anxiously back up the stairs, lowers her voice even more. ‘His father was a doctor, but they didn’t like what he said. I tell Bogdan it’s a different world now.’

‘What happened to his father?’

‘They put him on the bins, as you say here.’

‘A dustbin man?’

She nods. ‘And Bogdan was training to be a doctor, too. He wanted to be a surgeon. He’s an intelligent man with a good heart.’

‘So why did you come to England?’

‘His brother was sick. He has three nephews and a niece and they had no money.’

‘He wanted to be a surgeon?’ says Staffe. ‘Lucky Carmelo, to have such a qualified man in his pay.’

Staffe strokes baby Gustav’s head and says he hopes Vanya can take her son to visit his grandmother soon. ‘You must,’ he says, turning.

Opposite Bethnal Green’s fine Edwardian tube station, just past the Beef and Salmon pub, Staffe can make out the tower of the Limekiln Estate and he makes an adjustment to his day, decides to call on another mother.