Neon Madman (8 page)

Jones nodded and listened, saying exactly enough to keep me talking but no more. He wasn't bothering to take notes. A uniformed constable behind him was doing that. Which meant the inspector could drink his coffee while I was talking.

When I'd finished he sat forwards and uncrossed his legs. He looked as if he was rather glad something like this had broken. It was a lot more interesting than muggings or break-ins or whatever other minor matters might have come up. It was certainly better than sitting in his office going through the latest crime statistics or pretending to read Home Office reports.

He was between forty and fifty. He had a head that was rather too small for the shoulders on which it was perched. His hair was cut short and parted on the left with a lot of precision. He hadn't shaved in more than twenty-four hours.

I thought that if I had to, I could probably get along with him. I didn't think I'd ever like him and I guessed that was the way he would prefer it.

‘There's one thing that doesn't fit,' he said.

‘Yes. I know.'

‘You wouldn't have had any reason for taking it?'

‘No.'

We both knew we were talking about the non-existent suicide note though neither of us said so.

‘And you didn't see that he was out there until immediately before you phoned?'

‘That's what I said, inspector.'

He sat back again and crossed his legs. Behind him the constable looked studiously down at his notebook, as though he'd just noticed a full stop out of place.

‘People have been known to say things that aren't exactly true.'

‘Sure,' I agreed, ‘but usually when they're confused or they've got something to cover up. I'm feeling pretty good for this time of the morning and I'm clean all the way through.'

He gave me a look which suggested he was a long way from agreeing.

‘You don't accept any blame for what happened out there, then?'

I didn't say anything. He flexed the fingers of his right hand in a gesture that I might have been meant to notice, cracked his knuckles and clenched the fist again.

‘Let's get this straight. The man out there comes to you and you give him a packet of juicy pictures of his wife having it off along with a set of notes that read like a mucky book. He immediately—if you are to be believed—goes out to his car and kills himself. And you say that none of that lies on your doorstep. Well, Mitchell, if you think that then you stink even more than I thought you did!'

The young copper was writing away furiously. I knew Jones was only trying to rattle me and that I shouldn't rise to the bait. I knew all right. It didn't stop me standing up and letting him have a few moments of my mind.

‘Look! That guy out there knew what he was doing when he hired me. A man knows when his wife's been playing around. He simply wanted confirmation. He paid me to get it and that was his choice. I warned him that he might be better off not knowing and he wouldn't listen. Okay, that was his privilege. When he came round here this evening he knew what he was going to find. He knew what was going to be in that envelope. Not exactly, but he knew the kind of thing he'd find. That was why he got half drunk before he got here and why he had his little bottle of pills with him in his pocket. He knew what he was going to find and he wanted it proved and he must have known what he was going to do about it.'

Jones jabbed a finger in my direction. It was the most violent thing I had seen him do. So far.

‘And you, knowing he'd been drinking and wasn't feeling exactly great about his wife let him go wandering off into the night without caring twopence about where he was going. That's fine. What's known as being compassionate, I think.'

I didn't like it. I didn't like the way that finger was pointing accusingly at me and I didn't like what the man had said. I didn't like the way the copper with the notebook was looking at me as if I was something that had just crawled out from under a stone. I didn't like the fact that a client had killed himself outside my flat. I didn't like anything. Much.

‘Look, inspector, I did my job. Nothing more and nothing less. And nobody can expect me to do any more. If someone asked you or your men to dole out a little compassion in the line of duty you'd probably tell them to go fuck themselves because you were busy. Well, fuck you, inspector! The fact that I'm working by myself doesn't make me the child-minder of the world!'

There was a silence that took all three of us firmly by the hands and held us close. In the midst of it I didn't notice anything and only after a while did I realise that the rain had stopped. There were no longer noises coming from the road. I touched one shoe against the other and it sounded like an explosion.

Behind us the young copper was having difficulty keeping his eyes in his head. And he had stopped taking notes. I wondered at what point.

‘Sit down, Mitchell.'

I sat down.

‘You've got a very hasty temper.' It was a casual observation. The tension was evaporating fast.

I agreed. There didn't seem to be much point in doing otherwise.

‘What else are you working on at the moment? Or was the Pollard thing your only case?'

He'd lobbed me the ball and I hadn't expected it, though I should have done, I wanted to say it was the only one, but I hesitated and the hesitation was so long that it made it impossible to make the lie.

‘There's one other thing. Some anxious wife who thinks her old man's disappeared.'

Jones crossed his legs, then recrossed them the other way. He lifted an eyebrow and waited for me to continue.

‘It won't amount to anything.'

‘How can you be so certain?'

‘She called me after he'd been away one whole night. By the time tomorrow comes properly around he'll be back home. She's just another over-worried wife.'

‘I didn't think they made those any more. I thought it was husbands who did all the worrying nowadays. Like Pollard.'

I didn't answer. I thought maybe I'd try crossing my legs but I didn't manage it with his degree of style.

‘Is that what most of your business is? Husbands chasing wives and wives chasing husbands?'

I shrugged my shoulders. It was a gesture I felt more at home with. ‘Mostly, I guess. Though there is the occasional high flier like an old lady losing her bingo money down a drain.'

‘Don't underestimate yourself too much. Weren't you the fellow who was involved in the Cathy Skelton kidnapping thing?'

‘Sure.'

‘Tom Gilmour from West End Central, he's a friend of yours, isn't he?'

‘He was the last time I saw him.'

‘I know Tom. He's a good bloke. A good copper—even if he is a bit flash.'

I grinned. Tom would like that.

Inspector Jones stood up and signalled for the uniformed man to leave the room. ‘It all seems pretty straightforward then. Providing everything you say is on the level. And I've no reason to believe that it isn't. Not yet anyway. Come in to the station in the morning and go over it all again and we'll get you to sign it in duplicate. With luck you won't have anything more to do except say a few words at the inquest.'

I thanked him and he went over to the door. Once there, he turned. ‘This Mrs Pollard, nice looker is she?'

‘If you like everything well displayed and readily available.'

‘A lot of people do.'

I nodded. ‘So she found out.'

‘You've nothing going there yourself, have you, Mitchell? No relationship of any kind?'

‘No, inspector. Not of any kind.'

He thought about it for a few seconds then walked out. I watched him go over to his car and then went to the kitchen. There was some coffee left in the pot. I poured it out and took the cup back to bed with me.

It had started to get light and the rain had begun once more. Only drizzle but it looked set in for a long time. It would probably put paid to any play in the Test. On another day I might have worried about that: as it was I had other things to think about.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I don't know whether I was suddenly very tired or if there was a lot of dreaming that needed doing. It could have been both. When I finally woke up it was a long way into Saturday morning and my head was stuffed full with things that didn't make any sense at all.

There was a lot of talking going on in a big room, high ceilings and candelabras and all that jazz. Women in low-cut evening gowns and men in dinner jackets and tuxedos; everyone getting high and the conversation ringing through my head like knives being tapped against expensive wine glasses. There were quite a few people there including Marcia Pollard and Caroline Murdoch. Marcia was wearing a flame-coloured dress that hollowed out into a circle at the front and showed enormous areas of her breasts, the edges of the material cutting across the darker flesh around her nipples. Caroline Murdoch was in a tight black creation that went all the way from the floor to a high collar round her neck. Only there was a diamond-shaped section missing that left her navel exposed.

They were standing close to each other and smiling. It was a smile that suggested a lot of things. Things like sex and conspiracy and secrets well hidden.

The next thing that happened in my dream was that I was there in person. But not exactly as a guest; more as an offering. I was lying on a table in the centre of the room, surrounded by all kinds of food and, beyond that, leering faces. A hand hovered over me. It held a knife tightly and determinedly between its fingers. I recognised the knife: it was the one Charlie had cut me with in my office. Only it wasn't Charlie's hand. I was sure of that. I looked up and followed the fingers along the arm and over the shoulder: Frances McGaven's face stared back at me and the hatred that I'd always suspected was etched on it in lines that were inches deep.

The knife came down towards me and I wanted to shut my eyes but couldn't. I tried to turn my head away but I couldn't do that either. Hands were holding it. I didn't need to look to know that they belonged to Marcia and Caroline.

Just as the blade was about to enter my flesh everything went silent; and out of that silence rose the weird animal laugh of one-eyed Charlie. A laugh that was filled with madness and delight in pain. It rose and rose as the knife fell, fell
…
fingers that were long and smooth and cool slid down over my eyes and pushed the lids shut.

I lay there for a long while, the pain of my dream reverberating from a place a little to the left of my heart. I knew that I was awake and that the dream had broken. I looked at the time and knew that I should get up. Yet I lay there, still, thinking and waiting for the feel, of those fingers to disappear from my skin.

I was still there when the phone rang. I considered ignoring it but it rang on with the kind of persistence that suggests it would go on for ever unless I went over there and lifted up the receiver.

I recognised Patrick's voice immediately. What was less familiar was the tone of both anxiety and uncertainty that came with it

‘Scott. Are you all right?'

‘Sure. Nothing that several cups of coffee won't cure. Why do you ask?'

‘It doesn't matter. I had a strange sort of feeling, a premonition. But it probably doesn't mean anything.'

I didn't say anything straightaway. I was thinking about what he had said. I felt like asking him the nature of his premonition but I didn't really want to know. If he started talking about expensive-looking dinner parties that might be more than I could handle.

Instead I asked him what information he had been able to find.

‘Well, Scott, I went over and saw the man I know early. It may have been that he isn't better than a lot of other people in the mornings, but it's a sore point right enough. At first I got the impression that he wasn't going to say anything.'

‘But … ?'

‘But I spent ten minutes reminding him of the various favours I had done for him in the past and suggesting that I might be able to do likewise in the future. He finally gave me the names.'

‘Go on.'

‘There was a detective sergeant called Thomas and a detective constable called Botterill.'

‘Good. Would he say anything about them?'

Patrick paused and coughed. He seemed to be having difficulties. ‘This is where it began to look rather suspicious. My contact didn't say so himself, but I got the impression that he agreed with me. A month after the enquiry was over and Mancor Holdings had been found not guilty of any irregularities, Thomas resigned from the force. A couple of weeks after that Botterill was the subject of an A.10 internal police investigation. Not about Mancor, apparently, but something unconnected. He was suspended from duties and in the middle of that investigation, he resigned too.'

‘And they allowed him to do so?'

‘Apparently. I don't know whether the enquiry was carried through or not, but either way no prosecution was brought against him.'

‘Your friend didn't know what had happened to him since.'

‘No. Nothing at all. He seems to have disappeared from sight.'

‘Which might mean a lot in itself.'

‘Exactly. But, Scott, I do know what happened to the other man, Thomas, and that's even more interesting.'

‘Let's have it.'

‘Right. Here you are: he's working for a London security firm. Mancor Security.'

It was my turn to stop in my tracks. It hardly seemed believable yet there was nothing else to do but believe it. One thing was certain: there was no way in which it had been coincidence. It looked as though they had both accepted bribes to let the Mancor books go clean. The fact that Botterill was under investigation on another matter made it more than probable that they were both on the take. Then Thomas gets a nice convenient job with one of the Mancor set-ups. Very nice indeed. They could keep an eye on him and he could keep an eye on them.

‘Scott. Are you still there?'

‘Yes, sorry, Patrick, I was thinking.'

‘I'm glad to hear it, Scott. What are you going to do now?'

‘I'm not sure. I might use some contacts of my own and try to find out what happened to Botterill.'

‘Scott.'

‘Yes.'

‘The Fraud Squad man I spoke to. He gave me the impression that it was a pretty dangerous business even to talk about. Can't you leave things alone?'

I didn't bother answering and he didn't waste our time asking a second time. I thanked him for his help and gave my best wishes to his wife. He accepted them but I doubt if he would pass them on.

I put the phone down and started my morning ritual several hours later than usual. The only thing that happened in the middle of it that was in any way disturbing was a call from Inspector Jones finding out if I was still coming down to the station to make a statement. I assured him I was on my way. He offered to send a car round but I declined. I wasn't at my happiest riding in police cars. I hadn't spent some of the best hours of my life in them.

Moving uncertainly between one cup of coffee and another I switched on the radio to listen to the Test Match Commentary. All I got was music. It was raining at Lords. I checked the window. It was raining here too. That didn't stop it getting hot—and I felt it was going to get hotter.

Nothing exciting happened at the police station. They seemed happy with me and I was happy with them. What a friendly way to be! Jones seemed so benign I asked him how Marcia Pollard had taken the news of her husband's death. He said she might have reacted more violently if he had told her that she had a hole in her tights.

I thanked him and walked out of the station and headed back towards my office. The fact that Pollard's wife hadn't started wailing and weeping didn't necessarily mean that she didn't care. But I was willing to take bets.

Back in the office I put through a call to Tom Gilmour. Someone said that he was busy but would ask him to call me back, I said it was urgent and put my feet up on the desk. There was still music on the radio instead of the cricket commentary and when I looked out of the window the sky looked increasingly overcast.

I passed the time trying to make some definite connection between Marcia Pollard and Caroline Murdoch. Apart from the fact that they had shared the same man—if you can call a couple of hours a week sharing—there didn't appear to be any. I couldn't see that they would have been colluding about that.

When Tom came on the line he sounded busy and bad-tempered. It was good to know that things were much as usual. He had a few choice things to say about the heat and the drizzling rain and I listened while he worked his way through the accessary preliminaries. Then I asked him if he knew anything about a man called Franco Tabor, who headed a group of companies most of which used the name Mancor. It didn't seem to improve his mood.

‘Tabor's a mothering son of a bastard who thinks he's a seventies Capone—or at least George Raft. Smooth as dog shit on the surface and just like that all the way through to the heart. He'd gamble away his mother's life if he thought there was a chance of winning and if he thought it would help he'd put the knife in himself. He likes to be seen in a lot of smart places round the West End and Soho and never moves far without a couple of hoods a yard behind his padded shoulders.'

‘One of them a West Indian who's built like a small house?'

‘That's him. How do you know?'

‘We had a little, er, meeting.'

‘Like hell! And you're still on your feet and talking about it?'

‘It was a matter of touch and go. What about a character with a white stripe in his hair and one glass eye?'

‘That's Charlie. Tabor doesn't like to be seen with that specimen hanging around him. But he uses him all right. Nasty bastard. The day he gets put away the safer it'll be for everyone. One day he's going to go berserk and then there's going to be a hell of a lot of blood letting before he's stopped.'

‘You haven't got anything on them that would put them away for a few days, Tom?'

‘I wish I had. But if I pick them up for no real reason, Tabor's lawyer will have them out again before they get their arses down on the station seats.'

I thought I'd try another direction.

‘What about an ex-Fraud Squad copper called Botterill? He seems to have gone underground a few months back after they opened an A.10 investigation on him. He might have had some association with the Mancor people.'

Tom thought about it for a while and behind him I could hear men moving about and talking. Finally he said, ‘There is something, and I should know what it is but my mind's gone blank. Let me have five minutes and I'll get back to you.'

I agreed and listened for the click of the phone going down. I wasn't sure if he meant what he said or whether he wanted to be sure I could have the information I wanted.

I figured I would have time to get the office coffee-making equipment working. I did, but only just.

Tom Gilmour's tone was quieter and more urgent. ‘Okay, Scott, I'll let you have what we know but I'm going to make a condition. I know it's no use asking you what you're working on, because you'll either refuse to tell me or lie. So if I give you the information, you've got to promise that you'll let me know if anything important gets turned up that we might be more than a little interested in. You got that?'

I crossed my fingers and held them behind my back, then gave my word.

‘A week ago there was a fire in Soho. Two people were trapped in it; one was badly burned and shocked, the other died. It didn't get much coverage in the press because it happened at the same time as the first Asian stabbing occurred in Southall.

‘The two were a prostitute and her client. They were in the top room of a three-storey building and the whole place went up like a sheet of brightly coloured paper. The fire brigade got there pretty quickly, but there was still nothing they could do to stop it spreading to the other buildings. The woman managed to get out on to the fire escape but not before she was badly injured. She was a Frenchwoman who came over here in the war and stayed. She wasn't young. She made a specialty of wearing high boots and wielding a whip. The client was tied down when the fire broke out. Not tightly, but enough to hamper his movements. He was twenty-seven and an ex-copper. His name was Botterill.'

I whistled and a cold chill went through my stomach and round to my kidneys.

Gilmour went on. ‘The place went up so fast that we were very suspicious, but there was nothing we could pin on anyone. It wasn't possible to find any positive signs of arson, even though the building went up like a tinder box. The only line we had was that it was part of an underground gang war. Someone moving in on someone else's territory and applying pressure through the girls they had on the game.'

‘Had there been other signs of that?'

‘Well, there's always a lot of nasty niggling going on and now the Chinese are trying to move out from Gerrard Street and get a bit more of that action for themselves.'

‘But you didn't prove anything definite?'

‘No,' Gilmour said, ‘though that didn't surprise us, nor does it prove we were wrong.'

I agree but without any sense of conviction in my voice.

‘Come on then, Scott, what do you know that the police don't? We haven't got your talents so you may have to lead us by the hand.'

I grinned to myself. The thought of anyone leading Tom Gilmour by the hand didn't seem very likely.

‘You did go into Botterill's police record, of course?'

‘Yes. We looked at the case A.10 were investigating to find out if there was any possible connection. Nothing doing.'

‘And nothing else caught your eye?'

‘Will you stop mothering around and come out with it?'

He was getting exasperated, but I was enjoying it. It wasn't too often that I was in the position of knowing more than he did.