Dead Pretty (3 page)

Mark's two positive years with Lena had balanced out everything that came before, offset the kiddy crap, the teenage crap, that extreme and illegal journey from fifteen to twenty, the years of trying to find out who he was. For a crazy moment he thought of phoning his mother, the only other person he'd ever been close to, but for her, his news would be a mainline back to Shane.

Mark went into the services' rest room, he couldn't think of a bleaker or more lonely place to be at this time. It smelt of stale piss and ineffective cleaning agent. He didn't like what he saw as he stared in a mirror. A man who looked a lot older than thirty, but finding Lena like that had put another ten years on him. There was now a grey threat at the edge of his hairline. There were few photos of his early childhood. He had just one, of a crop-haired, bony kid, with an unsmiling face and hard eyes, perfect for any social documentary on the deprived. It still was. A hard man's face now, rugged good looks, Lena calls it. She didn't like ‘pretty' men. A scar-free face, with surprisingly good teeth, none knocked out, or twisted.
Lena calls it.
Present tense, Mark. Dead people don't do present tense. Girlfriends with their stomachs ripped open don't do any tense at all. If someone hadn't come in he would have punched the glass. It was an old teenage trick, a last resort when everything exploded in his brain. The pain in the fist was like a charge that settled him down again, his problems smashed away, for a while. A small man in a suit looked at him strangely, then tried to make himself invisible when Mark returned the look.

He walked into the restaurant. At this time it wasn't very busy. The odd trucker, sitting in his special pen, dog-tired and wishing his journey was over. A few families, mothers trying to control over-tired kids on their way back from somewhere, fathers' arms folded in resignation. Lena had talked about kids, someday, sometime. She was older than him, by two years, and had dreaded hitting thirty. Forget forty, fifty, bus pass time, thirty is the one, she'd said. He'd never thought much about it, and had slipped past his own milestone a few months ago. Despite Lena, a part of him still felt that time was to be served, not enjoyed.

Mark ordered a plate of grease, which tasted as if it was on overtime. It might have been adequate in the morning, an overpriced surfeit of cholesterol washed down by caffeine, but now it fell into his gut like lead. He chewed, he swallowed, it was necessary. Lena would have been horrified. She was a vegetarian, almost vegan, and had begun to work on him in the last few months. He'd just about given up red meat, apart from bacon. You're doing well, she said, for a man.

Mark could see the motorway through the restaurant window, a police car went by, then another, chasing someone. His hands tightened on the cutlery. When he'd got back from Shetland, about to leave his teenage years, he'd told himself that he'd never run from anything again, and he hadn't. Until now. He raised his eyes and saw the large red lips of a model on a poster on the wall. For a moment it was Lena, the wounded part of her, almost the same red, the same openness. He pushed the rest of the food away, making a clatter that turned heads, but not for long. People had their own thoughts and worries in the tiny piece of world they inhabited and this place was perfect for indulging them. It reeked of isolation, the restless routine of people endlessly passing through. Transient thoughts. That most of all.

One of the first things Mark learned as an investigator was how little people really noticed you. You thought they did, if you tripped on the pavement, walked around with your flies open, had a pulsating spot on the end of your nose, but they didn't. Ask ten people to describe a suspect and you'll get ten different answers, and each one sure. The world was too fast to notice, let alone care. Unless you were on the run from a killing, from gutting your girlfriend, an evil fiend who will sell papers and make people watch the TV. They'll notice
me
, Mark thought, they'll have a field day with me
.

They'd be rooting around the old estate again, shooting off their quick words, and everyone would have a story on him. Lena had taken him away from Shane, she'd brought him out of that dark Richards place, made him talk about it in terms other than denial and despair. Here was someone who actually seemed to care about who he was, what he thought, where he'd been and even where he might be going. He was never sure why she was with him, she'd always earned more than him, and he was hardly Mr Security.

Mark saw Shane that last day in the garden, playing around in the sand the council had left. Spooning it up in the air, hair cropped like Mark's, but Shane's a blond fuzz to match his blue eyes, his mother's eyes. He hadn't been much like his father, one of the many creeps his mother had fetched up. Mark had loved the little sod, he hadn't realised how much until he was gone, and he'd loved Lena. At least he thought it was love. He'd never been able to solve Shane's mystery, the kid had vanished and had stayed gone. He'd put his brother into every horror situation he could think of, each one churning his guts, like a steel hand in there, twisting. The hand of fate, hah hah. Keeping the wound open, and always fresh. No, he couldn't solve the mystery of Shane but he'd solve Lena's, by Christ he would. At least he knew
her
end. He knew nothing else, understood nothing else, and didn't yet know how to go about changing this, but he would find out, and put things right. Finish it.

Chapter Three

Mark left the restaurant and drove on. He was on the Coventry ring road in minutes. It was like a mini M25, but without the traffic. At this time on a warm Friday night most people had got where they where going or were going nowhere at all. He tried to remember where Tony lived. Lena had driven up that time she had persuaded him to come. Mark didn't even know what Tony did. Something in advertising, Lena said, which could mean anything. The man didn't look like Lena. Tony was like her mother, she said, but Mark had never seen her parents. They'd never got around to visiting. Neither of them wanted to get into families. Her parents were from Lithuania originally, Lena had told him, but Lena was born and bred a Brit, yet another accent seemed to force its way out when she was in temper, an echo of her ancestry perhaps. It was one of her quirks that marked her out as different, quirks that he liked. He liked the vagueness of her background, it made him worry about his own less. When they met he'd been a private island, ‘keep off' signs bristling all over him, deliberately isolated, cut off from others, emotions kept in check, and hiding his past. All the things he'd learned to do to survive. Slowly, and very cautiously, Mark had opened up to Lena, and in her gently persistent way she drew his past out of him. She was the only person he'd ever told about Shane, but Lena had never said much about herself. Now Mark realised how little he knew about her. She liked the fact he didn't ask questions, and he'd left it at that. Now he wished he hadn't, now he thought she might have had reasons for her secrecy.

Mark drove into rows of terraces until he recognised Tony's street. For the showy man he was, Tony's house didn't seem right. It was in a street of identikit homes, places for people on the first rung of the ladder, or maybe the last. A few were boarded up. Tony's Merc was probably worth more than most of them. He was driving one the last time Mark saw him, proudly showing off the number plate to Lena. He'd arranged the letters to almost spell his name. Tony still had the car, which made it easier to find the house. Mark drove past it a few times. All the old instincts were kicking in. Ducking and diving, feeling the eyes of the pigs everywhere. Working for the agency had been perfect for him. He'd stayed on the right side of the law, just, but now Mark felt like a roaming kid again, with a chip on his shoulder the size of the world.

There was a light on in Tony's front room, Mark could see in as he passed. Tony was there, on the phone, maybe making arrangements to come down to London. Maybe telling the police about his sister's boyfriend. Mark still wasn't sure what he was doing here. Telling Tony how he'd found Lena, and how he'd ran, might not be the best action, but the man was his only real link to her. He needed to tell someone he hadn't done it, and he needed someone to share his grief.

Thought processes were slowly returning and Mark realised how stupid he'd been. There was practically no chance of finding out what had happened and if he went back now at least he could be involved in her funeral – they'd let him do that, even if he was chief suspect. Lena had never believed in an afterlife, or any type of ceremony, not even marriage. If anything ever happens to me, have a good drink, play some music, and get on with your life, she'd once told him. He'd thought it cold, but knew she was only reflecting his own beliefs. He wondered who'd be there, certainly more police and press than friends. Neither of them really had any. It must have hit the news by now. Stories like this were the real stuff of life. Not politics or sport or some film tart's new boyfriend, but pain, suffering, someone going down in the most brutal way. They spread it over the front page, for people to enjoy their mock horror over their fucking cornflakes and buttered toast.

Mark was getting angry, which wouldn't do. Getting even was much better. He realised revenge was uppermost in his mind. It was blocking out any other feelings and he didn't want to think about the good times with Lena. There'd be time to do that later. She was another Shane. Two bolts from the blue to shoot him down. Yes, revenge was good, a counterbalance for the hurt, but he didn't even have shadows to chase. Lena was dead, but he had no motive, no suspects, and no ideas.

After a final drive past, Mark parked about fifty yards away from Tony's house. The daylight was almost gone and street lamps were coming on, pink slashes turning to orange amidst the gloom. There was a pub on the corner, and Mark felt the urge to go there, to sink a few large whiskies so quickly that they'd light a fire in his chest. Maybe there'd be an echo of the old illusory courage he'd tried to get out of bottles when he was a kid. He hadn't needed this type of support for a long time, but it wouldn't do, sitting at a bar when Lena's story might be flashed onto any TV. They would have got hold of a photo of Lena by now. Her agency could provide hundreds, to suit every occasion. That would stop punters in mid-sip
at their local.

Get a load of that, Dave, wouldn't you like to go home to her?

No, not now, Carl, don't you know what happened to her? I read it in
The Sun
, in work, done like a kipper, she was

Is she someone famous?

Nah, just some model, foreign, I think.

Mark saw movement in the house. It was him, picking up something near the window. The guy hadn't changed much, medium height, stocky turning to fat. Tony still had big hair and a T-shirt with a
fcuk
logo on it which summed him up. Mark decided to go round the back, there wasn't any reason to, just old habits kicking in. He knew there was a yard there. Maybe Tony was the type who forgot to lock his back door. There'd been lots of houses like that in the valley, he'd rarely had to break in anywhere.

A double-glazed door opened for him and Mark was in the kitchen. Tony was on his mobile, he could hear him moving around the room. He was talking in a foreign language. Mark stood there until the talking stopped, then moved quietly towards the living room. He had seconds to decide how to play this. Mark was surprised Tony was still here and he was even more surprised that he knew anything other than English. The talking stopped, as Mark stood in the doorway watching Tony fiddle around with his TV remote. The set was his main feature, a yard or so of colour on his wall, but the sound wasn't on. He'd turn any second now. People always sensed when they were being watched, some sooner than others.

‘Who the fuck's that?' Tony shouted, snatching up an ash-tray.

Mark stepped forward into the room as Tony stepped back.

‘What do you want?'

Tony blinked hard.

‘Mark? It is you, isn't it? Where the hell did you come from? I almost had a turn then, you stupid bastard. Why didn't you ring the bell, like everyone else?'

Tony put the ashtray down and smiled with relief. He stuck out a hand.

‘What you doing here, mate? Is my sister with you?'

‘No, she's not.'

Mark hoped his voice was steady, and that his features were under control. This made no sense. How could he not know about Lena?

‘What's wrong, pal?' Tony said. ‘You look as rough as guts. I'll get you a drink. Whisky, isn't it?'

Nothing was right about this. Tony was the kind of man who liked to call strangers mate, pal, squire, but he was not a friendly man. He should be going off on one for him walking in the back way, someone he'd only seen a few times in his life. Mark wanted to blurt it out about Lena, to get rid of some of the burden and confide in someone, but something held him back, the same sense that had made him come in the back way. Tony handed him a very large scotch.

‘Good stuff, that is. Ten year malt. Sit down, mate, before you fall down.'

Mark did feel unsteady. He clutched his drink and sank into a chair. A large image of a woman perched on Tony's shoulder as he also sat down. A woman on the TV who looked a little like Lena, but not enough to make Mark jump. She was on a talk show anyway, not the news. He thought of Lena alive, he wanted her to be alive, need surged through him, for the clock to be turned back, for the day to start again with him getting into bed with her, smelling her tired hair and waiting for her to wake.

‘Mark, you're miles away, mate. Look, what's up, you just appearing like this? You on a job up here, or something?'

‘Yeah, that's right, a job. I thought I'd call in. Sorry I came round the back. Force of habit.'

Tony's mouth opened into a wide grin, his whitened teeth matching his ridiculous tan.

‘Checking out some sap on a dirty weekend, eh?'

‘Something like that.'

‘So, how you been then?'

‘OK.'

Tony was afraid of him. Mark could recognise fear very quickly. Sometimes it was masked with aggression, but when it was there he knew. People had often been afraid of him, but usually they had a reason. Tony had no reason, but this brash, showy, guy was sweating badly now, and the more he smiled, the more he sweated. Tony smelt like a woman. He'd overdosed on expensive aftershave that still managed to smell cheap. Attempts had also been made to control his wiry black hair with gel. He was obviously going out.

Mark drank the whisky as calmly as he could, watching silver beads gather on the backs of Tony's hairy hands. The man had an olive complexion, more south Europe than north and Mark could see nothing of Lena in him. He'd been disappointed when he first met the guy. Lena had been trying to draw him out of himself at the time and thought Tony might be useful for this but the look on his face when they met put paid to that. Tony's way of talking was strange, like an actor who was poor at accents, and didn't know which one to adopt. In one evening he'd gone through a mix of south London, black country, and something else, something indefinable which spoke of his past. Mark wished now he'd talked to Lena more about her background, but she had always pushed his questions away and got him to talk about his own life.

Tony fingered an oversized medallion that hung from a chain around his neck. It was a gold coin which had been re-shaped, and another one matched it on a little finger. The clusters of hair on his hands were quite moist now. Mark wondered if the guy was acting, if he knew about Lena and was waiting for the police to get here.

‘You look as if you were about to go out,' Mark said.

‘I was. I am. A hot date, you might say.'

‘Huh huh. Well, don't let me keep you. I'll come out with you. I should have phoned when I was up here, but you know how it is, in my job.'

‘Yeah, sure, don't worry. I know, Lena insisted you call in, didn't she? How is my lovely sister? Haven't heard from her lately.'

‘She's been working a lot.'

‘Nice to see her so successful.'

Mark found it hard to keep his voice even. He finished the whisky and felt it burn. He wanted it to, it gave him something else to concentrate on, for something was wrong here.

‘Well, shall we go then?' Tony said. ‘I've got to get across town. Are you going back down tonight?'

‘Yes, I'm all finished here.'

All finished. Only Lena was finished. Nothing else had started. He'd stolen a car and ran. No plan, no ideas, just rabbit action, and a surreal kind of action at that. You find your girlfriend cut up, a voice on the phone chills you, starts you running, and you head off for your one contact. At least Tony was the only one Mark knew about. If Lena had others she'd never shared them with him. He'd taken work calls for her sometimes, that was about it. They'd both been very private people and now it was costing him.

Tony put out a greasy hand which Mark felt rather than shook, for it fell through his own without hardly touching it. Mark watched Tony drive off in the silver Merc with TON 1 on the plate, and walked to his own illicit vehicle. Tony glanced back once and Mark saw him put his mobile phone to his ear. He turned on the radio in the Mondeo and searched for news. A calm, well-modelled voice took him through the world horror show. Blood in Iraq, Afghanistan, Israel, Africa, the world was dripping in it; someone had stabbed a policeman in Leeds, politicians were being politicians, but again, no Lena. Nothing about a woman who'd been found butchered in a London flat. No comments from shocked neighbours about how she'd been a lovely girl who was always quiet and very friendly. Nothing at all.

The last few hours had been useless, Mark wasn't even sure which way he should point the car. He wished it could drive him out of this nightmare but the tightening in his guts told him it was only just starting. He drove out of the city and stopped at the first services on the M6. It was the same one as before. It was almost midnight, not a good time to phone Kelly, but the man answered, on the mobile Mark had given him a few months ago. Kelly was stumbling about somewhere, going in and out of signal, his drink-sodden voice inquiring cautiously into the phone.

‘Kelly, stop moving around and listen.'

‘Whosat?'

‘Richards.'

Kelly's voice steadied.

‘Mr Richards, good evening to you, sir.'

‘Yeah, sounds like it's been, for you. Listen, and I want a clear fucking answer. Anything been happening around the flat? After I left?'

‘Happening, Mr Richards ?'

‘Don't go vague on me, Kelly, you do that with other people.'

‘Sorry, I've had a bit to drink, like. Nothing's been happening. It's been a quiet as churches round here today, Mr Richards. I was just remarking on it to the lads in the Queen's.'

Mark thought for a moment. Even pissed up, Kelly was reliable for information such as this. Police should have been all over the area. Cordoning it off with their blue and white ribbon, bringing in the men in white suits, all the usual rituals when a body is found.

‘You still there, Mr Richards?'

‘Yes.'

‘Uh, you still got that car?'

‘Never mind about that. Listen, you keep that phone on, and don't even think of telling me you've lost the charger. Put it next to your head when you crash out. I might need you.'