Death Of A Diva (18 page)

Chapter Forty-One

              “So she was murdered by a midget?” Caz marvelled.

              It was that afternoon and we were, once again, ensconced in the kitchen at the Marq, with me making a vat of beef and onion pie filling and Caz trying to work out how she was going to thaw a block of puff pastry bigger than a three-month-old baby.

              “Odd, because I didn’t see any midgets there. Mind you,” she frowned, extracted a hacksaw from a drawer and began attempting to saw the block into smaller portions, “one wouldn’t, if one didn’t look down. They’re crafty that way, midgets.”

              “I don’t think that’s what she meant,” I said, tossing a bowl of thinly sliced onions into the bath-sized cooking pot. “It must mean something else.”

              Caz lifted the partially sawn block in both hands and slammed it down with such force against the edge of the work surface that a large chunk shot off, flew through the air and landed on the floor. “Oops.” She smiled, swooped in, snatched it up and plonked it in the microwave.

              “So, if not midgets, what? Dwarves? They exist, right? One gets so confused: I know elves are fictitious, as are fairies, but dwarves are real. Aren’t they?”

              “Ah, the wonders of a classical education,” I muttered, tossing in a bowlful of finely diced carrot. “Yes, midgets and dwarves do exist but, sadly, munchkins do not.”

              Caz paused in the act of using a small chisel to hack away at the slab of pastry and frowned. “I don’t get it,” she mused. “Why would her last word be
munchkin
if she wasn’t referring to her killer? Oh my God!” She gasped. “The munchkins are in
The Wizard of Oz
, right? And in
The Wizard of Oz
, the wicked witch – Lyra – is killed when a house drops on her. And the inhabitant of that house – the woman who
killed
the witch – is,” she paused, chiselled off another chunk of rapidly defrosting (and more than likely no longer usable) pastry, brandished it as though it were an Oscar and intoned the name: “
Dorothy
!”

              I listlessly stirred the veg around, the microwave pinged and the clock on the wall noisily counted out another sixty seconds I was never going to get back.

              She heaved a sigh. “Don’t you get it?
Dorothy
? What’s your lawyer’s name?”

              I got it – had gotten it sometime previously – but had been hoping that Caz would surprise me. “So you’re suggesting that Dorothy Frost – a woman who didn’t enter my life until after Lyra was long dead – sold her a load of coke and strangled her because – why? – cos Lyra was a witch? Crept into Lyra’s funeral and bumped off her sister for a laugh? And Doris, in her last breath decides to tell me this
in fucking code
?”

              Her frown deepened. “But otherwise, it doesn’t make any sense. Why would she say that word?”

              “Bingo.” I scooped the veg to one side and added the first of several packets of mince. “Which is exactly what Reid said. I think he still thinks I’m hiding something, but I swear, the last thing she did was look over my shoulder and say
Munchkin
.”

              “Danny.” I turned. Ali was standing in the doorway, a worried frown on her face. “We have a problem.”

              “What’s up?”  I hefted a lid on to the pan and turned to her.

              “They might be family,” she started, “but I won’t ‘ave it. You either sort it, or I’m off.” She folded her arms across her chest, heaved a couple of breaths that could have been suppressed sobs and stared confrontationally at, first Caz, then me.

              “What are you on about?” I ushered her in and pointed her at the table.

              Ali moved so as to keep both of us in her sightline and sat down at the table, her leg bouncing nervously. “Them twins,” she said, at last.

              “Their work not up to scratch?”

              Ali shook her head. “Nah. They was in here last night and they worked like Trojans. This place ain’t been so busy in a long time.”

              “Told you,” Caz trilled: “nothing beats a nice strangling to get the ghouls in.”

              Ali shot her the sort of filthy look I guessed she normally reserved for paedos and council health inspectors, and turned back to me. “They was goin’ out later. Some club up the West End. They got everyone out and cleared the place top to bottom. Even emptied the glass washer and put them back out on the shelves. Helped me stock up for today and then asked if they could freshen up in the gents.”

              “And?” I asked, shocked at the discovery that the ASBO twins appeared to be model employees.

              “Well, they were taking ages and I got afraid I was gonna miss me bus, so I knocks on the door and walks in.”

              “They was freshening up, alright; but they was having more than a flannel wash.” Ali reached into the pocket of her hoodie, removed something and slapped her palm on the table. When she removed her hand, we were looking at a small bag containing some sparkly white powder.

              And printed on the bag, dead centre, as though it were a trade mark, was a single stylised white snowflake.

Chapter Forty-Two

             
“Explain.” I slapped the baggie down on the bar.

              Dash and Ray looked at it, at each other and blushed.

              “Sorry, Dan,” Dash said. “Didn’t think you were so anti.”

              I shook my head. “I am up to my ears in shit cos some dappy tart decided she wanted a little sniff and got throttled for her troubles. I don’t really give a flying fuck what people do in their own time, or their own places, but this pub has been crawling with plod, I’m still under suspicion for supplying and you’re consuming
on the fucking premises
?”

              “We were going out,” Dash explained. “Just wanted a livener.”

              “And Ali? The fact that you’ve upset her?”

              “We’re sorry about that,” Dash responded.

              “
Really sorry
,” Ray added, seeming to perk up at her name.

              “Oh. It speaks. What the fuck were you thinking?”

              “We weren’t,” Dash responded, “and it won’t never happen again.”

              “We apologised to Ali,” Ray said, “but it was a bit rushed.”

              “I’ll bet.” I had gathered from Ali that she’d basically ejected both twins, in differing states of undress, from the premises.

              “No, really.” Ray shrugged, “She’s nice and she was a good boss and we’re sorry we fucked up. It’ll never happen again and we wanted to apologise properly to her.” He held up the bunch of roses that had been held by his side till now.

              I sighed. “And what about me?” I asked.

              Dash bit his lip. “You’re a good bloke, Danny and we know that. You believed in us; you’re the only person aside from our mum and Paddy who’s given a shit. And we really don’t want to fuck that up. We’re
really
sorry.”

              “All well and good,” I said, “but I’m the one who’s up for murder, dealing and probably sinking the fucking Titanic. And you do coke in my pub?”

“It’ll never happen again,” Dash assured me. “And as for all that stuff the cops are accusing you of: it’s bullshit,” Ray nodded his agreement, “and we’ll do anything we can to help clear your name.”

“You can start by telling me where you got this,” I pointed at the bag.

They looked at each other and I swear I saw Ray’s lip wobble. “We’re sorry,” he said.

“Enough sorry,” I said. “Spill: who sold you this stuff?”

Chapter Forty-Three

              “Christie?” Caz would have raised a surprised eyebrow if she hadn’t treated herself to a little pre-Christmas Botox jab whilst I’d been interrogating the Asbettes. “
Jimmy Christie
?”

              “The one and only. Motherfucker.”

              She pursed her lips and slid an expertly prepared G&T across the kitchen table. The room filled with the scent of the pies baking in the oven, their savoury herb infused gravy the perfume of comfort food, but I was anything but comfortable.

              I slumped, dropping my head into my hands. “Which makes perfect sense, really: he was here that night. He’s been floating around since the beginning and he’s Chopper’s henchman. I mean, why would Chopper bother with a bunch of shithole boozers? ‘Cos he can use them as sales booths for the non-taxable part of his operation.”

              “But I thought you said Chopper had been as puzzled as you were by the whole thing.”

              I raised my head and my eyebrows. “Have you never seen a Scorsese?”

              “Well I’ve seen
Rigoletto
, if that counts. Oh!” An eyebrow involuntarily twitched, “That had a
dwarf
in it.”

              “Forget the fucking dwarves,” I said. “Chopper’s a gangster. What he
says
and what he
knows
are not always the same thing.”

              “So Christie sold Lyra the coke.”

              “But why would he kill her?”

              “Maybe she wouldn’t pay?”

              “Possible; she was a mean bitch,” I spoke ill of the dead. “But why throw the stuff all over her?”

              “Maybe as some sort of
Don’t screw with me
thing? Like in those Gangster movies?”

              “What? Like the ones Scorsese directs?”

              “Oh he’s a film maker? I thought he wrote operas.”

              “Clearly.”

              “So what are you going to do?”

              “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “I should go to the police.”

              “But...” she prompted.

              “Something doesn’t feel right.” I shrugged, “Right now, I really don’t think they’d pay any attention to me. Reid’s fixed his sights on me; I have no proof that Christie sold Lyra the coke and the only even tenuous link I could fix would drop Ray and Dash up to their ears in this mess.”

              “I repeat: what are you going to do?”

              “I need to find Barry Haynes.”

              “God Lord,” Caz murmured, “I’d almost forgotten him.”

              “We’ve got anecdotal evidence he once tried to strangle Lyra, so the MO is there.”

              “Did you just say MO? Sweetheart, try to remember this is Southwark, not Staten Island.”

              I ignored her. “Doris said something about Barry, just before she died. I’m convinced he was there that day too and he’d been trying to get in touch with Lyra recently – so we know he’s still alive. Everywhere I turn, I’m seeing Barry Haynes.”

              “So what does Jimmy Christie have to do with it all? Is he Barry Haynes?”

              I shook my head “About a decade too young, I reckon. He sold her the coke, but I don’t think he killed her.”

              “So he’s just a drug-dealing low-life with a taste for teenage blondes. Phew, that’s a relief.” Caz lifted her gin, unhinged her jaw and downed the entire drink in one barely audible gulp. “Right,” she stood up, swiped her collection of cosmetics, perfumes and prescription-only Botulism syrup into the voluminous bag, screwed the cap onto the two litre bottle of Gordons (causing me to wonder what sort of woman brings her own gin to her friend’s pub) and shrugged into a sheer black Prada rain mac. “I’m off.”

              I frowned. “Where to?”

              “I have,” she announced cryptically, “a date with a sexy older gent in a big black conveyance. We’re off in search of Mr Haynes. And we’re not coming back till we have him hogtied to the front of your dad’s cab.”

              “
Hogtied
? Sweetie, we’re in London, not Louisiana. What are you up to?”

              “You’ll see, she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. Keep an eye on those pies – don’t let them burn. I’ll see you later.”

              And with that, she was gone.

Chapter Forty-Four

              Nick arrived shortly after four pm. I was sitting at the bar in an empty pub, nursing a calvados. The jukebox was playing a particularly depressing
He-done-her-wrong
country tune.

Outside, it was already getting dark and a thin misty frost was descending.

              “OK?” I asked, in response to his opening gambit. “
Am I OK?
Gee, Nick, I don’t know. Let’s think about this, shall we? A man I was really getting quite fond of turned up here not long ago and dragged me off to a police station where his pig of a boss interrogated me, suggested I was a possible mass murderer and threatened to have me locked up for the rest of my natural. While same man – who I’d opened my heart to only a few days before – sat looking at a sheet of crib notes and fiddling with his biro. I’m not sure how I feel, Nick, but I think it fair to say that OK is not an accurate description.”

              “Firstly, I’m a copper. I don’t get to decide which pick-ups to do and which not to. It’s not like I can argue
Nah, Boss, this bloke’s alright, he couldn’t have poisoned the old girl, cos he’s got the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen
, is it? So, they say
pick him up
and I fetch you. Secondly, if you hadn’t come in, Reid would have been even more convinced you were guilty. Now, because of your testimony about Liz Britton he’s got other suspects to go sniffing around. Thirdly, I think
mass murderer
is a little dramatic. I’m pretty sure it takes more than a strangling and a poisoning to get that title.”

              “
Dramatic?
” I bristled.

              “Danny,” he put his hand on my arm. I shrugged it off. “Look, this whole thing is a mess. But things will get back to normal soon. Reid’s releasing the scene soon, so all the stuff can be shipped back to Lyra’s family and you get your pub – upstairs and downstairs – back.”

“But not my reputation,” I snapped, still hurting.

“Look,” he squeezed my arm, “I know you’re innocent. Maybe if you could pitch Falzone towards Reid, he’d back off.”

              “Falzone? What’s Falzone got to do with any of this?” I said.

             
“Danny, we’re coppers not idiots: anything dodgy that happens round here has Falzone all over it.”

             
Do I mention the coke?
I wondered and was just opening my mouth when the door opened, allowing a thin yellow trail of smoky fog to enter, followed by the tanned figure of Robert. He crossed the bar in two steps and wrapped his arms around me in a hug that was so unexpected I almost fell off the bar stool.

              “I had to come,” he murmured as he released me and stepped back to look at me. “You look tired. Who’s your brief? How serious is their case?”

              He noticed Nick frowning at him and paused. “May I help you?” Robert asked in a voice like caramel.

              “Robert, this is Nick – DC Nick Fisher – my, um, a friend. Nick, this is Robert, my, um,
ex
.”

              “Well.” Robert paused, raked an assessing glance up and down Nick and inserted a not-particularly-believable smile onto his features, “Is this gentleman asking you any questions concerning recent events, Danny; because if he is, I’d have to strongly advise you to say nothing to him and to discontinue all contact.”

              Nick bristled. “We were having a private conversation,
Bob
, and what we were discussing is none of your business.”

              Robert – who had probably never in his entire life been referred to using the diminutive – clenched his jaw. I saw a nerve twitch.

              “It’s my business if you’re attempting to get an innocent man to incriminate himself in something which your force seems to be spectacularly inept at solving.”

              “They’ve been trying,” I interrupted, wondering, as I did so, why I was making excuses for Reid’s lack of success. “But the whole thing’s a mess…”

              “
Pas un mot
,” Robert placed an immaculately manicured index finger over my lips to shut me up, his eyes twinkling with the same silent laughter I used to see whenever I’d attempt to get to clever at a dinner party. “Say not another word.”

              He turned to Nick. “Nothing said here will ever be admissible, you know; I’ll see to that personally.”

              “Listen, mate!” Nick stepped forward and Robert pulled himself up to his full height, his nostrils flaring. “We were having a private conversation here and your input is neither required, nor, quite frankly, appreciated.”

              “Oh dear, Constable: pricked a nerve, have I?”

              “Look,” I slid off the bar stool and headed towards the business side of the bar, “this is getting silly. What do you guys want to drink?”

              “I’m on duty,” Nick replied through gritted teeth, whilst still shooting daggers at Robert.

              “Vodka slimline,” Robert said lightly, without ever taking his eyes off Robert. “So, not exactly a
personal
call, then?”

              “I’m on break. First chance I’ve had all day to get out and come round to see you,” Nick directed his response to me.

              I put Robert’s drink on the bar and slid a glass of Diet Coke towards Nick, whilst thinking
He says I’ve got the most beautiful blue eyes he’s ever seen
and getting a funny little shiver inside at the memory of the words, then stepped back out from behind the bar.

              “Well,” Robert picked up his drink, toasted me, smiled humourlessly at Nick and sipped from the glass, “you’ve seen him now.”

              “Robert,” I finally bristled, “thanks for your concern. But last I checked you and I were nothing to each other; so whilst I appreciate your looking out for me, I think I can decide who to be rude to in my own pub and who not to.” I looked at Nick, who hadn’t touched his drink and who was now blushing red from the roots of his hair down.

              “I apologise,” Robert placed his drink on the bar. “Rude of me, I admit, but you have to understand I’ve been protecting this little man for a great many years. Old habits and all.” Robert held a hand out to Nick whilst simultaneously sliding an arm around my waist.

              I attempted to sidestep the manoeuvre, but he’d arranged the three of us so that I was wedged between him and the bar. There was no way to go; once again, I’d allowed him to take control of the situation and the realisation struck me momentarily dumb.

              “Sweetheart, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Something important. Can you get cover here tonight? I wanted to take you to dinner to discuss it – it’s not something I want to talk about,” he cast a glance around the bar, settling on Nick, who – clearly unwillingly – was reaching out to take the proffered hand, “here and now. I’ve booked Scotts.”

              Nick, having shaken the hand, let it go, his gaze never having left mine.

              “Wonderful,” Robert said happily, having failed – as always – to notice that I had neither agreed to the proposal nor, in fact, had the opportunity to even voice an opinion of any sort. “I’ll pick you up about seven.” He drained his glass, pulled me closer and pecked me on the cheek. “Nice to meet you, Constable,” he addressed Nick and then left the bar, a slight remnant of his cologne – Irish Tweed by Creed – mingling with the yellow curly mist.

              A few moments later, with not a word having crossed his lips, Nick, too, exited the bar and I was alone with my calvados, my thoughts and Patsy Cline.