Murder Ring (A DI Geraldine Steel Mystery) (16 page)

‘There’s a bloke here fallen on some railings and it looks real bad,’ he gabbled.

As he was speaking, a couple of blokes walked by.

‘What the fuck –?’ one of them said.

‘He’s reporting it,’ his companion replied, pointing to Stan.

Stan gave his name and number, and the name of the club, but he had no idea what road he was in. The woman reeled off an address which sounded right.

‘Yeah, I think that’s it,’ he said. ‘It’s called The Road, and it’s round the corner from Oxford Circus station, in a side street.’ There couldn’t be more than one bar with that name in the vicinity.

‘The emergency services should be there within fifteen minutes,’ the woman said, ‘assuming the traffic’s moving.’

‘Fifteen minutes? He’s going to croak by then. I’m telling you, he’s fallen on the metal railings. You got to get the fire brigade here right now.’

There wasn’t much else he could do. The other two blokes had gone right up to the poor geezer who had fallen on to the railings and were trying to talk to him. Stan guessed they were both drunk.

‘Stay with us, mate,’ one of them was pleading.

They didn’t appear to be getting much of a response. While Stan dithered about whether to join them, or go back inside for his coat, there was a blast of sirens and all at once the street was crammed with people. A couple of police cars drove straight past and parked further along, allowing an ambulance to draw up right beside the injured man. A fire engine stopped at the end of the road, blocking access to other vehicles, and two firemen came running up.

A policeman in uniform shouted out Stan’s name. There was no reason for him to feel apprehensive, but his legs were shaking as he walked forward.

‘That’s me. I’m Stan Bilton.’

He couldn’t help glancing down into the kerb to check if his spliff was still there, but he couldn’t see it. The policeman asked him a few questions about what he had seen, and why he had been there.

‘I just came out for a fag,’ he lied.

The policeman wrote everything down and told him he could go.

‘Is that it then? I can go home?’

‘Unless there’s anything else?’

‘No, that is, I left my coat in the bar. Can I go and get it?’

The policeman told him to try round the front entrance. Someone was shouting about metal-cutting equipment, a couple of paramedics were standing by the victim with bags and syringes, and there was a general bustle of purposeful activity around the scene of the accident. While all this was going on, one of the barmen burst through the back door of the bar and halted, gazing around in surprise. Tall and dark skinned, he was wearing a smart leather jacket that looked too big for him.

A uniformed policeman ran over to him and ushered him on to the pavement. A moment later, another uniformed policeman disappeared through the door, presumably to prevent anyone else from stumbling through it unawares. Stan and the barman were hustled together to the end of the street.

‘I work there,’ the barman was protesting. ‘I need to get my gear. I got my wages in the till.’

‘I left my coat in there,’ Stan piped up, realising for the first time how cold he was. ‘I can’t go home without it.’

The policeman told them that the premises had been evacuated but they would be allowed access through the front entrance, if they explained to the policeman on the door why they wanted to go inside. The back exit was cordoned off and no one was allowed near there apart from the emergency services. Stan followed the barman round the corner. A crowd had gathered outside, people who had been inside the bar and passersby, curious to discover what was going on.

‘Hey, Jack! Over here!’ one of the bystanders called out.

The barman paused in his stride. ‘What’s up?’

‘What the fuck’s going on? Is there a bomb in there or what?’

A burst of excited chatter rippled through the waiting throng.

‘Nah,’ Jack called back. ‘You’re all right. Just an accident. Some prat’s gone and fallen out of a window. I think he’s croaked.’

His friend nodded. ‘Thought it must be a stiff. Nice jacket, dude,’ he added.

‘Is he dead?’ someone called out.

‘What’s happened?’

‘What’s going on?’

Ignoring the cries, Jack pushed his way through the crowd with Stan following at his heels. Stan knew exactly what had happened, but he was too knackered to deal with other people’s morbid curiosity. He was beginning to feel sick and just wanted to go home. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the bloke lying across the metal spikes, not moving.

‘It was horrible,’ he said aloud. No one heard him.

29

H
AVING SPENT THE
best part of the day attempting to cajole or coerce a confession out of Lenny, Geraldine was worn out. Sending the recalcitrant suspect back to his cell, she wrote up her log and cleared her desk. By the time she finished, it was nearly seven o’clock and she was hungry. She went to see Adam. Like Sam, he was convinced Lenny was guilty.

‘We know he was there, Geraldine.’

‘That’s merely circumstantial. It proves nothing.’

‘The onus of proof is not on us. We have incontrovertible evidence placing the suspect at the scene. It’s backed up by a confession, thanks to your interview. We know he robbed the victim. Who else could have been responsible for shooting him? Are you seriously suggesting someone shot the victim and then left his wallet for Lenny to pick up when he just happened to walk by?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. And the onus of proof
is
on us. The suspect is innocent until we can prove him guilty. And we can’t. Establishing he was there isn’t the same as proving he shot David. If we could be sure no one else was there it might be different.’

There were no functioning CCTV cameras in Wells Mews or along Wells Street. The closest camera was round the corner in Oxford Street. It would have been possible for someone to slip into the mews without being recorded on film.

‘I think we have a pretty watertight case against him,’ Adam insisted, although he didn’t sound very confident. ‘The balance of probabilities points to him being guilty.’

Geraldine seized on his uncertainty. ‘That’s all it is, a probability. And then there’s the question of where he got hold of a gun, and what happened to David’s jacket.’

Adam shook his head. ‘We may never find out what happened to that jacket, but it’s hardly germane to the investigation. We’re working on the likelihood that Lenny shot him, and the most likely explanation is generally the one that turns out to be true. We just have to work harder to get a confession out of him. Give him another twenty-four hours to stew and we’ll try again. You’re due a day off. I think you need to step back and get some perspective on all this. It might help you to forget about the missing jacket. That doesn’t matter. What’s important right now is that we know Lenny was there. Let’s focus on that. Organise another viewing of all the CCTV in the vicinity, and come down harder on the suspect to cooperate. I think the CPS will agree we have a strong case.’

Geraldine picked up a takeaway on her way home and sat at her kitchen table eating fish and chips out of the paper with her fingers, while listening to Lenny’s second interview again. Although his repeated insistence that he was telling the truth made his story sound dodgy, she couldn’t spot any inconsistencies to suggest he was lying. On the contrary, his account was plausible and fitted his history of petty house burglary. As far as they knew he had never resorted to violence in the past, and had never been known to use a gun. In fact, his account of robbing a dead man he had stumbled upon by chance actually matched his profile as an opportunistic thief. It seemed quite possible he was telling the truth.

She had arranged to visit her older sister in Kent the following day. The two of them had been brought up together after Geraldine had been adopted by Celia’s natural parents. Not particularly close as children, they had developed a more intimate relationship following the death of their mother a couple of years previously. Geraldine hadn’t been down to Kent for at least a month and was looking forward to seeing her sister and her niece again.

It was a relief to be driving away from London and the claustrophobic demands of the case. A fine drizzle began to fall as she drove along the Old Kent Road. It wasn’t a bad journey, and she arrived half an hour before dinner. Celia was always pleased to see her and welcomed her with a broad grin. As soon as they were inside, Geraldine looked at her sister appraisingly.

‘Not showing yet,’ she said, smiling.

It was difficult to tell as Celia’s figure was concealed beneath an embroidered smock top. Celia pulled the fabric tight across her belly and Geraldine shook her head.

‘No,’ she said, ‘if you hadn’t told me you were expecting, I wouldn’t be able to tell.’

Celia laughed. ‘Call yourself a detective! The bump is the clue! Come on, I’ll show you how we’re getting on here.’

Celia was having the house decorated and Geraldine was given a tour of the rooms that had been finished. She traipsed round the house after her sister, making appropriate noises of approval.

‘This is going to be the nursery,’ Celia said, showing off a room freshly painted in light yellow. A white cot with yellow ducklings painted on the end stood ready. ‘I know it’s a bit small, but we’ll probably move now there’s going to be four of us in the family.’

‘It’s a lovely room.’

‘Do you really think so? What about the colour? Do you think the baby will like it?’

Geraldine had to restrain herself from saying what she really thought.

‘I’m sure the baby will love it.’

‘I can’t help feeling scared,’ Celia admitted when they were back in the kitchen.

‘What are you afraid of? It’s not like this is your first.’

‘I’m forty-two, Geraldine.’

‘So? You’ve done it before.’

‘I know, but I was a lot younger then. The older you are, the more likely there are to be complications, and –’

Geraldine was as reassuring as she could be, given that they were discussing something of which she had no experience.

‘What about you?’ Celia asked. ‘I mean, have you done anything more to trace your birth mother?’

‘Well, not really. I called the social worker who was dealing with my enquiry and managed to contact the person who has taken over from the original case worker. She promised to get in touch…’

‘So no news then?’

Geraldine shrugged. She had been through this before. Her birth mother had consistently refused to meet her. Celia clearly didn’t understand why she persisted in trying to contact her mother. Even Geraldine was no longer sure why she carried on.

‘I’ll probably give up,’ Geraldine admitted. ‘She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to see me.’

‘It’s sad,’ Celia replied, ‘but there’s no point in beating yourself up about it. At least you tried.’

They had finished drinking tea by the time Celia’s daughter, Chloe, returned home from a friend’s house. She ran up to Geraldine and hugged her. With Celia looking on, smiling, Geraldine felt a pang of gratitude. She ought to appreciate her family more. Sometimes she felt it was an unfair intrusion on her time, having to go and visit them. Their pleasure on seeing her seemed out of all proportion to what she could offer them. It was chance, not even an accident of birth, that had brought her into their lives at all. If her own birth mother hadn’t given her up for adoption, she would never have met Celia. It seemed strange that so random a circumstance had tied them to one another for life. She wondered if David Lester had died as the result of a similarly random encounter with the man arrested for his murder, or whether there was more to the case than anyone yet realised.

30

J
ACK WHISTLED CHEERFULLY.
Even though his room wasn’t well lit, he could see how the tailored fit of his new black shirt showed off his toned body. Turning sideways, he examined his profile. At last he stopped scrutinising his reflection and gave a satisfied smile. He had worked hard to achieve the right image. Theo was captivated by the way Jack’s mirror tipped forwards and backwards in its polished wooden frame. He loved to stand in front of it, shifting the angle of his reflection.

‘You keep playing with my things, you’re going to break something,’ Jack would shout at him. ‘I told you before, stay out of my room.’

Theo would just shake his head, aping Jack’s frown. In the end Jack had fitted a lock on his bedroom door to keep Theo out. If Rosa noticed it, she hadn’t commented. Absorbed in admiring himself, Jack didn’t hear his door open. Without warning Theo’s face appeared in the mirror, hovering above Jack’s right shoulder.

‘Bloody hell, Theo, you give me a fright. What you doing creeping up behind me like that?’

Theo chuckled. ‘Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell,’ he crooned under his breath. ‘Nice, nice, nice shirt,’ he added. He patted Jack’s arm as though he was petting an animal.

Jack turned to him. ‘You know there’s times you almost make sense. And yes, it is a nice shirt. A bloody nice shirt.’