Six Dead Men (6 page)

"A trip to warmer climes. Go on, just a little peck on the cheek. It's a wedding after all."

"Honestly Maxie." But she's smiling and leaning in towards my cheek.

I knew she couldn't resist my charms. I do the old whip and snog, turning my head at the last minute so her soft lips are on mine. I push my tongue between them and her warm mouth is sweet. She pulls away and I see her hand wanting to slap me, but she glances over to where Shari is. Her eyes flash with annoyance. Oooh she’s got a bit of bite to her. Maybe she wouldn’t make such a good sunshine companion after all. She’s got that look in her eye. I think she’s about to give me a lecture.

It all started about a year ago. I was a small time runner, but then I run into this kid, says his boss has been keeping tabs on me and thinks I can be their man in Havana if you know what I mean. At first I'm thinking hell yeah, you're just winding me up. But then he gives me this mobile phone. Says wait for the call from the man himself. I'm thinking this has got to be a load of crap. But a few nights later the boss calls me on the shiny blue phone and says he wants to test my abilities. He sets up some couriers and asks me to deal with the transaction. A package with the goods and instructions arrives at my door - DH bloody L. Don't they have sniffer dogs or something? No money goes through my hands, it’s all wired through the phone. Technology! What about my cut is what I want to know, but something makes me keep my mouth shut. I do the meet, sort out the imaginary money and Bob's my uncle. The next thing I know the door bell rings at some ungodly hour and I’m shitting a brick convinced the cops have found out. But instead I'm having to sign for this official looking package at the front door. I'm near enough stark naked and freezing my nuts off. But when I open it, the package is chock full of cash in used tenners and twenties with a note from the boss thanking me for a job well done. And so it goes from there.

*****

Eastern Europe's where the big money is in our line of work. The whole Jamaica thing was just to get the dogs off our trail. I reckon the boss has got the beginnings of a master plan. Though I reckon the boss is missing a trick not moving to Jamaica. I’m betting the life of a Jamaican drug baron can mean you need a few extra body parts to hand. Know what I mean?

The boss has got a series of suppliers of body parts all over Eastern Europe. Thank god for Tupperware I'm thinking. And those new click and store jars must be just fabulous. So maybe some organs get a bit oozy in the back of the delivery van, but in general it all works out just fine in the end. It's a win win situation. Someone gets a handful of money for donating an organ to someone else whose need for the organ is pretty big so they're willing to hand over a shit load of cash to get their hands on it. Swapping body parts - it's like a damn chop shop. This sort of thing makes me feel squeamish so I don't really want to know too much about it. I faint at the sight of blood. Not to mention how I almost always throw up when I go to get my flu jab. Okay, so I only do that because the nurses are usually really cute and I get to play on their sympathies a bit. All except that time I went round to the surgery and they had a bloody male nurse from Poland.

I'm just going to be the money man now and that's the way I like it to be. So I'm going to enjoy the sun, sea and ganga and make the most of what's on offer.

Deed punched in the message service code on his keypad and listened to her hesitant voice mail again. "This is Madie Bricot." pause "I think I have important information for you. I need to see you urgently."
Madie. I like that. Not as formal as Madison. Wonder why her parents gave her the name.
Deed watched the steady creep of the second hand on the clock in his office and wondered why time was like the flow of treacle whenever one needed it not to be. The thought of seeing Madie Bricot once more had him unusually on edge.

He had watched her interview tape repeatedly, using every skill he had to interpret her responses. Even though he had scrutinised her scrupulously during the interview he had not been able to detect any of the tell tale micro expressions he was expert at finding. He had hoped the video tape would allow him to see those fleeting facial faux pas he might have overlooked, the ones that lasted only a few tenths of a second; those mini clues which gave him the physical evidence to substantiate the feelings in his belly. And each time he rewound to the beginning and pressed play, his stomach churned in that familiar way. He used the zoom facility to watch the muscles in her face, to search for excessive blinking, a fragment of a shrug, too much eye contact, too little eye contact, anything which would tell him more than the words she spoke. There was nothing there beyond the normal responses of a woman reacting to the knowledge that her boyfriend was dead, but he rewound and replayed over and over.
How does she do it? How does she lie without revealing herself? It's nearly impossible to do.
At one point he realised his own face was reflected deep within the surface of her eyes because he had moved so close to the screen.
This is bordering on obsession. There’s no need to watch the tape. Your gut has never let you down, no matter how little physical evidence there was to the contrary. Why won’t you just accept this one. She’s guilty. Now all you have to do is find the evidence.
He turned off the recording.

There were no interview rooms available.
A sudden influx of disreputable visitors. I'll have to meet her in my office
. He was secretly glad of this. Detective Inspector Deed knew he should have Johnson in on the interview, but Robert Deed wanted to see her on his own.
It will all be above board. My door will be open.

Deed now continued to stage the scene carefully; pictures from Burry’s autopsy were casually scattered across his desk. Burry's photo lay topmost, creating a strange jigsaw of limbs and torsos across the surface of the desk. He had also dug out some photos from the autopsies of the cold cases. These joined Burry’s photographs in a deranged montage. Any response from Madie Bricot regarding the pieces of crucial evidence he had left on show should speak volumes.

After the seemingly interminable wait her arrival was sudden. Johnson escorted her across the squad room floor towards Deed then wandered off to his own desk. Signs of her emotional distress were evident. There was the slight smudging of her eye make-up and the redness of her eyes that told him she had been crying. Three small creases now resided on her forehead where before there had been none. She was twisting a tissue into a tight ball and then unfurling it with restless fingers. She also chewed repeatedly on her bottom lip.

Deed found himself uncharacteristically disturbed by her lack of composure. To put her more at ease he asked “How's your thumb?”

He watched Madie look down at her hand distractedly then back up at him. Deed the man was shaken by the confusion in her eyes as they refocused on his. In her distress she seemed much younger than her twenty five years. He found himself revisiting the doubts he had encountered on first viewing her interview tape. Deed the police inspector became brusque in an effort to cover how affected he was by her look. “I needed to call you in for further questions so your message was timely.” He showed her into his office and indicated a chair. As he sat down he deliberately allowed his hand to move the photographs on his desk slightly. Madie's gave glazed over the pictures, not truly seeing them. “Your message said you had some important information for us regarding Mr Burry’s case.”

The troubled look in Madie Bricot’s eyes increased.

"I think .... I think I knew all the men."

Deed’s response was automatic even though he already knew. "Which men?"
She can't mean it.

"The men on your list."

I knew it.
"All the men? You knew them all? You knew them all well?"

"No. Not really."

She was silent. Her head was bowed and her fingers continued to restlessly shred her tissue. She looked for somewhere to put the pieces and finally left them in a heap on the edge of his desk. Deed could see she wanted to say more so he waited; a technique he used when he knew a suspect wanted to talk but needed time rather than rushing.

She looked up at him and then began slowly. “I... I... think I saw them. Before they died, I mean.”

“All of them?”

She nodded.

I wasn’t expecting this.
“How soon before?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I need you to tell me.”

Deed looked at Madie carefully. She was by no means relaxed, but she wasn't showing any of the characteristic signs liars exhibit. She was obviously nervous as she fidgeted in her seat. He sensed she was still in shock. During his prolonged stare she began to chew on a thumb nail, but maintained eye contact with him. This decided his next course of action.

Deed stood and partially closed his office door to access his filing cabinet. He pulled the cold case files from the back of the drawer. Before sitting he stacked the pile of files on a corner of his desk. Then he looked over at Madie. She was watching his every action as though mesmerised. He picked up the first folder then dropped his eyes as he opened it.

“Well, the coroner puts Danny Matthew’s death at approximately 23.12 hours on May 2
nd
. A shame really, it was his birthday.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath and looked up at her inquiringly. She licked her lips then pressed them together. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a tiny squeak emerged.

Madie cleared her throat. “I met him that day. He was on his way home. I think his mom had a big party planned.”

“Was it an arranged meeting?”

“No. No. I was on my way back from work and I met him at the bus stop.”

“How did you know him?”

“He used to hang out with Luis and his guys at the Portuguese café sometimes.”

“How much time had you spent with him previously?”

“None, he was just a passing acquaintance. Someone you might see from time to time when people come by the house.”

"Are you certain you didn't spend more time with him prior to this meeting at the bus stop?"

"Of course I'm sure." Her voice rose in agitation.

"Let's move on. We'll come back to Danny Matthews."

Deed closed the file and put it to one side. He opened the second file on the pile. “What about Anthony Brockwell?”

“I met him at the sixth form disco.”

“The sixth form disco? How old were you?”

“Nearly sixteen.”

Deed watched as a strange look came over her. She was clearly remembering something.
What were you like at sixteen I wonder?
Pushing the distracting thought aside he focused on Madie. A thin wisp of a smile touched the edges of her mouth, but then she looked up at him. Suddenly her eyes were swimming in tears. Her lips compressed into a thin line. Her voice was heavy as she said:

“He promised to ring me the next day, but he never did. I never heard from him again.”

“Were you dating him at the time?”

“No.”

Deed heard a wistful quality in her voice.

“How did you know him?”

“We went to the same school.”

“Had you spoken to him before?”

“No. I’d seen him around school quite a bit. He was a sixth former. I was a lowly Year Ten. The two don’t mix.”

“So why were you speaking to him at the disco?”

“He came and spoke to me. He was so nice. Different from what everyone said.”

“What did they say?”

“That he had a nasty streak — hurt animals and things like that, but I never sensed it. He was so gentle.”

Deed saw her eyes cloud in memory again. He moved on to the next file.

With each new name Madie revealed how and when she had met each victim. In each case she claimed each meeting was momentary.

Jesus! This is unbelievable. How the hell has she done it?
The turmoil inside him had stopped. It always did once it was proved right. “So we’ve established you were with each of the victims briefly the day before they died. Even though these men died months, sometimes years apart, you are most definitely a common factor Miss Bricot.”

“This can’t just be coincidence can it?”

“I don’t think so Miss Bricot.”
No such thing as coincidence is there?

Madie swallowed then nodded her head. She opened her mouth as though to speak then shut it. Her eyes began to swim with tears again.

God don't cry.
How many times had guilty suspects cried in his presence and not once did it affect him in the way Madison Bricot’s tears did.
It twists me up inside worse than my bloody "you're so guilty" gut.
On reflex Deed reached into his back pocket and drew out his neatly folded handkerchief. He passed it across the desk to her.