To Kill For (6 page)

We were going round in circles.

‘I want to speak to the woman who lives here.'

‘Oh.'

She closed the door. A few seconds later, it was opened again by a younger woman, thin and pale and with long lank blonde hair. The woman's lip was split, the blood dried. Her right eye was swollen and had closed some.

‘Please,' she said, murmuring the word feebly.

‘I want to talk to you.'

‘Please.'

It was all she would say. We were back to the circles.

‘I'm not with the men who came earlier.'

From inside the house, a woman's voice called out.

‘Shut the door, Tina. Let the police sort it out.'

The thin woman started to close the door and I had to put my hand on it and push it back.

‘You're Kenny Paget's ex-girlfriend?' She head bobbed up and down a bit. ‘Your name's Tina?'

She had no energy, like she'd just woken up. It was shock, I thought. I wondered if she was concussed. Nobody had said anything about calling an ambulance.

She had a long thin face and high cheekbones and large eyes, and her long lashes gave her eyes a soft look. I guessed her age to be around the mid-forties, but she might've been a used-up mid-thirties. She wore a beige dressing gown and blue nightgown.

‘The men who were here earlier, they wanted to know where Paget was. Is that right?'

Another woman appeared then. This Tina must have called on a friend for help after Cole's men had been, and that friend had called on another and they'd come over like a relief column. This one was short and stocky. She had a defiant look, but her mouth was closed tightly and I could see fear in her eyes. I guessed she'd been the one who'd called out just now. She took one look at me and said, ‘Fuck off.'

I didn't want to get heavy. I wanted information, and if I had to deal with a lot of hysterical women, I'd never get anywhere. At the same time, the law was on its way and I didn't have time to piss about. I pushed my way into the house and closed the door. The hall was narrow, the ceiling low. I barely fit. Tina moved back a few paces, looking straight into my chest. She didn't try to run, she didn't reach for the phone on the wall or a weapon. She didn't do much, except move backwards, her toes dragging on the carpet. The short woman lunged at me and pushed, trying to get me back.

‘Fuck off,' she kept saying.

It was a token effort, and we all knew it. She smelled of alcohol and when I knocked her aside she lost her balance and stumbled. I took hold of Tina and steered her through to a small back lounge. Here, too, there were some children's toys and I saw photos of children, old faded photos and newer ones. I guessed that the woman's children had grown up and had children of their own and that those toys in the front belonged to her grandchildren. Maybe she looked after the kids in the day. On top of the TV set was a framed photo of a bride and groom: Tina with another man. Both looked middle-aged in the picture.

I said, ‘Where's your husband?'

‘My… who?'

I put her in a chair and she looked up at me with drowsy eyes. She said, ‘Who are you?'

Her speech was slurred and her eyelids were falling down. I leaned forward and slapped her lightly on the cheek. The short one tried to grab hold of my arm.

‘Leave her alone.'

I pushed her off. Tina opened her eyes a little, but not much. The short one was about to attack me again when Apron stopped her.

‘Something's wrong,' Apron said.

I walked into the bathroom and opened the cabinet. There was a load of medication, mostly antidepressants, benzodiazepines, that sort of thing. There was nothing in there that belonged to a man; no shaving foam, no razors, except a pink woman's one. I saw a small white plastic bottle by the side of the sink next to a glass of water. The bottle was empty, but it had contained diazepam, in ten-milligram tablets. It had been prescribed to Christina Murray only a week earlier. It had contained thirty tablets.

I took the empty bottle into the lounge. Apron and the short woman were sitting around, looking at Tina who was slumped in the seat, her head down. I grabbed hold of her and hoisted her up. I pinched her cheek, slapping her a little. It didn't matter to me what she did to herself, but I wanted information. I held up the bottle. I said, ‘How many did you take?'

Her eyes were barely open, and wouldn't focus. Her head lolled to one side. I dropped her back onto the seat. I looked at the other women. They stared at me.

‘How many did she take?'

Apron said, ‘They're just aspirins.'

‘They're diazepam. How many did she take?'

‘I don't know.'

I turned to the short one. She was quiet, pale with fear. She shook her head.

Apron said, ‘There were only a couple in there.'

‘She's had something to drink,' the short one said. She turned to her friend. ‘I gave her some gin. I thought she needed it.'

‘There were only a couple in there,' Apron said again.

‘How long have you both been here?'

‘An hour.'

Cole's men had been here two, three hours earlier.

‘What about before you got here?'

‘Shit,' the short one said. ‘Dunno.'

‘Did you call an ambulance after she'd been beaten?'

They looked at each other. Neither of them had thought of it. Probably, they were used to violence, up to a point, and wouldn't call an ambulance for anything short of a decapitation.

‘Just a couple,' Tina mumbled.

‘What?'

‘Just wanted to… put it… put it behind me.'

After that, she was quiet.

‘She's talking about the pills,' the short woman said.

‘We'd better call an ambulance,' Apron said.

That was the last thing I wanted.

‘No. It's only diazepam, it won't kill her.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes.'

They were quiet for a moment, but then the short one stood and made for the phone. I had to stop her. When I did that, Apron rushed over and started to shake Tina, yelling at her to wake up. The walls of these places were paper-thin and if I wasn't careful, I'd have neighbours banging on the door. I wondered when the police were going to arrive. I'd have to shoot out the back and hop over the rear wall. At the back was a concreted area and a row of garages. I'd left my car there.

‘I know someone,' I said. ‘A doctor. I'll call him. Okay?'

That stopped them for a moment. They looked at each other.

‘He's legit,' I said. ‘A GP.'

They agreed. I phoned Browne. He took a long time to answer. When he did, he muttered something unintelligible. He sounded drunk. I told him about the woman. That seemed to sober him up.

‘Call an ambulance,' he said.

‘Can't do that. There'd be a report. I don't want the law involved.'

‘I don't give a damn what you want. Call for a bloody ambulance.'

‘Tell me what to do for her, or I hang up.'

He was quiet for a while. He didn't know where I was phoning from, so he couldn't call anyone himself.

‘I'll come over,' he said.

I didn't trust him not to dial emergency, so I told him to take the tube to Debden and then to call me. I'd direct him on the phone from there. In the meantime, he told me to give her black coffee, strong and sweet. I put the women on this. They were happy to be doing something.

I poked around the house some. I got looks now and then, but nobody tried to stop me. In a drawer, I found bills and letters addressed to Christina Murray. I found no mention of a man.

‘Where's her husband?' I asked Apron.

‘She's not married.'

I titled my head at the framed photo on the TV. Apron shrugged.

‘Divorced.'

We spent a while pouring coffee down the woman's throat and then I hauled her into the bathroom and got her to vomit, then we fed her more coffee. I tried to get the swelling down around her eye. I didn't want the other women to get the idea that an ambulance was needed. She didn't seem badly hurt.

Browne called and I told him how to get to the house. When he arrived he looked bleary and hungover. I carried the woman into the bedroom. He pushed me out and shut the door. After a half hour, he came out and glared at me.

‘Who is she?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘I suppose not. Did you do that to her? Beat her?'

‘No.'

‘You know what happened?'

‘Cole happened. He wanted information from her. He set his men loose.'

He looked at his hands, and rubbed them, like he was washing them.

‘They sexually molested her, you know.'

‘Uh-huh. She'll be alright?'

‘Define “alright”.'

‘Will she talk?'

He glared at me again, like it was my fault the world was fucked up. He fished around in his case and brought out a syringe and a bottle of something and went back into the bedroom.

After another hour or so, she was in a reasonable state. There'd been no law, and I thought I knew why, but I needed to make sure.

She was drinking the coffee by herself now, holding it in both hands. The other women were suspicious of me, but they could see that I wasn't a threat. They'd relaxed since Browne had shown up and I think they must have realized I had something to do with Paget. They probably had an idea what he was. They didn't want aggro. They were smart.

Browne had taken himself into the kitchen and was making coffee for himself. He was a moral doctor, didn't want to treat anyone when he was pissed.

When I thought the woman was up to answering me, I said, ‘When did you call the police?'

She looked at her friends.

‘I… I didn't.'

‘Why?' Apron said.

The short one, I noticed, hadn't said anything, hadn't been surprised.

‘Didn't want them involved.'

‘Well, I'm going to call them right now,' said Apron.

‘No,' Tina said. ‘Don't. It's okay. I'm alright.'

The short one put a hand on Apron and gave her a meaningful look. Apron got the message. There wasn't much more the women could do. It was early morning and they looked tired.

‘I'm sorry,' the woman said to them. ‘I'm sorry.'

They went home soon after that. They were glad, in the end, to get out of there. Friendship will only stretch so far. People are usually the same; they start off showing how much they care because they know it makes them look kind and decent. After that, they get impatient and start thinking about their own problems and, finally, they don't give a shit about their beaten, drugged-up friend, they just want to get home to bed. Nobody gives a shit, when it comes down to it. Except, maybe, people like Browne. And Brenda. And look what happened to them.

Browne was asleep. I could hear him snoring. He must've had a skinful last night and now it had caught up with him. He'd popped a couple of pills from his bag and was crashed out on the woman's bed.

‘She won't need her bed anyway,' he'd said. ‘She has to stay awake for a while.'

I sat and drank a mug of tea and watched the woman as she gradually came back to life. She sat opposite me, curled up on the sofa, one hand holding the coffee, the other hand on her lap. She watched me calmly and didn't say anything. She didn't know who I was or what I wanted, but she took it all in her stride. She didn't seem to care.

She didn't look too bad, now that she was more alive. She looked pale and worn-out, fragile, I suppose they call it, but there was something there, some depth. Her eyes, I saw, were a pale blue. She was younger than I'd first thought, maybe late thirties.

‘Do you know what's going on?' I said.

She nodded.

‘I know Kenny's mixed up in something,' she said. ‘I know he worked for that man who was killed, what was his name?'

‘Marriot.'

‘Yeah. Marriot. Frank Marriot.'

The hand in her lap started pulling at the dressing gown, turning it around, twisting it. She looked at the photos of the children. Her eyes flickered, flashing with some emotion I couldn't read. Anger, maybe.

‘He won't come back,' she said quietly.

Her hand was still twisting that nightgown. I didn't think she knew what she was doing. I realized then that it was fear I saw in her. But it wasn't fear of me or Cole or the police. She feared Paget.

‘What are you going to do to him?' she said.

‘Does it matter?'

She looked back at me, and drank her coffee, eyeing me over the rim of the mug. When she'd finished drinking, she leaned forward and put the coffee on the floor. Her actions were slow and deliberate. She looked like a drunk who was trying to appear sober. She leaned back in the sofa. She pulled the dressing gown tightly about her, and wrapped her arms around her, as if she'd felt a cold chill. She gazed down, at the floor, and her eyelids dropped a little. I thought she was falling asleep, but then she spoke.

‘They kept asking me, again and again, where is he? I kept telling them, I don't know. For a while, every time I said that, they hit me. Then they started… doing other stuff. There was this small blond one, he kept smiling every time I told them I didn't know where Kenny was. I don't think he wanted to know. I think he wanted to keep on… well, you know.'

That sounded like Carl.

‘Who were they?' she said softly.

‘They were dogs, belonged to a man called Bobby Cole.'

She nodded slightly. She knew the name.

‘What's it all about?'

‘Paget tried to fix Cole up for a fall, tried to take over his firm, him and Marriot. He's still got a load of Cole's heroin.'

She took it well. She was taking it all well. I had to give her that. She said, ‘I knew when I saw him it must be bad. I haven't seen him in five, six years. I thought I was free of him. Then he turns up one night, a couple of weeks ago. Him and this bloke. Mike.'