London Noir Page 3

  Let him stew.

  Life was shaping up nice for me. Took some time but I’d put it together real slow. Doing some merchandise, a little meth, some heroin, and, of course, the coke. Didn’t handle any of the shit my own self, had it all through channels, lots of dumb bastards out there will take the weight. I arranged the supply, got it to the public, and stayed real anonymous, had me a share in a pub, karaoke four nights a week, the slots, and on Sunday, a tasty afternoon of lap dancing. The cops got their share and everyone was, if not happy, reasonably prosperous. None of us getting rich but it paid for a few extras. Bought into a car park and, no kidding, serious change in that.

  Best of all, I’d a fine gaff on Electric Avenue, owned the lease, and from outside, looked like a squat, which keeps the burglars away. Inside, got me Heal’s furniture, clean and open-plan living room, lots of wicker furniture. I like it, real laid-back vibe. No woman, I like my freedom. Sure, on a Friday night I pick up some fox, bring her back, but she’s out of there by 3 in the morning. I don’t need no permanent company. Move some babe in and that’s the end of my hard-bought independence.

  Under the floorboards is my stash: coke, fifteen large, and a Glock. The baseball bat I keep by my bed.

  Then I met Kelly.

  I’d been to The Fridge to see a very bad hip hop outfit who were supposed to be the next big thing. Jeez, they were atrocious, no one told them the whole gangsta scene was, like … dead. I went down to the pub after, needed to get the taste out of my mouth. I ordered a pint of bitter and heard, “To match your mood.”

  A woman in her late twenties, dressed in late Goth style, lots of black makeup, clothes, attitude. I’ve nothing against them, they’re harmless, and if they think the Cure are still relevant, well, it takes all kinds … better than listening to Dido. Her face wasn’t pretty, not even close, but it had an energy, a vitality that made it noticeable. I gave her my best London look with lots of Brixton overshadow, the look that says, Fuck off … now.

  She felt an explanation was due, said, “Bitter, for the bitterness in your face.”

  I did the American bit, asked, “I know you?”

  She laughed, said, “Not yet.”

  I grabbed my pint, moved away. She was surrounded by other Goths but she was the center, the flame they danced around. I’d noticed her eyes had an odd green fleck, made you want to stare at them. I shook myself, muttered, “Cop on.”

  On my second pint, I chanced a glance at her and she was looking right at me, winked. I was enraged, the fuck was that about? Had a JD for the road—I’m not a big drinker, that shit becomes a habit and I’ve plans, being a booze hound isn’t among them. Knocked it back and headed for the door, she caught up with me, asked, “Buy me a kebab?”

  Now I could hear the Irish lilt, almost like she was singing the words. I stopped, asked, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  She was smiling, went, “I’m hungry and I don’t want to eat alone.”

  I indicated the pub. “What about your fan club, won’t they eat with you?”

  She almost sneered. It curled her lip and I’d a compulsion to kiss her, a roaring in my head, What is happening to me?

  “Adoration is so, like, tiresome, you fink?”

  The little bit of London—fink—to what? To make me comfortable? “I wouldn’t know, it’s not a concept I’m familiar with.”

  She laughed out loud, and her laugh made you want to join in. She said, “Oh don’t we talk posh, what’s a concept then? Is it like a condom?”

  I’m still not sure why, but I decided to buy her the bloody kebab—to get rid of her, to see what more outrageous banter she’d produce? She suggested we eat them in the park and I asked, “Are you out of your mind? It’s a war zone.”

  She blew that off with: “I’ll mind you.”

  The way she said it, as if she meant it, as if … fuck, I dunno, as if she was looking for someone to mind. So I said my place was round the corner and she chirped, “Whoo … fast worker. My mammie warned me about men like you.”

  I’d just taken a bite of the kebab, it was about what you’d expect, tasteless with a hint of acid. I had to ask. “What kind of man is that, a stranger?”

  She flung her kebab into the air. “No, English.” Then she watched the kebab splatter on the road, sang, “Feed the birds.”

  Bringing her back to my place, the first mistake—and if it were the only one, well, even now, I don’t know what was going on with me, like I was mesmerized.

  She looked round at my flat, and yeah, I was pretty damn proud, it looked good.

  “Who lives here, some control freak, an anal retentive?”

  Man, I was pissed, tried: “You have some problem with tidiness, with a place being clean?”

  Fuck, you get defensive, you’ve already lost.

  She was delighted, moved to me, got her tongue way down my throat, and in jig time we were going at it like demented things. Passion is not something I’ve had huge experience with—sure, I mean, I get my share, but never like that.

  Later, lying on the floor, me grabbing for air, she asked, “What do you want?”

  She was smoking. I didn’t think it was the time to mention my place was smoke-free, so I let it slide, not easily, bit down. I leaned on one elbow, said, “I think I just had what I want.”

  She flicked the butt in the direction of the sink; I had to deliberately avert my eyes, not thinking where it landed. She said, “Sex, sex is no big deal. I mean in life, the … what do they call it … the bigger picture?”

  I wanted to be comfortable, not go to jail, keep things focused. I said, “Nice set of wheels, have my eye on—”

  She cut me off, went: “Bollocks, fecking cars, what is it with guys and motors? Is it like some phallic symbol? Got me a mean engine. ”

  Her tone, dripping with bile. Before I could get my mouth going, she continued, “I want to be loaded, serious wedge, you know what I’m saying?”

  I nearly let slip about my stash, held back and asked, “So, you get loaded, then what?”

  She was pulling on her clothes, looked at me like I was dense. “Then it’s fuck you, world. ”

  She was heading for the door, I asked, “You’re leaving?”

  That’s what I always wanted, get them out as soon as possible. Now, though …

  Her hand was on her hip and she raised an eyebrow. “What, you think you’re up for another round? I think you shot your load, need a week to get you hot again, or am I wrong?”

  That stung, I’d never had complaints before, should have told her to bang the door behind her, near whimpered, “Will I see you?”

  Her smile, smirk in neon, said, “I’ll call you.”

  And was gone.

  She didn’t … call.

  I went back to the pub, no sign of her. Okay, I went back a few times, asked the barman. I knew him a long time, we had, as they say, history, not all of it bad. He was surprised, said, “The Irish babe, yeah?”

  I nodded miserably, hated to reveal a need, especially to a frigging barman, cos they talk to you, you can be sure they talk to others, and I didn’t want the word out that I was, like … bloody needy, or worse, vulnerable. That story goes out, you are dead, the predators coming out of the flaming woodwork. He stared at me. “Matt, you surprise me, hadn’t figured you for a wally.”

  Bad, real fucking bad.

  I should have slapped him on the side of the head, get the status established, but I wanted the information. I got some edge into my voice, snapped, “What’s that mean?”

  He was doing bar stuff, taking his own sweet time, stashing glasses, polishing the counter, and I suppressed my impatience. Finally he straightened, touched his nose, said, “Word to the wise, mate, stay clear, she hangs with that black guy, Neville, you don’t want to mess with that dude.”

  Neville, story was he offed some dealer, did major trade in crystal, and was serious bad news. I moved to leave, said: “I knew that.”

  He didn’t scoff but it
was in the neighborhood. “Yeah, right.”

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  The bitch, playing with me, I resolved to put her out of my head, get on with my business. Plus, I had to get a new carpet, the cigarette had burned a hole right where you’d notice.

  A week later, I was in the pub where we had the karaoke nights, nice little earner, punters get a few on, they want to sing, did brisk sales those nights. I was at the back, discussing some plans with the manager, when I heard a voice go, “I’d like to sing ‘Howling at Midnight.’”

  It was her, Kelly, with the Lucinda Williams song, one of my favorites, she no doubt saw the CD in my gaff. I looked quickly round, no sign of Neville, the pub hushed as she launched. Her voice was startling, pure, innocent, and yet, had a hint of danger that made you pay attention. When she finished, the applause was deafening. The manager, his mouth open, whispered, “Christ, she’s good.”

  Then she hopped off the stage, headed in my direction, small smile in place. I resolved to stay cool but to my horror whined, “You never called.”

  Even the manager gave me an odd look.

  “What happened to hello, how have you been?” she asked.

  I moved her away, touching her arm lightly, and just that small gesture had me panting. She said: “Yes, thank you, I would like a drink.”

  I ordered two large vodkas, no ice, and tonics. She took the glass. “I’d have liked a Bushmills, but shit, I just can’t resist the alpha male.”

  The touch of mockery, her eyes shining, that fleck of green dancing in there. I was dizzy, decided to get it out in the open, asked, “What do you want?”

  She licked the rim of the glass, said, “I want you inside me, now.”

  Never finished my drink, never got to mention the black guy either. We were in my place, me tearing off my shirt, her standing, the smile on her lips, I heard: “White dude is hung.”

  She’d left the door ajar. Neville standing there, a car iron held loosely in his hand. I looked at her, she shrugged, moved to my left. Neville sauntered over, almost lazily took a swipe at my knee. I was on the floor.

  “Cat goes down easy.”

  Kelly came over, licked his ear. “Let’s get the stuff, get the fuck out of here.”

  He wanted to play, I could see it in his eyes. He drawled, “How about it, Leroy, you want to give us that famous stash you got, or you wanna go tough, make me beat the fucking crap outta you? Either is, like, cool with me. Yo, babe, this mother got any, like, beverages?”

  I said I’d get the stash, and he laughed.

  “Well get to it, bro, shit ain’t come les you go get it.”

  I crawled along the carpet, pulled it back, plied the floorboard loose, Kelly was shouting, “Nev, you want Heineken or Becks?”

  I shot him in the balls, let him bleed out. Kelly had two bottles in her hands, let them slide to the floor, I said, “You’re fucking up my carpet again, what’s with you?”

  I shot her in the gut, they say it’s the most agonizing, she certainly seemed to prove that. I bent down, whispered, “Loaded enough for you, or you want some more? I got plenty left.”

  Getting my shirt tucked into my pants, I made sure it was neat, hate when it’s not straight, ruins the sit of the material. I looked round, complained: “Now I’m going to have to redo the whole room.”

  RIGOR MORTIS

  BY STEWART HOME

  Ladbroke Grove

  I’ve been in the Mets all my adult life and I’ve spent most of that time pounding the mean streets of West London. After the war the area around Ladbroke Grove was known as the Dustbowl. This was where smart property developers came to make their mint. Back in the ’50s and ’60s, during those thirteen glorious years of Tory rule, anyone who wanted to could make a bomb from the slums. Houses changed hands over and over again, with their values being inflated on each sale. Before the introduction of ridiculously strict controls on building societies at the start of the ’60s, it was common for property speculators to off-load houses to both tenants and other parties with one hundred percent mortgages which the seller had prearranged. Despite the prices paid under such arrangements being above market value, ownership still proved cheaper than renting. Unfortunately, it was all too common for the new owners to take in lodgers to cover the costs of their mortgage, rather than working to earn their crust like a free-born Saxon. The resultant overcrowding bred crime and this law-breaking stretched police resources to the limit.

  The investigation I’ve just completed took me back nearly twenty years to the early ’60s. I knew Jilly O’Sullivan was dead before I arrived at 104 Cambridge Gardens, and in many ways I considered it a miracle she’d succeeded in reaching the age of thirty-five. I’d first come across Jilly in 1962 when she was a naïve young teenager and I was a fresh-faced police constable. I’m still a PC because rather than striving to rise through the ranks, I long ago opted to take horizontal promotion by becoming a coroner’s officer. This job brings with it substantial unofficial perks, and I’m not the only cop who’s avoided vertical advancement since that makes you more visible and therefore less able to accept the backhanders you deserve.

  Returning to O’Sullivan, when she arrived in Notting Hill she rented an upstairs flat on Bassett Road for five years before moving to nearby Elgin Crescent in 1966. The bed in which Jilly died was but a few minutes walk from her Notting Hill homes of the ’60s. I’d first called on her at Bassett Road after the force was informed that one of her brothers was hiding out there. My colleagues and I knew parts of the O’Sullivan clan like the backs of our own hands. The family was involved in both burglary and protection. Jilly and her brother had grown up in Greenock, but headed for the Smoke as teenagers. Jilly was doing well back in the early ’60s, making good money in a high-class Soho clip joint, and at that time she even had a pimp with a plumy accent and public school education. Jilly’s brother was eventually nicked alongside a couple of his cousins while they were doing over a jeweler’s shop and that’s how I learned he’d actually been hiding out with his gangster uncle in Victoria. After he’d served his time in a civil prison for burglary, Jilly’s brother was sent to a military jail for being absent without leave from the army. By the mid-’60s, when her brother was finally let out of the nick, Jilly was the black sheep of the family. It wasn’t prostitution but an involvement with beatniks, hippies, and drugs that alienated O’Sullivan from her kith and kin.

  If Jilly had been smart she’d have married one of her rich johns and faded into quiet respectability. She worked with a number of girls who had the good sense to do just that. Jilly was a good looker, or rather she’d been a good looker back in the day—anyone seeing her corpse would think she was in her late forties. That said, right up to her death O’Sullivan’s eyes remained as blue as a five-pound note. When Jilly was a teenager, these baby blues had men falling all over her petite and innocent-seeming self. O’Sullivan’s eyes looked like pools of water that were deep enough to drown in, and naturally enough, she made sure her carefully applied makeup accentuated this effect. O’Sullivan lost her looks through hard living, and since I knew the story of her life, I didn’t need to take many details about her from the woman who’d found the body.

  I didn’t even bother to ask Marianne May how she’d got into Jilly’s flat; I’d already heard from Garrett that he’d left the door to the basement bedsit open after finding O’Sullivan dead in bed and making a hasty exit. Being a dealer and a pimp, Garrett considered it wiser to disappear than inform the authorities of his girlfriend’s death. Even if he wasn’t fitted up for his Jilly’s murder, Garrett figured he’d get busted for something else if he stuck around. After I’d got the call to go to the back basement flat at 104 Cambridge Gardens to investigate a death, I’d headed first for Observatory Gardens, where I found Garrett nodding out with Scotch Alex. Garrett lived with Jilly, and since only one death had been reported, I’d figured that either one or both of them would be in “hiding” at Observatory Gardens. Before I got to Scotch Alex’s
pad I hadn’t known who’d died, and I’d entertained the possibility it might have been one of their heroin buddies.

  Garrett told me what he knew, which wasn’t that much. He’d gone home after cutting some drug deals and found Jilly dead in bed, so he’d left again immediately. Garrett was inclined to think O’Sullivan had accidentally overdosed, although he considered it possible she’d been murdered by some gangsters, who’d threatened to kill her after she ripped them off during the course of a drug deal. I told Garrett not to worry about a court appearance, since I wasn’t about to drag him into my investigation if he was cooperative. He got the idea and handed me a wad of notes, which he pulled from his right trouser pocket. I patted down the left pocket of Garrett’s jeans and he realized his game was at least partially up. He removed another wad of notes from the second pocket and gave them to me. After I’d prodded his abdomen he stood up and took more bills from a money belt that was tied around his waist. I then made Garrett take his shoes and socks off, but he didn’t have any cash secreted down there.

  Satisfied with my takings, I told O’Sullivan’s pimp that in my report I’d state that Jilly was living alone at the time of her death. I didn’t tell him that I’d have done this even if I hadn’t succeeded in shaking him down, since recording that O’Sullivan lived with a heroin dealer would make matters unnecessarily complicated for me. Although Garrett was scum he wasn’t stupid, so I didn’t need to tell him it would be a good idea if he found a new place to live. Likewise, I had absolute faith in his ability to find some fool to rip-off in order to provide PC Lever with his cut from the drug money I’d purloined and cover various other debts he simply couldn’t avoid meeting if he wished to remain alive and in reasonable health. While I was in Observatory Gardens I also took the opportunity to touch Garrett’s junkie host and co-dealer, Scotch Alex, for a few quid.

  Marianne May, the woman who’d called the authorities to report Jilly’s death, was middle-class and respectable. What Marianne had in common with Jilly were some bizarre New Age religious interests. Aside from this she was the ideal person to have found the body since she created the impression that O’Sullivan’s friends at the time of her death were middle-class professionals. In all likelihood, prior to Marianne’s arrival, a stream of junkies had called at the flat hoping to score, and having found the door open and Jilly dead in bed, departed without telling the authorities there was a corpse stinking up the bedsit. Garrett wouldn’t have left his drug stash in the pad, and there probably wasn’t anything else worth stealing. If there had been it would have disappeared long before my arrival.