Authors: Roberta Kray
Tommy sat in the hard plastic chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He’d been interviewed briefly last night before being banged up here at Cowan Road. Had he got any sleep? He didn’t think so. Every time he’d come close to dozing off, that nightmare picture would spring into his head again – his father curled up in the boot of the Jag, his dead glassy eyes gazing blindly up at him. The shock of it remained, as did the lingering taste of vomit in his mouth.
He picked up the cup of coffee and took a few fast gulps, hoping to raise his caffeine level to the point where his brain might finally kick into gear. His solicitor, David Montgomery, sat beside him, shuffling papers. The news he’d brought, over an hour ago now, wasn’t good. The missing baseball bat had been found hidden in the cellar of the Fox, and Connor’s prints were all over it.
Tommy still couldn’t quite believe that Joe Quinn was dead. Despite his father’s violent lifestyle, there had always been something invincible about him. He was the type of man who would stay alive just to spite the Devil. But he wasn’t alive. Not any more. He was laid out on a cold slab with his skull caved in.
DI Leach watched him slyly from across the table. ‘Come on, Tommy. Give it up. We all know that Connor did it. You really want to go down for murder too?’
Tommy didn’t reply.
‘This is how I see it,’ Leach said. ‘Connor has a fight with your old man on the way to the Fox. It gets out of hand. He kills him in the car park, panics, dumps the body in the boot of the Jag and then walks into the pub. When did he tell you, Tommy? When he arrived, or later, when he’d got a few bevvies inside him?’
‘No comment,’ said Tommy.
Leach gave a dry laugh before reaching down to pick up the plastic bag. He dumped it on the table, jabbing an index finger in the direction of the contents. ‘You recognise this bat, Tommy?’
‘No comment.’
‘Sure you do. Isn’t it the bat you used to keep under the bar?’
Tommy wondered how the copper had found out about that. Who had he been talking to? Or had Connor told him? No, Connor wouldn’t be saying anything. He’d be keeping shtum, like he always did. Tommy’s gaze settled on the bat, with its dark stain. His dad’s blood. He felt a shifting in his guts.
‘And it’s not the first time that your brother’s attacked him, is it? Wasn’t there an incident in the Fox a few months back?’
‘No comment.’
‘We’ve got witnesses who say Connor threatened your father, that he came into the Fox with this very same bat and… Well, you were there, weren’t you?’
Tommy gave a shrug. He thought about last night, trying to recreate the moment when Connor had arrived at the pub. Had there been anything different about him? But what the hell did
different
mean? His brother had never been what you could describe as normal. Still, surely there would have been some telltale sign that he’d just committed murder?
‘So, what was the plan?’ Leach continued. ‘To drop Connor off at the flat – he was too pissed to be of any use by closing time – and then drive somewhere quiet to dump the body? Was that the idea?’
Tommy stared silently back at him. He didn’t know the exact time his father had been killed. The post-mortem was probably being carried out even as they spoke, but it could be hours before he heard the result. He thought about Connor sitting in the corner with Fat Pete, Terry and the rest. He thought about Connor coming to the bar and getting the drinks.
Put it on the old man’s tab
.
The other copper, DS Penn, smiled at him from across the table. He was younger than Leach, with a round moon face and overly pink lips. There was something almost childlike about his features. ‘It’s okay, Tommy,’ he said gently. ‘We get it. Connor’s your brother. He put you in a difficult position, an
impossible
position. You didn’t know what to do, yeah? We understand that.’
Tommy gave him a thin smile back. The whole good cop/bad cop routine didn’t wash with him. He’d heard it all before.
‘You must have been in shock,’ Penn continued in his soft, wheedling voice. ‘Who wouldn’t be? Something like that – well, it’s hard to take in. And if Connor didn’t mean to kill him… Maybe it was an accident, huh? He just meant to threaten him with the bat, but he lost control, hid the body and then came running to you for help.’
Tommy figured that Penn didn’t know much about his brother if he thought he’d go running to anyone. But then the cop was just fishing, trying to get him to take the bait. Once he admitted that he knew about the killing, they’d have all the evidence they needed to charge both him and Connor.
‘Or maybe you were in on it all along,’ Leach said, coming back on the attack. ‘Maybe you and Connor planned it together. He does the murder and you dispose of the body? Is that how it was, Tommy?’
Tommy took another slurp of coffee. Outwardly, he was doing a pretty good job of keeping his cool, but inside, a sharp, jagged feeling of panic was starting to take hold. He could see how it looked, how it would look to a jury. Who was going to believe his story? Even his own brief thought he was lying. He had seen it in Montgomery’s eyes, in the way he’d pursed his lips. His only hope was if Connor came clean, admitted to murder and swore that Tommy had known nothing about the body in the boot. But what were the chances of that?
Terry Street strolled along Baker Street, took the Clarence Gate entrance to Regent’s Park and made his way to the boating lake. It was a warm spring morning and already the paths were beginning to fill with people. He lit a fag as he walked, eyeing the girls in their flimsy dresses. He was looking forward to summer, when, God willing, even more flesh would be on show.
There were a couple of empty benches, and Terry sat down on one. He glanced at his watch. He was early – it was only a quarter to eleven – but then he’d been up since the crack of dawn. He’d had a restless night, a part of him constantly alert for that knock on the door. But it hadn’t come. And now he knew it never would.
Already Terry had started to blank out the murder of Joe Quinn. He thought instead about what he’d done afterwards – the concealing of the baseball bat in the cellar, the smashing of the rear light on the Jag and then his casual appearance in the Fox. Yeah, he’d carried it off pretty well, he thought, chatting to Fat Pete and Vinnie, expressing the right amount of surprise at Joe’s failure to show. At closing time, he’d left shortly before the others, driving away in the van and setting fire to it on a patch of waste ground over Clapton way. Although there had been little chance of anyone associating the van with Joe’s murder, he couldn’t afford to take the risk.
A breeze rippled the surface of the water, making the tethered boats rock back and forth. A couple of teenage boys were out on the lake, rowing haphazardly, their laughter floating through the air. It wasn’t that long, Terry thought, since he’d been that age too – carefree and guilty of nothing more heinous than underage drinking and lusting after girls. But he had made his choice, and nothing would bring back his innocence now. The deed was done and he would learn to live with it.
Another ten minutes passed before DI Tony Lazenby sat down beside him. ‘Terry.’
Terry gave a nod. The inspector, he noticed, was looking even more pleased with himself than usual. ‘You got news, I take it?’
‘Yeah, they charged Connor Quinn this morning. Murder. He’s going down for a fucking long stretch.’
‘Good,’ said Terry. Although he had never had much doubt that this would be the outcome, he was still relieved to hear it. He gazed out across the lake, pausing before he asked the question. ‘And the other two?’
‘Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’
‘Shit,’ muttered Terry. ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen.’ He hadn’t counted on Tommy refusing to let Connor drive the Jag home. It was the one fly in the ointment. He had no gripe with Tommy Quinn or Frank Meyer. ‘Why couldn’t the stupid bastards just have left well alone?’
‘Well, that’s the problem with going to war, mate. There are always casualties. Still, I wouldn’t worry about it.’ Lazenby gave a low, repulsive laugh. ‘It’s another Quinn off the streets. That has to be something to celebrate.’
Terry, however, didn’t share this point of view. His conscience, so far as Joe and Connor were concerned, was clear – they had both deserved what they got – but Tommy had never caused him any grief. Still, there was always a chance that he’d get off when it came to trial.
‘You heard from the others?’ Lazenby asked.
By the others, Terry knew that he meant the members of the firm. ‘Yeah, Fat Pete rang me early this morning.’ He’d done a good job, he knew, of acting shocked.
Jesus, what? What? How? When, for fuck’s sake?
‘We’re meeting up later in the Hope and Anchor.’
‘They reckon Connor did it? Any doubts?’
‘Nah, they think he’s guilty as sin. It’s all sweet.’
‘Best keep it that way, then.’
Terry frowned at the instruction – he didn’t need some bent cop telling him what to do – but held his tongue.
‘The Cowan Road boys will pull you in at some point,’ Lazenby continued. ‘Sooner rather than later. Make sure you’ve got your story straight. I take it you have got an alibi for the time Joe died?’
‘No problem. I’ve got a bird who’ll vouch for me. She’ll say that we spent the evening together before—’
Lazenby waved a hand. ‘Spare me the details,’ he snapped. ‘You think I give a flying fuck? You just stick to your side of the bargain and I’ll stick to mine.’
Terry gazed out across the lake again. His alibi wasn’t watertight, but then no one would know the exact time Joe had died. The bird in question, a hooker called Jeannie Kent, would swear that she had spent the evening at his flat before they’d walked down together to the Fox. There, at about a quarter to nine, they’d separated. She had watched him go inside the pub and then carried on round the corner to her sister’s place. He didn’t think Jeannie suspected him. It was normal practice in situations like this for any villain connected to the victim to make sure they had an alibi. No one wanted to spend unnecessary hours down the nick because they’d been unfortunate enough to be on their own when the incident took place.
‘Now we just need to wait for the dust to settle,’ Lazenby said. ‘Take your time, huh? Don’t go rushing in, trying to take over the firm. They’ll need a bit of time to get used to the idea that Joe’s dead and gone.’
Terry leaned back and lit another cigarette. ‘You can skip the advice. I know what I’m doing.’
Lazenby gave him a scornful look. ‘I’ve heard that from smarter men than you, mate, and most of them are six foot under now, or banged up for so long that they may as well be dead.’
But Terry knew that he wasn’t most men. And with no one left to challenge his leadership, he’d be running the show in a matter of months. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Do that,’ the inspector said, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Have a nice day,’ Terry said drily.
‘Oh, I don’t think it could get any better.’
Terry watched him stride off along the path. Lazenby was a snide, arrogant bastard and one day he’d get what was coming to him, but not just yet. For the time being he was useful, and for as long as he was useful, Terry would tolerate him. He glanced back towards the lake. What next? He had a few hours to spare before he met up with the lads. Maybe he’d go over to the Fox and offer Yvonne his sympathy.
It was a fortnight now since Tommy, Frank and Connor had been charged with the murder of Joe Quinn, but for Helen it still hadn’t sunk in. Bewildered, she staggered through the days, trying to make sense of a situation that was senseless.
For a week after the murder the Fox had been closed, but now it was open again and busier than ever. The regulars had returned, along with a number of new customers, all in the thrall of a ghoulish curiosity about what had taken place in the car park. They whispered in corners, revelling in the scandal of an unnatural death. When she was working, Helen moved silently among them, trying to close her ears to all the gossip and conjecture. It was hard enough living with it; she didn’t want to hear about it too.
She glanced across the pub to where Maureen Ball, the temporary manager, was cashing up after the lunchtime shift. Helen didn’t like the woman – she was hard-faced and loud – but then she probably wouldn’t have liked anyone who had taken the position. So far as she was concerned, the only person who belonged behind that bar was Tommy.
It was Terry Street who’d suggested bringing Maureen in. ‘I know you don’t want to think about it, love,’ he’d said to Yvonne, ‘but every day the Fox remains closed, you’re losing money. You’ve got the kids to think about. And Tommy, too. It won’t help him if he thinks the business is going down the pan while he’s banged up.’
It hadn’t taken Yvonne long to decide to reopen. And as it turned out, she got on like a house on fire with Maureen. The two of them would spend hours together, chatting in the bar or upstairs at the kitchen table. Maureen had been all kindness and sympathy, but Helen still didn’t trust her. There was something false about the woman, something cold and calculating.
Helen ran a cloth over the last of the tables and said, ‘I’m done here. You need a hand with anything else?’
‘No, love, it’s fine. You get off. I’ll see you later.’
After Tommy’s arrest, Helen hadn’t been to school once. Since Karen and Debs had left Kellston Comprehensive, she no longer had the same protection and she couldn’t bear the thought of all the pointing and sniggering. She would be the granddaughter of the murdered man, the niece of the murderer, a freak and a weirdo. As no one at home had objected to her bunking off, she’d simply carried on. Here, at least, she could feel that she was being useful, helping Tommy while he was away.
Helen went upstairs to her bedroom and stood by the window, biting her nails. She wasn’t sure which was worse – being in the bar surrounded by gossips, or being up here alone. Her fears had a habit of creeping up on her when she wasn’t occupied, and that was exactly what was happening now. Unable to control her thoughts, she started rolling through her interview with the policewoman, trying to recall exactly what she’d said.
The room at Cowan Road had been small and stuffy. She’d been interviewed by a female officer, a middle-aged woman called Lesley Jakes. ‘Now there’s nothing to worry about, Helen. All you need to do is tell the truth and everything will be fine.’
But it was the truth that Helen had been concerned about. Which part of the truth would be good for Tommy and which part would be bad? She understood how words could be taken and twisted, distorted until they meant something else entirely. She had looked anxiously towards the woman beside her – a social worker type who, because Helen was underage, had been drafted in to sit with her – but nothing useful had come out of her mouth.
‘Don’t worry, dear. You’re not in any trouble. Just take your time and answer the questions honestly.’
Yvonne could have been the one offering support, but she had claimed to be too upset to sit in on the interview. In some ways, Helen had been glad of it. She would have been even more on edge with Yvonne’s eyes boring into her.
Lesley had given her a kindly smile. ‘You understand the difference between right and wrong, don’t you, Helen?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know it’s wrong to lie?’
‘Yes.’
Things had carried on in much the same vein for a couple of minutes, until it was established that Helen Beck had a moral backbone and would never, under any circumstances, try to deceive the police. There were other questions, some of which she couldn’t remember, and then Lesley had introduced the subject of the Quinn family.
‘Did they argue a lot, Helen? Your grandfather and your uncle?’
‘Which uncle?’
‘Well, either of them.’
Helen had shrugged. ‘Sometimes, but then everyone argues, don’t they? Joe didn’t live with us any more, so we didn’t see that much of him.’
‘But he still came into the pub.’
‘Sometimes,’ Helen had said again. An image of Joe’s cold, cruel eyes had jumped into her head, and it had taken every inch of her willpower to stop herself from shuddering.
‘And there was one occasion, wasn’t there, a few months back, when your uncle Connor arrived at the Fox with a baseball bat?’
Helen hadn’t been able to deny it. She had given a small nod of her head. ‘Yes.’
‘That must have been scary for you.’
‘I didn’t really see much. I was in the back room. I mean, I heard some shouting and that, but… I don’t know. By the time I got there, it was all over.’ She hadn’t been trying to cover up for Connor – there would be lots of witnesses to the attack that night – but rather to distance herself from the actual event. Yvonne’s only words of advice, uttered just before Helen had left the flat for Cowan Road, had been:
Don’t tell those bloody bastards anything or they’ll have you up in the dock giving evidence at the trial. And believe me, hun, it won’t be for the fuckin’ defence.
It hadn’t been much longer before Lesley Jakes had moved on to that fateful night. ‘So, do you remember seeing your uncle Connor when he came into the Fox on Friday?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you think there was anything unusual about him?’
‘What do you mean?’ Helen had asked.
‘Was he acting oddly? Did he seem upset, angry, confused?’
Helen had frowned, pretending that she was thinking about it. ‘There were a lot of people in that night. I was helping out, collecting glasses and that. I didn’t… I wasn’t really taking much notice of him.’
Lesley had tipped her head to one side, watching her carefully. ‘You didn’t speak to him, say hello?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Do you not get on with your uncle, Helen?’
Helen had given another shrug. ‘It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t know him very well. He’s not been out of prison that long. We haven’t… you know… spent much time together.’
It was only when they had come to the final part of the evening that Helen’s nerves had really begun to jitter. She had held the glass of Coke with two hands, aware of the shake in her hands and the dryness of her lips. Lesley had glanced down at her file and then looked up again.
‘So, after the Fox closed, it was just the four of you left in the bar? Your two uncles, Frank Meyer and yourself.’
‘Yeah. I mean, yes.’
‘And how was your uncle Connor then?’
‘He was a bit tipsy, I suppose.’
‘Tipsy?’
‘He’d had a few drinks.’
Lesley had leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table. ‘Was he being… difficult?’
Helen had shaken her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I mean, was he arguing with your uncle Tommy?’
‘I don’t think so. I was clearing up. I wasn’t… I wasn’t really listening to them.’
Lesley had left a long pause, as if Helen, given time, might wish to add something. But Helen had kept her mouth shut. When it had become clear that nothing more was going to be said, Lesley had changed tack.
‘And why was Frank Meyer still there? Did he often stay behind after closing time?’
‘Sometimes,’ Helen had been able to answer truthfully. ‘He and Tommy are mates. He only lives down the road.’
‘Is Frank friendly with Connor, too?’
Helen had hesitated, trying to work out what Lesley was getting at. She’d been so determined not to say anything incriminating that her head had started to ache. ‘Not especially.’
‘Were the three of them planning to go on somewhere?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Yvonne’s warning had leapt into her mind again. But if she said nothing, then mightn’t she be withholding evidence that could help to clear Tommy and Frank? She had to make it clear that the two of them had known nothing about the body in the boot of the Jag. Taking a deep breath, she’d quickly carried on. ‘I reckon Tommy was worried about Connor driving, that’s all. He asked him for the car keys and said he’d take him home. Frank offered to give him a hand.’
‘In what way?’
‘You know, getting Connor into the car and that.’
‘So your Uncle Tommy thought that Connor had had too much to drink, yes? That he wasn’t fit to drive?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘That’s it,’ Helen had said. ‘I was tired and I went up to bed.’
‘So you didn’t hear anything else that was said? You didn’t see them leave?’
‘No.’
And that, as far as she could recall, had been pretty much the end of the interview. Had she said the right things? She still wasn’t sure. Now she leaned against the side of the window, gazing down on the street and the people passing by. She frowned. It didn’t seem right that life was carrying on as normal when Tommy and Frank were locked up, waiting to be tried for a crime they hadn’t committed.
Placing the palm of her hand against the pane of glass, Helen wondered, just for a second, if it was possible that Tommy
had
been aware of what Connor had done. Usually they at least cleared up the dirty glasses on a Friday night, but not on this occasion.
Why don’t you leave those, hun, and we’ll sort them in the morning.
Had he wanted to get rid of her? But no sooner had the thought entered her head than she pushed it away. Tommy had been tired, irritated by Connor’s behaviour, but he hadn’t been afraid – and no one, surely, could fail to be afraid if their brother had confessed to murder and their father’s body, bundled into the back of a silver Jaguar, was lying less than twenty yards away.
Helen moved her hand from the window and rubbed at her face. She felt guilty for allowing the thought to even enter her mind. She felt drained, exhausted by the horror of it all. Glancing towards the bed, she recalled Frank’s last words to her: ‘Sleep well.’ But she knew that she couldn’t and wouldn’t ever sleep well again until the two men she loved were free.