Nirvana Bites (20 page)

On page 5 there was a report on the trial of three racist thugs who had attacked and savagely beaten a fifteen-year-old black kid. They'd been found not guilty. It sounded like the police had presented a half-hearted crap case, the result of which was never in doubt.

There were two photos. One was of the kid, taken soon after the attack, his face contorted and swollen. It brought back an image of Della and I felt a surge of revulsion. The other photo was of the thugs coming out of court, smiling and punching the air. A crowd of supporters jostled around them. And there in the mob, his arm around one of the accused and a triumphant grin on his face, was Phil Mitchell. Not the real Phil Mitchell, of course. And not the actor who plays him either. This Phil Mitchell was the one I'd seen at Stan's flat. This was the Phil Mitchell who had tried to abduct Stan inside a fish tank. The one I'd chucked an axe at and set about with a fire extinguisher.

A break. A lucky break. Thank you.

24

SOMETIMES YOU GET
more than a nylon thread. Tides can and do turn. Spirals can go up as well as down.

We sat and marvelled over the photo. The others asked if I was sure. I was. We had a link. But there was more to come. Robin was still studying the photo.

‘That guy there,' he said, stabbing a finger at another face in the mob. ‘I can't be 100 per cent certain, but I think he was one of the ones I saw at Meacham's Meat Products when I was picketing there.'

Mags peered over his shoulder. ‘Are you sure, Robin? That was a long time ago…'

‘No, like I said, I'm not sure. But it looks like the guy I remember. I wish Nick was here. Maybe he could confirm it.'

There was still no word from Nick. Short of being worried about him, we couldn't think what else we could do on that front.

‘I dunno,' Mags shrugged. ‘They all look the same to me. Bald heads, beer bellies and faces straight from the farmyard.'

‘Do you think they're the same guys who attacked you under the bridge, Jen?' Gaia asked.

‘And did over Mrs V's shop?' Frank chipped in.

It was my turn to shrug. It was possible, but I didn't want to get too carried away. But if it was true, we had our first decent lead. One at least of the guys who had attempted to abduct Stan was a racist and possible fascist, who might also be linked with a worker at an abattoir that could have been a source for the blood chucked over our transit. So what had Stan done to piss off a bunch of Nazis? Something pinged in my brain.

‘Mags, you know when Stan first came and we had that meeting? You took notes, didn't you?'

‘Sure. I've got them here. What's on your mind?'

‘Remember the list of programmes Stan was making that got cancelled when the production suite was trashed?'

Realisation dawned on Mag's face. She flicked through the pages of the notebook, a grim smile puckering her lips.

‘Here it is.' She read out the list. And there it was. One of the documentaries Stan's team was working on was to have been about Britain becoming the base for international fascism. If we were right, we weren't just dealing with some mindless yobs off the Millwall terraces. We were rumbling with the big boys.

We spent some more time discussing the implications before formulating The Plan. Mags was going to phone Meacham's Meat Products in the guise of a researcher from the Ministry of Agriculture. Depending on how stupid these people were, she may or may not extract some useful information. Being Mags, she was going to go to the library to do some genuine research first, so she didn't come over as someone who hadn't touched meat since a dodgy goat curry in the late eighties.

Frank volunteered to check out Koi Korner again, by resuming his pitch selling the
Big Issue
. He'd contact his mate first to get the most recent edition. Under the circumstances, we thought it wise for Ali to go along with him.

Robin was going to check out the internet, to see if he could find any leads.

Me? I was going to devote my energies to attempting to extract information from the most obvious source, who was mere yards away. Stan.

As for Gaia, she promised to spend the next forty-eight hours fasting, meditating and chanting for our guidance and protection.

Maybe she got the words wrong. Or maybe she just didn't chant hard enough.

25

I COLLECTED STAN
from Gaia's and together we walked back to my flat. I wasn't sure yet how I was going to go about my task. I shouldn't have worried. Events, as usual, were about to overtake me.

The answerphone light was blinking and I pushed the button. Familiar gruff tones invaded my space for the second time in as many days before I had the chance to hit the ‘off' switch.

‘Miss Stern? Detective Sergeant Mackay here. A Mr Philip Courtney, brother of Derek a.k.a. Della Courtney, would like to contact you. If you call the number on the card I gave you, I'll pass his details to you.'

A mechanical click, then the tape rewound.

Stan stared at me. ‘Della's brother? What's that about, Jen?'

I decided to be brutal.

‘Della's dead, Stan.'

If I thought my reaction had been extreme, it was virtually deadpan compared to Stan's.

He reeled, and clutched the arm of the chair for support.

‘Della? Dead? How?'

In spite of his class and wealth, Stan is essentially a weak man. And weak men with power are the most dangerous. I hated Stan at that point. I wanted to see him writhe. To be forced to confront the consequences of whatever deadly game he was playing. I didn't feel the merest flicker of compassion for him.

‘She was beaten, Stan,' I spat out. ‘With bats and fists and boots, I'd say.'

Stan turned a ghastly shade of green. He covered his mouth with his hand and retched. His mind may well have been racing, but his eyes registered only raw fear.

‘When did this happen?' he whispered.

‘A couple of weeks ago.'

Stan gulped. ‘And when did you find out?'

‘Last Wednesday.'

‘What?? Why the fuck didn't you tell me before now?' he shrieked.

‘And why the fuck have you not given us the information we need to protect ourselves – not to mention protect your sorry arse?' I countered.

Stan groaned and lurched from the room. I followed him into the bedroom, where he began throwing clothes into his Gucci holdall.

‘What are you doing, Stan?' I demanded. ‘Where you gonna go? Where you gonna run to now?'

He dropped the Prada silk shirt he was holding and turned on me in fury.

‘You don't get it, do you? You just don't get it.' Maybe he remembered what happened the last time he got stroppy and threatened to walk out. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a few deep breaths. With visible effort, he softened his tone to a pleading whine.

‘Look. I promise I'll stay in touch. And I'll carry on paying you. I'm sorry you've been dragged into this. I really am. But I can't stay. I've got to go…'

I glared at him in contempt.

‘Della said you were nasty and she was right,' I spat.

Stan's head snapped back as though I had slapped him.

‘Della said that? When did she say that?'

‘A couple of days ago. At the hospital.'

Stan stared at me in disbelief. ‘You saw her?'

I nodded.

‘Did she say anything else?' he breathed.

‘Yeah. She asked me to help her die,' I snapped.

I watched as he seemed to turn to ash before my eyes. If I blew hard enough, he would simply crumble and disappear. I'm not so nasty myself I didn't feel a pang of human sympathy. When all was said and done, we had both loved Della in our own way. And now she was gone. I hadn't had the chance to talk to anyone so far who might be feeling the same sense of loss as I was. I thought I'd share a detail to make him smile in recognition through the pain.

‘Hey, guess what? She was concerned about her appearance.'

Stan frowned, his eyes milky and unfocused.

‘She was worried she'd be badly scarred,' I explained.

‘She said that?'

‘Well, I think that's what she said. It was hard to tell.'

Stan winced. I racked my brains to remember Della's exact words.

‘Nasty scar. That's what she said. I asked her who had beaten her and instead of answering, she said, “Nasty scar.” Or that's what it sounded like. And when I asked if you were involved, she said to tell you you're nasty. Or possibly “they” are nasty. That's how I interpreted it, anyway.'

Stan's eyes were huge. He took tufts of his hair and wrenched at them. Then he covered his face with his hands. As he slowly drew them downwards, he revealed a man who seemed to have aged twenty years.

‘I want some information from you, Stan. So far in this exchange, it's been a one-way street. As usual. It's time for some answers.'

Stan wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. He gave a stomach-tearing retch and loped from the room, down the hall to the toilet, where I heard him throw up several versions of Gaia's latest food fad.

I went back to the front room and dug out the card Mackay had given me. I sat on my cushions and twirled it between my fingers, wondering what Della's brother could want from me. And whether it was something I'd be prepared to give him.

After some time, Stan appeared in the doorway, ashen and trembling. ‘I have to lie down,' he murmured. ‘I swear we'll talk in the morning. I'll tell you everything then.'

I had no choice but to let him go.

I took the phone and punched in Mackay's number. He told me they had contacted Philip Courtney as Della's next of kin, but he hadn't seen Della for ten years – at which time his sister had been a bloke called Derek. He wanted to contact someone who had known Della. The cops had told him about me, but procedure prevented them from giving him my number. They'd told him they would pass his details on. It would be up to me if I wanted to take it any further. Mackay gave me an out-of-London number.

I dialled. The phone was answered by a child's voice.

‘Hello. Who's this?'

I circumvented the question. ‘I'm a friend of your uncle who's now your auntie except she's dead' would have been accurate, but a bit much for a four-year-old to handle.

‘Hello. Is your daddy there?'

‘Yes.'

I could still hear breathing on the other end. Kids are so literal.

‘Could you get him for me, please?'

‘OK.'

The phone clattered. The line went dead.

I sighed. Maybe it was an omen. I'd try again later. Or maybe I wouldn't. I was just unpeeling myself from the cushions to check out the food situation when the phone rang. A slightly tremulous male voice spoke, in a middle-class accent.

‘Oh, hello. Did you just ring me? My son answered and accidentally cut off the call. I 1471'd it and got your number…'

I told him who I was. He seemed nervous and upset, but anxious to let me know he was grateful I had called. He explained, with much hesitation, that he and Derek – er – Della had lost contact not long after their parents had been killed in a car crash ten years earlier. I knew that Della had no visible source of income. She never seemed to work, but always had money. Reading between the lines, I guessed she had used part of the money she would have inherited to finance her gender change and Philip had been unable to accept his brother becoming his sister.

I could have been angry with him, but instead I felt sorry for him. He said he had no idea about Della's lifestyle or who her friends were. He didn't feel right about making ‘the, er, arrangements' – which I took to be her funeral – in a way that would perhaps be inappropriate. I appreciated that. He sounded so different from my own family, and I liked the way he was trying so hard to get his mind and tongue round the name Della. We both knew how sad it was that she couldn't have enjoyed that acceptance while she was alive. That's the thing about death. You get no more chances to make things right.

I agreed to help as much as I could. Hell, I didn't have much else on at the moment. The struggle against international fascism would just have to wait. He asked if I'd mind meeting him at Della's flat. The cops had given him the keys, but I think he was too nervous to go in alone. I don't know what he was expecting, some kind of Gothic horror show maybe. Or something pink and fluffy like Barbie's boudoir. If he had really known Della, he would have realised her taste would be impeccable. I'd never been inside her flat either. But I knew Della.

26

I WOKE UP
the next morning and guess what? Stan was gone, leaving nothing but crumpled sheets, a stack of notes on the pillow and a Post-it note saying
Sorry
. More than anything, I felt relief.

At 11.30 I chained my bike to the railings outside Della's flat. As I did so, a tall, thin man wearing a Barbour unfolded himself from the driver's seat of a Renault parked outside.

‘Hi, Philip. I'm Jenny.' I smiled and held out my hand.

His grasp was loose, the contact brief. He blinked nervously as he withdrew his hand.

‘Shall we…?' He indicated Della's flat with a nod.

‘Sure,' I replied. I followed him up the steps. He fumbled with the unfamiliar keys. Just as he produced the right one, the door opened and the same woman I had seen last time bounced out past us, laughing into a mobile phone.

Philip jumped and teetered on the top step. I steadied him with one hand and caught the door with the other. His hands were trembling, so I took the keys from him and opened the door to Della's flat myself.

There was a soothing smell of jasmine. We walked straight into a large airy sitting room. The walls were hung with exquisite pieces of fabric patterned with scenes stitched in gold thread. Expensive rugs covered the polished-wood floor. The furniture was ancient mahogany, the settees thick and plush and covered with Indian embroidered throws. The effect was of a sumptuous sultan's palace, yet was calm, comfortable and welcoming.