Authors: JOHN YORVIK
“Why was that?”
“London. Life got in the way.”
“And you had a reunion with Martin Stewart at the funeral?”
“Exactly.”
“Would you describe Martin Stewart as a violent man?”
“He never goes out of his way to be violent, but if someone attacks him, he defends himself. He’s very handy. No-one ever gets one over on Marty. Not like me, I walk away from trouble if I can.”
“And what if Natasha Rokitzky ‘got one over on him’? What if she was cheating on him, would he react violently?”
“I’m not prepared to speculate on that. Besides, I thought I was the suspect.”
DS Mitchell returned to the room and whispered something in Finch’s ear. He looked disappointed.
“DS Mitchell has spoken to Danielle Yorath. It seems your story checks out. Whether she makes a credible alibi is another question altogether. In the meantime, your lawyer has secured your release. You’re free to go. But this isn’t over, Mr Lishman.”
“My lawyer?” That meant Dani got the text I sent from the hotel.
“The illustrious Miss Amelia Wetherall herself,” said Finch. “It was a surprise to us too, seeing that you didn’t make any phone calls. Maybe you have friends here at the station. So as I said, you are free to go. However, we will be wanting you to come back in and answer more questions, so we ask you not to leave town. And there is the matter of the death of a Polish man on the Victoria line, which Scotland Yard is looking into.”
I felt like a wildebeest evading a death pit, but receiving a spear in its side.
“Death of a Polish man? How is that connected to me?”
“It seems bystanders heard mention of the Pentonville Strangler. And the descriptions witnesses gave are consistent with your own description. There may be an identity parade.”
“Nothing to do with me.”
DS Mitchell whispered something else into Finch’s ear. Finch nodded and addressed me again.
“One other thing. When the officers were searching your flat in Chalk Farm they found this.” Finch delved into a black cloth bag and pulled out the gorilla mask.
I felt another spear tear into my side, but tried not to flinch on the outside. I took a deep breath as if to project impatience. And of course, if I hadn’t got rid of the photos, they would have found them too. And I would be going down for life thanks to Marty.
“And?” I said.
“How exactly did you come about it?” said Finch.
“It’s the strangest thing. It was sent to me. In a brown envelope.”
“When was this?”
“Just last week. Thursday.”
“Have you worn it?”
“I’ve tried it on. May I ask what all this is about?”
“Two armed robberies that took place Tuesday and Wednesday last week carried out by a man wearing an identical gorilla mask to this one.”
“I’m sure you can buy them in any pound store.”
“Well, as I said... don’t leave town, Lishman.”
* * *
The first thing I did with my newfound freedom was travel back to the Arcadian Guest House. As I rode the Underground it dawned on me that I was only free now because the police hadn’t found the Natasha death photos. The day before my arrest I’d hidden them inside a novel manuscript a friend had given me to proofread. I glued two A4 pages back to back, inserted a photo and sealed them up. When I’d hidden all of the photos and the manuscript looked presentable, I’d mailed it to a major book publisher that was notorious for storing unsolicited manuscripts unopened in the gargantuan basements of their Westminster office. I figured that was as safe a place as any. And if push came to shove, and I needed to retrieve them, I knew someone who worked there. Someone who owed me a favour.
As I walked into the Arcadian, the receptionist looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Mistaken identity,” I explained, for want of an icebreaker.
I checked to make sure there was no-one around. Then I entered the reception by a door to the left of the counter and once inside, pulled down the shutter that hung over the reception desk. I found myself standing aggressively in front of the receptionist, who was backing himself slowly into a corner. I walked towards him until we were face to face. I picked up a large round paperweight that was on the desk and held it in my fist like a rock. I didn’t know what I was going to do next.
“What’s your name?”
“Davut.”
“So, Davut, who was it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I pushed a crystal vase full of roses onto the floor so that it smashed. Davut seemed to shrink with fear.
“I’m not fucking around, Davut. Tell me who the fuck it was!”
“I don’t know his name. He showed me your photo and gave me 100 pounds. He told me there’d be a reward if I gave him information.”
“Did he give you that package for me last week?”
Davut nodded.
“What did he look like?”
“He looked like you.”
“Give me his phone number.”
Davut reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out a white card with a number scrawled on it in black pen and proffered it with trembling hands. I took it and slid it into my pocket. I’d seen enough to know it was Marty’s writing, the crossed seven and the overlapping zeros. And it was the same number that had sent the message inviting me to the backroom bar.
Just then a burly man dressed as a security guard burst into the room. Davut must have pressed an emergency button.
Davut started ranting in Turkish, pointing to the broken vase. The guard came for me, but I held him at bay by brandishing the paperweight in my right hand. With my left, I pulled up the blinds, opening the reception to the public.
Thankfully there was a guest, a middle-aged businessman, standing there, waiting to check in.
“Call the police,” I yelled at him. “They’re trying to abduct me.”
The guest looked shocked, but didn’t react.
“Call the police,” I yelled again. “They’re going to kill me.”
“He’s crazy. He didn’t pay,” shouted Davut to the guest.
There was a fire alarm on the wall behind the guard who’d begun edging towards me again. I yelled at the top of my voice and made as if I was going to throw the paperweight at him. When I got close enough, I threw the paperweight at the alarm instead. The tinkling of glass was proceeded by a deafening bell.
In the confusion, I leapt onto the counter and rolled over to the other side, knocking the guest onto the floor as I fell. Apologising, I picked myself up and ran out of the hotel, the guard chasing behind me. But he was slow and it was dark. I ran for another five minutes flat out and, to make sure I’d lost him, I ducked into a Burger King and left through the fire escape into a back alley. I waited behind some bins for him to appear, but he never did. Finally a member of staff closed the fire doors and I walked back towards the main street. Making sure I was no longer being followed, I jumped on a red double-decker and headed back to Hackney Central.
* * *
“Eh?”
Dani was standing beside the sofa, proffering a cup of coffee. The TV was blaring in the background.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s the police. They’ve named Natasha’s killer. There’s a manhunt. Footage of police combing Bodmin Moor, that kind of thing.”
I sat up and took the coffee. I searched among the empty cans and bottles for a cigarette and found half of one stubbed out in the ashtray. I lit that and got a lung full of burnt tar on my first drag.
“They’re looking for Marty Stewart,” said Dani.
I fell onto my knees holding my throat. I couldn’t breathe. What was it? Tar from the cigarette? Or the words Marty Stewart and manhunt?
I’d had no choice. I’d had to play my way out of Pentonville, but there were consequences, such as a pang of guilt strong enough to floor a priest.
Dani handed me a glass of water she’d got from the kitchen tap and I drank it down. The rules had changed, I reminded myself. I had to get to grips with the new normal. I remembered what Amy had told me about Marty’s games: setting her up with a bunch of swingers when she was on ecstasy. His revenge for her infidelity. Marty was the Master Player. He deserved this. And I had to fight my own corner.
But what seemed so black and white one moment reverted to shades of grey the next. It was like a symbol in a French poem that refused to be pinned down. Every time you thought you had it, it slipped your grasp.
“Something weird went on at the crime scene,” I said to Dani by way of explanation for my apoplexy. “I don’t think I quite understand it yet.”
“It’s just everything’s catching up with you at once, but, don’t worry, the worst is over.”
“It’s not over. Not by a long shot.”
“Occam’s razor points to Marty killing Natasha Rok. It’s the simplest explanation. And the simplest explanation is most often true. It’s over.”
“Yes, it all points to Marty. And Marty stitched me up, so if it’s a choice between him and me... it’s him every time. But I can’t get my head round Marty being a murderer. I just can’t. Nor, for that matter, can I believe you killed someone.”
“Or that you sent a man to his death at Euston station,” Dani said with more than a hint of vitriol. “So where does that leave us?”
“Everyone’s capable of murder. And Occam’s razor might be a good starting point, but it’s also a cop out if used to stop you investigating. What we need is to test our hypothesis in light of further evidence.”
“And how do we do that?” said Dani.
“We look for Jack Lewis.”
“Who’s Jack Lewis?”
My father died before I was old enough to remember. Sometimes I thanked my stars he’d died at sea. As a child, it gave me solace to walk along a beach and feel he was near. But what did Marty have? Was there solace for him in a fight? Is that what brought him closer to old Jack Lewis?
Against the orders of DI Finch, I decided to go to Newcastle, where I imagined Marty had started his quest. Dani was very keen for me to change my look for the journey north, to throw any dogs off the scent. Based on the idea that I normally dressed in what she saw as dark, boring colours, she thought a bit of flamboyance would act as suitable camouflage. So this time my disguise was a 70s vintage suit Dani had found in a charity shop. It had grey pinstripes, wide lapels and a slight flare in the trousers. A dark orange shirt complemented the suit. To finish the look, I wore a belted rain mac. With Dani’s help, I had dyed my hair dark brown. The scratches were still showing as thin red lines above my eye, but putting a plaster on would only draw more attention to them. Checking in the mirror, I didn’t recognise myself. And I was glad, as I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to recognise me dressed like that. For Dani, it was mission accomplished.
Leaving Hackney, there was no sign of anyone trailing me. I had a feeling the police had scared off the Polish gang. Or maybe, they too were now chasing Marty through Bodmin Moor. Dani said no Polish gang would dare come into Hackney and start throwing their weight about as they’d attract too much unwanted attention from East London drug gangs. But what about the police? They were sure to have someone keeping an eye on me, that was, if they could spare the manpower. Still, I’d taken every precaution to ensure I wasn’t tailed at King’s Cross. I’d even sat on the wrong train for ten minutes and got off just as it was leaving. And it was clear, no-one was following me.
I got off the train at Newcastle Central at two o’clock. Outside the station’s great sandstone archways, I lit a cigarette and leant against the wall, taking in the familiar sight of Pink Lane, home to the legendary Jazz Cafe. From the station, Pink Lane wound upwards towards the city’s great parade of music and book shops and second-hand clothes stores, a favourite haunt of the independently minded.
Just then a group of orange-skinned girls in summer tops and skirts at hip length came out of a pub on the corner, a blast of computer techno could be heard before the door swung itself shut. I sighed. I felt out of place and overdressed in my mac and heavy shoes.
Stubbing out the cigarette on the wall, I hailed a cab and got in. As we sat at the lights, I saw the billboard of the Evening Chronicle:
Newcastle man wanted for Pentonville murders.
They always liked to give the national news some local flavour. I wondered if Marty would be added to the pantheon of local celebrities in Monument metro station, where there was a cartoon fresco showing the likes of Sting, Jimmy Nail and Paul Gascoigne all in the same train carriage. I knew there was one person who wouldn’t appreciate Marty’s growing notoriety. I needed to ask Marty’s mother some questions. I’d tracked her down to sheltered accommodation overlooking the Town Moor, a large area of fields inside the city where cows and sheep grazed oblivious to the looming dark cityscape.
I left the taxi on the Great North Road and walked on a muddy path across the Moor. It started raining heavily, so I ran the last twenty yards to the residence and followed the signs to the reception. Inside there was a long bench and some threadbare armchairs. A large institutional steel desk stood in the centre of the room. Behind the counter, the duty nurse was a middle-aged man with a florid face, dressed in a green tunic and a green fleece.
“I...”
“No!” he said, grinning and nodding his head, his arms folded high on his chest.
“A haven’t asked owt yet, man,” I said switching over into dialect for a second, brushing the rain out of my hair with my hand. “Am ere to see Lillian Stewart.” I was careful not to lay it on too thick, but I wanted to show him I was local. The truth was I’d lost my Geordie as soon as I started university and it felt unnatural to put on the accent again. I blamed my mother for that; she’d always spoken with an Estuary accent.
“I know why you’re ere. And I know what ya are.”
“I’m a journalist.”
“Ha! So ya admit it? Game over!”
“I’m from here, not London and I work for a magazine not a tabloid. I write about music, art, cinema reviews that kind a thing. I went to school with Marty, Lillian’s son.”
“Can you prove it?”
I could tell by the change in his tone that he was prepared to give me a chance.
“Why don’t you ask Mrs Stewart?” I passed him my Free Press card.
“That might be difficult.”
“Why like?”
“Canna say.”
Then I remembered. “Look, she’s got a birthmark.” I whispered the location of the blemish into his ear. Lillian had been like a second mother to me and I’d often seen her in a bikini when she took Marty and me swimming.
He looked surprised, but finally agreed to let me see her for ten minutes and we both ran across the courtyard in the rain. Hers was a basement flat and I could already see her sitting in an armchair in the window, white as a ghost.
As he put the key in the door, he turned to me and said, “I don’t kna how much she knows. Understands. Ya kna, about Marty.”
When we got inside Lillian didn’t move from the armchair. She had the greyness and fragility of a woman far older than her 53 years. She didn’t acknowledge me. Instead she stared continuously at the television screen.
“She never gans out on her own. A have to put her in a chair and wheel her round the yard.”
I took hold of Lillian’s hand and told her who I was, but there wasn’t a flicker of recognition. I felt a deep sadness. She had been my mother’s best friend. They’d supported each other through thick and thin. Slaved to bring up their kids. And this is what she’d got in return.
“How long’s she been like this?” I asked the duty nurse.
“Five year.”
“How often does Marty come?”
“He came once as I remember. When she moved in. They had a huge argument. Lillian was a fiery one. Before it set in properly.”
“And who pays for all this?” I said, changing the subject a little. It was no use to get maudlin.
“I’m afraid I don’t know. And I couldn’t tell you if I did. Data protection.”
And then suddenly, Lillian came to life.
“Marty, is that you?”
“No, Mrs Stewart. It’s Jay. Remember?”
“Just go along with whatever she says,” advised the duty nurse. “We don’t want her upset.”
Just then Marty’s photo flashed up on the news. The newsreader mentioned the name Martin Stewart several times. Lillian stared at the TV screen photo of Marty. Then she intensified the grip on my hand and said:
“They’ll never catch him. Chip off the old block, that one.”
“Was Marty like his father? Was he like Jack Lewis?”
“Jack was a good man,” she said. “But he didn’t have much upstairs.”
She wasn’t speaking in real time so much as parroting old thoughts and opinions.
“What happened to Jack Lewis, Lillian? How did he die?”
A tear rolled down Lillian’s cheek.
“He was a good man,” she repeated.
Just then the lights and television went out and we were left in darkness. With the television silenced, I could hear a sharp banging noise and the sound of splintering plastic. Lillian let forth a piercing scream and began rocking in her chair.
“What the hell was that?” yelled the duty nurse.
“Where’s the fuse box?”
“The electrics are behind reception,” he shouted, as he attended to Lillian.
I ran out towards reception. When I got there, I saw that someone had attacked the fuse box with a hammer. There was black smoke rising off the molten plastic and wiring. It also looked like the reception door had been levered open; there was glass all over the floor. I ran out towards the Moor to try to catch a glimpse of the culprit. In the distance I saw the dark figure of a man running away through the quickly descending mist. It was no good. Whoever it had been was too far away to catch or identify.
When I walked back to tell the duty nurse what I’d seen, Lillian was being sedated by one of the carers and the duty nurse told me the police were on their way. So it was time I got on my way too.
“Who do you think it was?” I asked as I buttoned up my coat.
“Kids. They’ve knocked out the leccy to put the alarms down. They’ll be back tonight to rob wa.”
“Has it happened before?” I asked.
“No, but it’ll be kids from the Meadow Well Estate. I bet you anything.”
“Marty and I were from the Meadow Well.”
The duty nurse gave me a look, as if to remind me that Marty was a murderer. And as far as he was concerned I wasn’t necessarily any better.
On my way out, I gave him my mobile number in case Lillian ever asked for me. It seemed a futile gesture, but one I had to make. Then I walked across the Moor back to the road, keeping an eye out for someone hiding in the trees, mindful that Marty might be closer that I’d thought. I knew it was probably just paranoia. But maybe it was paranoia that was keeping me alive.
Standing at the roadside on the edge of the Moor I checked the time. It was only just gone four. And it was raining again. I saw a phone box and went inside. I called an old friend I’d kept in touch with and left a message on his answerphone to meet in the Jazz Cafe at five, if he was in town. Then I stood outside in the rain, flagged down a cab and got in.
“Where to, bonny lad?”
“The Tyne Library.”
* * *
I ran up the steps and into the foyer, dropping the rain-sodden newspaper into the bin. I rang the golden bell that was on the desk and was greeted a minute later by a librarian who had the same unhealthy indoor pallor as a sixteenth century cleric. She placed her glasses-on-a-string onto the bridge of her nose and asked how she could be of help, but managed to say it in a way that communicated that help was the last thing she wanted to offer. I smiled warmly and told her I was looking for books on British boxers of the 1960s. After some consultation with her computer she wrote down some reference numbers on a torn piece of paper and sent me away without so much as a look of disdain.
Following the number trail I found myself at a section marked ‘Sports History’. Down on the bottom shelf there were six books about British boxing. I took them off the shelf and carried them over to a table, disturbing the tramp who had fallen asleep on top of a broadsheet newspaper.
It was in a book called
Boxing the East End Way
that I found the first mention of Jack Lewis. There was a black and white photo of Lewis in the ring at the Chessington Gym, his trainer, Sam McCormick, pictured ringside. There was no mention of him in the text of the book and the index only referenced the photo, but that was a good starting point. There was a section in the book on boxing and the mob. It talked about allegations of corruption and match fixing. I took the book to the photocopier and made duplicates of the photo of Jack Lewis and the sections on the mob.
* * *
“Lishman, is that you?”
Surely no-one would recognise me with brown hair. But then the rain was a great equaliser. I must look the same as ever with wet hair. I turned to see a stocky man in a leather jacket and jeans, carrying a motorcycle helmet. I recognised him, but his once jet black curly hair was beginning to grey and his belly protruded over the top of his jeans.
“PC Riley, you got the message,” I said, taking his hand in mine and shaking it.
“Inspector!” he corrected, “but not anymore. I’m freelance now.”
“Freelance?”
“It’s a long story. See you’re still following fashion. Haven’t seen trousers like those since me dad was buried. He was wearing them.”
We decided to get a drink in a bikers’ pub on Westgate Road, where he explained how he’d been turfed out of the police for trying to implicate a high-ranking Freemason in the murder of a prostitute.