PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) (5 page)

Chapter Five

No blood, I thought, as the overground train rattled slowly between drab cement walls and ugly tower blocks. It was a bleak afternoon, spring had retreated into the shadows. Too dull for sunglasses, I had Dani’s blue beanie hat pulled down to my brow to hide the scratches. As the train beat out its slow syncopated rhythm, I thought about Dani and her own story of murder and injustice. I’d had to leave her as I wanted to put some thinking distance between me and her. I also had the impression that something very sinister was afoot and in that case, the idea of not involving Dani for the time being was decidedly noble. But the truth was I wasn’t sure who could be trusted. Although I believed her prison story, Dani had a tendency to stretch the truth in order to emphasise the point she was trying to make. She had a powerful imagination which she could switch on and off at a moment’s notice. By leaving, I was protecting her and protecting myself. The only thing I knew for sure was that someone was at the murder scene before the police and had taken photos of Natasha’s flat and dead body. And that particular someone knew where I lived and knew I was connected. The only consolation was that there had been no blood at the scene, meaning that the horrific flashbacks I had outside Hampstead Underground were false.

I looked up to see a child staring at me from the seat opposite. I absent-mindedly returned the little boy’s stare until he shrank back and began to cry. His mother gave me a withering look. It seemed I was exuding miscreant from every pore. I shrugged despondently and picked up the holdall. I waited by the doors and got off at the next stop.

From Camden Road station I headed south. A passenger plane was flying too low over the office blocks. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked upwards. When the plane lowered its landing gear and banked towards Gatwick, people lost interest and dispersed. Seeing their expressions, I had the fleeting sensation that suffering a major terrorist attack had perverse appeal among the citizenry. That London, this great city, had a death wish turned in on itself, willing planes and bombs to come tear down its towers and monuments. At least, I thought, selfishly, that would bump Natasha Rok’s murder off the front pages.

I ducked into an Army & Navy store. I picked up a basket and started filling it with things I thought I might need: a rucksack, some trainers, shorts, sports socks, towel, a radio, shaving kit, plasters, some batteries and a Swiss Army knife. Next I went to a newsagent’s and bought a pay-as-you-go mobile. I made sure my face was concealed from the security camera pointing at the counter. Then I bought some energy bars, nuts and water from a health store.

I reached King’s Cross station as night fell. Thieves, prostitutes and drunks were congregated beneath its arches. I sat on a bench next to a group of alcoholics drinking red wine from cartons. One of them approached me and asked me for a cigarette. His hands and face were black with grime. His teeth and eyes yellowed by nicotine and liver damage. I reached into my pocket, took three cigarettes from the packet and handed them to him. He thanked me then asked if I had any spare change. I shook my head and he walked away muttering something. It sounded like “But for the grace of God go you”.

When he’d settled down again with his fellow drunks, sharing his spoils, I opened up the holdall, lifted out my notebooks and letters, and transferred a few items of clothing to the rucksack. I slid my hand to the bottom of the holdall to make sure the envelope was still there. Then I repacked it and zipped it up. I checked the weight of the rucksack. It wasn’t too heavy. I thought about wearing the trainers and leaving my shoes in the holdall, but decided against it.

At the left luggage desk, a short South American woman in a white shirt and black cardigan was attending to a queue of customers, most of them tourists. While I waited I noticed how anonymous central London was: tourists served by immigrant workers. I doubted either group watched the local news or read the papers. Half of the drunks in King’s Cross were on the run from police in their home towns. Nobody would ever catch up with them. They came down to the capital, grew their facial hair and distorted their features with alcohol and grime. The perfect place to hide out, but arguably as dangerous and depressing as being in prison.

I put the holdall into 24-hour storage. There was an extra daily charge if I picked it up late, up to a maximum of five days. I would be back to study the photos as soon as I found a place to stay. Meanwhile, carrying around such incriminating evidence was interfering with my thought processes.

I left the station and headed along streets full of kebab shops, fast-food chains and takeaways until I found a cafe next to a taxi firm. I went in, ordered a cup of tea and sat away from the window. The seats were made of cheap plastic and the strip-lighting was oppressive, but it would do. I made myself as comfortable as possible. After a few minutes of reflection, I blew on the top of the tea and took a sip. The milk was off. I took it back to the counter and complained.

“Off?” said the assistant, smiling. “Goodbye!”

“No, the milk is off. Not me.” He looked confused.

“Forget it. Just give me a coke,” I said. He handed it over. I paid him two pounds and went back to the table.

Perfect, I thought. Here, I was anonymous. This guy was probably more scared of the police than I was. He didn’t speak more than twenty words of English. I dismantled the mobile phone and inserted the SIM card. I put it back together and switched it on. When it flashed up ‘Hello’, I typed in Marty’s number from my notebook and pressed call.

* * *

I got on a bus to Bethnal Green. I picked up a copy of that day’s Evening Standard from an empty seat, but I didn’t read it. I couldn’t trust myself not to freak out seeing my own name under the computer-generated face and the headline
Pentonville Strangler
. I got off at the Green and looked for a cheap hotel. The type that would have no native English speakers.

There was a room at the Arcadian Guest House for 50 pounds a night, so I gave a false name and paid for two nights in advance. The Arcadian was the perfect hide out. It was staffed by foreigners and frequented by budget tourists. It had ten floors, a gym and a view over London, if you were staying high enough.

The receptionist, a polite man with a thin moustache following the line of his upper lip, had asked for my passport, but I’d told him that I was English and didn’t need one. Then he’d asked for ID. I’d assured him it was illegal to ask for ID in England. He seemed happy about that and gave me the room pass with a shrug.

I called Marty again. Nothing. Then I wrote a text message to Dani, but finally decided against sending it. I tried to settle down for the night on the single bed, but I was possessed by a terrible restlessness. I paced the small hotel room like a caged animal.

* * *

Running, running, but not getting anywhere, I focused on keeping my pace steady and my breathing in synch. My reflection in the window, painted in yellow and black, had none of my self-doubt or weariness. It worked away like a malevolent droid, mocking me with its effortless sprint.

The gym was on the top floor of the hotel, a glass walled square built on to one half of the roof terrace. During the day it afforded panoramic views over London. At night it was a prism of self-reflection.

I hacked for several minutes as I stood by the water fountain. A man in his early thirties gave me a knowing wink as he passed. He was the only other person there. He looked slightly Eastern, perhaps Turkish. I was sure I’d seen him walking through the foyer when I’d checked in. I felt for the square plaster to the left of my eye. It was still there. I dried my face carefully with a towel and sat at the rowing machine.

I pulled on the handle then kicked back my legs. I repeated the action, again and again, until my heart was thumping and my lungs raw. I was beginning to understand why people did this to themselves after a day’s work. It felt righteous. Modern-day self-flagellation.

Lying on my bed I was exhausted. I drank a lot of water and ate the nuts and the energy bar. Then I drifted off to sleep.

* * *

An electric whir. A white-bordered Polaroid is thrown onto a green felt table by an unknown dealer. Natasha naked in bed, beautiful, alabaster, smiling not dead, beckons me to join her. I lie beside her, brushing back her hair from her face, but the hair starts to come out in my hands. I try to conceal the fallen hair. “I’m cold,” she says, “hold me”. I hold her tight. “No, you’re crushing me!” she screams and begins to shout in Polish. I try to loosen my embrace only to find there’s no-one between my arms. I sigh and turn over and try to sleep, but then I notice on the other side of the bed someone is lying motionless, wrapped in a white sheet. I pull back the sheet to find Dani, naked, her eyes open, her body cold. She has a Polaroid camera in her hand. “Wake up, Dani!” I shout, shaking her. “Wake up!” In response her finger presses the red button and an electric whir sounds. The dealer throws another photo on top of the last. There is a telescope sight sweeping quickly from left to right. It finds me. I’m running along an Underground platform, a cut out of a photofit face fastened to my head. I’m swept up in a tide of Tube passengers. A stranger grabs me. I struggle to free myself. “Hello, Lishman,” I hear him say. “The next one goes to Pentonville.” “Smile,” says Natasha, holding the Polaroid camera. An electric whir
...

Chapter Six

I finished shaving and rinsed the foam off my chin. I placed a new plaster over the scratches. Then I angled the beanie hat carefully to conceal as much as possible. I was already getting used to being at large. It had liberated me from the banality of everyday life. I smiled at how insane but true that last thought was.

Before leaving the hotel room, I wired myself up with a Walkman and pressed play. This time it was a Brazilian mix. I walked out onto the landing, closed the door to my room and called the lift.

An hour later I’d reached the luggage desk at King’s Cross. I handed over my token to the same South American woman as the day before. She disappeared into the back room. A few minutes later she came back and told me she couldn’t find anything for the ticket 19. I insisted that it must be there, but she shook her head. I heard her talking in Spanish to her colleague. He was looking over at me. Then the woman’s colleague took the ticket off her, turned it upside down and returned it. She said nothing and walked off into the back room returning with my holdall with the no. 61 ticket attached to its handle.

I took the holdall back to the hotel room. Sitting on the bed, I delved into it and pulled out the manila envelope. First of all I studied the envelope itself, writing down my observations in a small spiral notebook. There was a name and address electronically printed onto a white sticker in the centre of the envelope but no stamp or postmark. Nothing else seemed remarkable about the envelope.

There were twenty-eight photos in total, on A5 matt paper. Nobody would have taken these negatives to a shop. Either they were developed in a dark room or printed using specialist software.

It was the photos of the bathroom that I wanted to see again. I laid them out side by side. There was the photo of the broken-in door. There was one with the torn shower curtain covering the base of the bath. There was another one showing the bath without the shower curtain. On that one you could see the swastika scratched into the base of the bath. Why were there swastikas carved in such an out of the way place? I wondered. Surely neo-Nazis would have daubed the entire flat with swastikas. And someone trying to scapegoat the Nazis would have done the same, but this was someone unprepared. Perhaps, Natasha herself trying to leave a message for the police.

I was getting nowhere so I skipped forward to find the photo of Natasha’s body lying in bed. The face contorted with terror. There was no sign of blood on her body or in any of the photos. I thought again about the horrific flashbacks I’d had outside Hampstead Underground.

“AmizFire,” I said to myself.

Diane Thompson’s murder installation had implanted those false memories, giving my paranoia material to substitute the lack of a real memory of the murder. Looking at Natasha’s terrified face again, I decided I’d seen enough for one day and stashed the photos back in the holdall.

* * *

This time I left the bag in a locker at Euston station. There were no people to deal with, only coins and keys. As I rode the Central line, I thought about the photos. The swastikas and the greasy handprint on the wall could be all the evidence needed to rule me out of the equation. But without forensics work, I wouldn’t know if the handprint matched the prints on Natasha’s body. Leaving a greasy handprint wasn’t the act of an experienced killer. It suggested a crime of passion or even a drunken crime. But the swastikas in the bathroom had my mind racing.

I got off the train at Shoreditch High Street and walked the mile or so back to the hotel. Then I picked up my gear and went up to the gym. After a long work out, I went back to my room and collapsed onto the bed.

* * *

I awoke bathed in sweat. I checked the time. It was only 12.30 am. I went to the bathroom and washed my face. Drinking a glass of tap water I gazed out the window. Drunks and prostitutes walked the pavements. Traffic raced past, headlights distorted like the eyes of cartoon demons.

I sat on the bed, reached for my rucksack and pulled out the Evening Standard. On the second page was a picture of Natasha and the photofit. The article was a repeat of the day before with the added news that Natasha’s parents were being flown over from Poland.

I put the battery in my mobile and turned it on. There was a message sent at 12.15: ‘37 Curtain Rd. ASAP.’

That was all it said. I didn’t recognise the number, but it had to be Marty using a burner because I hadn’t called anyone else with my new phone. I looked in my A–Z. Curtain Road was walking distance. I got ready. I shoved the Swiss Army knife down my sock but it didn’t feel secure so I zipped it into my jacket pocket with the locker key.

* * *

On Curtain Road, I walked past a large graffitied rabbit sprayed onto the side of a metallic lock-up door. It was on its haunches, about to bolt. A red line of energy decorated its black insides. The street was quiet until I heard the lawn-mower buzz of a scooter coming from behind me. It drew level with me and slowed down. When I looked over at it, it sped away into the distance. Its handlebars were decorated with a tree of Mod mirrors. The driver wore a green coat with an RAF target on the back and a vintage white peaked helmet.

I reached number 37. It was a kebab house. No-one was there so I waited around outside. After five minutes I decided to go in and order something. The man behind the counter waved me through to a back room. I walked down a corridor until I came to a badly scuffed yellow door. I wondered if I’d received the text by mistake and behind the door a group of cocaine dealers, armed to the teeth, were waiting to make a connection. It was deathly quiet. I turned the handle and pushed.

I stood in a state of shock.

“Can I get you anything?” said a Lebanese waiter wearing a white shirt and dicky bow, with black trousers, white socks and trainers.

“Get me a beer and a whisky chaser.”

I was in a large hall full of pine breakfast tables where rockers in leather jackets were rolling joints, students played drinking games, beer heads ate falafels with hot sauce and waiters hurried from table to table delivering goods and taking money.

Centre stage stood a man with an acoustic guitar and an exaggerated quiff. He was singing Elvis songs to cheers from the crowd. A small contingent of dancers twisted and jived in the few square yards between the tables. I sat down, lit a cigarette and looked around for Marty.

By the time I’d downed the second beer, there was still no sign of Marty. And I found myself sinking into the music:

We’re caught in a trap

I can’t walk out

Because I love you too much baby

Why can’t you see

What you’re doing to me

When you don’t believe a word I say?

So, if an old friend I know

Stops by to say hello

Would I still see suspicion in your eyes?

Lighting another cigarette, I began to think it through, discounting paranoia and false memory and looking for the most probable explanation. Marty could have been lying low because of something unrelated to my situation: a business deal, a stomach bug. Now, knowing nothing about my troubles, he wanted to meet up. But wait a minute, how did he even know this was my number? I hadn’t done anything but call his phone with my pay-as-you-go. I left no messages and sent no texts.

Don’t you know I’m caught in a trap

I can’t walk out

Because I love you too much baby

Just then, the yellow door swung open again, and three students walked into the room. One of them was wearing a gorilla mask. Another was carrying a large camera. What was this? Halloween? I didn’t like it. I pulled my hat down lower on my head and turned to face the couple that were sitting at the other end of my table. I glanced back and saw the masked man aping around, provoking hysterics from the crowd as his friend took photos. Finally he sat down with his back to me, hoisted his mask up onto his head so he could drink. I couldn’t see his face.

After another twenty minutes, I decided to check out the ape man’s face. I drank up and walked over to their table. Standing behind him, I tapped him on the shoulder. But before turning around, he pulled down his mask. Then he stood in front of me, beat his chest and started to dance. He took me by the hands and tried to waltz with me but I shook him away.

“Take off your mask,” I shouted.

“If you take off yours,” he replied, as if alluding to some profound truth.

Just a student, I concluded. And made to leave as the singer was finishing
Blue Suede Shoes
.

“Ou-Where are you go-ing?” the singer asked, mock-offended, in a heavy French accent.

“Home. Got work tomorrow.”

“Sit down, I play you a song. C’mon! De night is just star-ting,” he implored.

“Listen to French Elvis. Sit down,” came a shout from a table of students.

“Screw work,” shouted someone else.

“Drink, drink, drink,” a chorus began.

I shook my head and turned to see the gorilla mask looking at me across a crowd of dancers, waving me over. But I’d had enough. I hurried out of the kebab house to boos and jeers.

Out on the street a tall athletic-looking man, also wearing a blue beanie hat, asked me for a light. I shrugged and told him I didn’t smoke. He punched me in the stomach and forced my arm behind my back, pushing me into an alleyway. I was gasping for air, trying to free myself from the man’s grip, when out of the darkness came his accomplice who began searching me. The first man pushed my arm further up my back, so I stopped struggling worried he’d break my arm. The second man felt my knife as he patted my side. He had started unzipping my pocket when I saw out of the corner of my eye the gorilla mask walking towards us.

“You’d better fuck right off now,” said the guy holding my arm, in an accent I was beginning to recognise as Polish. His accomplice pulled a knife and held it to my throat. The cold blade against my throat made me gulp repeatedly. The word
Zabeej
came back to me from that night on Old Street. I tried to say it, but could make no sound. I was muted by fear. The man in the gorilla mask didn’t speak, but folded his arms as if he was prepared to wait it out. I waited, too, immobilised by the blade. My senses were heightened. My primitive brain had taken over and I was hit by the putrid smell of the back-alley bins, the tobacco on beanie-hat’s breath, the beery sweat of the gorilla and my own smell of fear. I heard the grit move under beanie-hat’s trainers as he began to press the blade harder to my throat. Just then a siren howled as a police car pulled up at the end of the alley. In the melee that followed beanie-hat’s accomplice kneed me in the balls and left me in a heap on the ground. A male officer got out of the car and ran off in pursuit. Then a female officer got out of the car and asked me if I was okay. I managed to sit up and nod, reeling momentarily from the sharp, incapacitating pain.

When the pain began to dull a little I answered the officer, “A little shaken, but they didn’t get anything.”

I had to tread carefully here. Even if they didn’t recognise me, police could be tricky customers, always trying to trip people up. As I got my breath back, I heard the scooter pass by the top of the alleyway. The gorilla man was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” said the officer, taking out her radio and asking her colleague for his location.

I could hear the crackle of police radio coming towards us from the darkness. The male officer walked back and stood next to us out of breath. He shook his head at his colleague. Then he studied me carefully. Finally he asked if I’d got a good look at them.

“I saw nothing. It was a blur.”

“Well, nothing we can do then. Can we give you a lift anywhere?”

I thought about the muggers waiting round the corner. But getting into the police car would give them a good chance to see my face. Chances are they had CCTV hooked up in the back. Still it was best not to act like a fugitive, I reminded myself, thinking of my Hampstead Underground mistake.

“Anywhere on Whitechapel would be great,” I said.

“No problem. Hop in,” said the officer, so I got into the back seat. The car started and we drove away up the street.

“I think I recognise you from somewhere,” said the male officer.

“Everyone says that.”

“No, I mean it. I know you from somewhere.”

My mind went blank. Saying as little as possible would be best. Less to incriminate myself with. Although, police knew that liars tend to either talk too much or say too little.

“I think he’s in shock,” said the WPC.

“Really I’m okay.” I tried to look sheepish, holding my hand over the plaster as if through nerves.

“There’s no shame in it,” she said, passing me a card. “Here’s a number. Call if you need to talk to someone.”

When we got to Whitechapel, the police officer parked the car and turned round in his seat. He looked puzzled, as if he was still trying to place me. I thanked them both and got out. They turned the car around and pulled up in front of me. The male officer lent out of the window and said: “I think I know where I know you from. Do you ever get in the King’s Head in Clerkenwell? It’s my brother-in-law’s pub.”