Pretty Little Dead Things (19 page)

  Other than the sound of our voices, the room was silent. There was no air-conditioning system, not even a fan; and no radiators were fixed to the walls. It would be hot in here in the middle of summer and freezing cold during the winter months. Presently, it was chilly enough for me to leave my coat on but not unbearable.

  "I know you," said Spinks. "At least, I know of you."

  My throat was dry; it felt like it might close up at any second. "And how is that, Byron? Where have you heard about me?"

  The smile did not waver. He clenched his big hands on the desk and I was glad that he was chained. His forearms flexed, the muscles bulging, and I almost expected his biceps to pop. "They told me."

  "They? And who are they?"

  "Them."

  This was getting me nowhere. "Who, Byron? Who exactly do you mean?"

  "Them out there and Them in here." He raised a hand to gesture beyond the walls, and then pointed at his own head, indicating that he also meant the voices inside his skull – the ones that perhaps had told him to kill? But no; I didn't believe that. There was more going on here than a simple crime of passion. Intimidating as he was, I doubted that Spinks had killed his girl.

  I decided to change the course of the conversation in the hope that it might help me get some sense out of the man. There was a tattoo on his left bicep, vaguely tribal in design: thick black Olde English lettering in the shape of an M and a T. "That's nice work. I have a few of those things myself."

  He glanced at his arm, at the ink, and a look of shame crossed his face. "That's an old one, from years ago. I don't like that any more. I should get it removed. I don't like to talk about it."

  I remembered the phone Tebbit had given me. "Do you mind if I take a photograph of your ink, Byron? I like to document tattoos – let's call it a hobby. I like to think of myself as something of a connoisseur of skin art." I had no idea why I was doing this, but there was something about the tattoo that seemed important, and its wearer was not talking. His ink called to my ink like another animal of the same basic species.

  "Go ahead," he said. "Knock yourself out."

  I took out the phone, fumbled for a while as I tried to locate the correct function, and then took a snap of Spinks's arm. "Thank you." I put away the phone, hoping that I'd managed to save the photograph in its memory.

  "I have a message for you," said Spinks. The smile had now faded. His hand dropped back to the table.

  "From whom?"

  "From Them."

  No surprises there, then.

  "When did you receive this message, Byron? In here? In the jail? Was it from another prisoner?"

  He shook his head; the skull looked so very heavy, heavier even than his conscience. "Last night. I had a dream. One of Them came to me and told me to deliver a message. A personal message. I wasn't allowed to pass it on through anyone else, just to tell you to your face." He shifted in his seat, suddenly on edge. "They said that if I delivered the message They would let me go. That I could be free. I want to be free, Mr Usher. I so want to be free. It's been years since I could call myself a free man, and it's what I've been waiting for." Tears filled his eyes, spilling over onto his sharp cheeks. He didn't wipe them away; just let them fall, an anointment, of sorts, or perhaps a form of self-cleansing.

  "So give me the message, Byron." I did not want to hear what he had to say. Everything in me was screaming to get up and leave; my tattoos burned like acid; the voices in my own head were yelling so loudly that all I could hear was a dirge.

  Byron Spinks leaned forward, as if he was about to whisper. His eyes were wide, fearful, and yet brimming with hope. "Memento mori," he said, his voice sounding different, the timbre slightly off, the way he formed the words all wrong somehow, as if he were trying to impersonate himself and not doing a very good job of it.

  I tried to push the chair backwards, forgetting that it was attached to the floor, and succeeded only in pitching bodily over the side and onto the floor. I scrabbled there on all fours, like a crab, losing all sense of my limbs as they struggled to push me upright. The words echoed inside my head, unlocking doors that should never be opened, moving along passageways that had not seen the light of day in a long time.

  Byron Spinks was silent. The smile had returned, but this time it made him look retarded, as if his brain had been fried by an electrical charge. He pursed his lips, as if blowing a kiss, and slowly closed his eyes. There was ash on each eyelid. Black-daubed fingerprints made by a nightmare hand.

  I got to my feet and headed for the door, shaken and paranoid and wishing that I had never come here, to this awful place.

  "Wait." It was Spinks. He sounded normal again – whatever that word even means. "There's more to tell."

  I turned around to face him and waited for the rest. All I wanted to do was leave, but I was deep inside this now – locked inside a crazy whirlwind of events. "Go on." My voice was strained, breathless. I was shaking with adrenalin.

  "I didn't kill Kareena."

"I know you didn't, Byron. But who did."

"Them."

I bowed my head, sick of it all. Sick, sick, sick.

  "We were out there shooting a homemade porn video. She liked to get it on film, you know. It made her hot."

  I kept staring at the floor, waiting for him to tell me something I didn't know or had not already guessed.

  Sick.

  "I filmed them all at one time or another – all those dead girls."

  I lifted my head and looked at him. His face was solemn, almost serene, in the dim light.

  "Candice, Sarah and Kareena. I filmed all three. Met them other two at the Blue Viper, and sweet-talked them into going on camera…only Kareena didn't need no convincing. She was already into the scene." His jaw was tight; the muscles there twitched like buried insects.

  "What do you mean? How was she already into it? Do you mean pornography? She was into pornography before you even met her?"

  Spinks closed his eyes. The ash was no longer there. I could almost believe that I'd imagined it. "She was the one got me into it, wasn't she? I met her first, and she helped me get to grips with the other two. They all knew each other, see. Worked in the club, and then on the films. Films Baz Singh sells through a mail order company and a website that's not even registered to him."

  Sick.

  "How long had she been dealing in pornography?"

  He paused, blinked, and then continued as calmly as if we were discussing the weather: "Since she was twelve. Her dad got her into it."

  Sick.

  I didn't know how to respond. The words drilled into my temples, going deep into my mind, churning up so much hatred and disgust that I felt nauseous. "Her father? You mean Baz Singh?"

  "Aye. Baz Singh. Only he isn't her real dad. She told me once. She was adopted when she was a baby, and they raised her for what she always called a special purpose. As far as I could see, that purpose was shagging. She was such a great fuck… did it like her life depended on it. Liked it any way you could think of. She said her dad showed her all the best moves." The ghost of a smile wafted across his features as he no doubt recalled some wild night in bed with Kareena Singh.

  "I have to go now, Byron. But thank you."

  "She was a great shag. A bit sick, though, sometimes. But a great shag."

  "I know, Byron. I know she was."

  Sick.

  He kept repeating the words as I banged on the door and waited for the guard to let me out. True to his promise, he was prompt and a few seconds later I was standing out in the hallway, bent double and retching as I tried to rid myself of the image of Baz Singh, my current employer, inducting his own pre-teenage daughter into the dubious pleasures of low-rent pornography.

There are times in life that no matter how fast we run events conspire to change our chosen means of escape. It's like trying to flee whilst wearing roller skates: no matter how quickly you move your legs, or in which direction you turn, the lower half of your body, from the waist down, will follow its own route, steered by those silly little wheels you suddenly realise aren't really that much fun after all.

  My own life had been littered with such moments, and this was just one of them.

  We were heading back towards Millgarth police station in Tebbit's unmarked car. There was an uneasy silence between us that I could not quite understand, but I put it down to the strange experience I'd just had – and Tebbit had witnessed – with Byron Spinks. The meeting was playing on my mind, causing me to doubt certain things I'd been led to believe. If Baz Singh was the absolute scumbag Spinks had implied he was, then I'd been fooled. Again. People were always fooling me, taking advantage of my lack of connection with them. I understood the denizens of elsewhere all too clearly, but the complex psychological imperatives of my fellow man remained a mystery. I was getting better though, improving my game. I just needed a little more practice.

  "That tattoo on his arm. Do you know much about it, what it means?"

  Tebbit didn't respond immediately to my question; he kept staring at the road, his face slack and lacking any kind of expression I could name. Then, gradually, he came out of himself, asserting his presence in the moment. "It's a gang thing: a sort of brand. The MT is a street gang, they run around the Bestwick Estate causing us all kinds of trouble, and have done for years."

  "I see. I'd guessed as much. What's Spinks's involvement?" The traffic was light, the shops and offices in the area not yet ready to give up their workers. I watched people through their car windows. They all looked so bemused, as if life itself was puzzling them.

  "He used to be a member, back when he was in his teens. We arrested him for a burglary and after that he changed his ways and left the gang. Baz Singh gave him a job in one of his restaurants: after-hours security. He built himself up from there and eventually became head doorman at the Blue Viper." Tebbit's voice was strained; he sounded tired and irritable.

  "Do you think the gang have anything to do with Penny Royale's abduction? Perhaps the two cases are connected."

  Tebbit shook his head, still staring at the road. His eyes were flat and lifeless. "No, they're not into kidnapping, it's out of their league. Your average youth gang doesn't possess the intellect to pull off something like this – they go strictly for the obvious stuff: drugs and robberies and the odd rape." The cynicism was audible in his words, shaping them into something sad and bitter and twisted.

  "I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help. I realise that you were probably hoping for a confession." Somebody leant on their car horn and left their hand there; the sound was reminiscent of a child's wailing lament.

  "Not your fault, Usher. Don't mind me, I'm just tired. Tired of it all. Dead girls, missing children: the whole fucking thing. It's endless, like a tide of bad things that we can never hold back, just wade about in the shallows trying to clean up the mess…"

  "I know." The car horn stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry. Do you think Penny Royale is dead?"

  He paused then, as if he could not quite think of an answer. "I don't know. Do you?"

  "I haven't seen or felt her, but that could mean anything. Maybe she's dead and doesn't want to come to me, or perhaps she's still alive and chained to a bed somewhere on that horrible estate." I wished I had not said that. The image it created and held in my mind was almost too much to bear.

  We reached the station in silence, and when we left the car Tebbit raised a hand and headed towards the scowling facade of the ugly main building while I walked the other way, along Dyer Street and towards the centre of town. The area around Eastgate was busy so I had to dodge the crowds that were smeared across the footpath as I headed towards the Headrow. I had the weird feeling that everyone was looking at me but averting their gaze whenever I caught their eye. Couples walked slowly, hand-in-hand, ahead of me, solitary pedestrians crossed the street to stand in front of me and block my path and traffic slowed as it drew level with my position.

  I began to feel hungry. I could not remember the last time I'd eaten, and my stomach felt light and empty – my head, too. There were countless cafés and restaurants in the area; I just had to pick one and head in that direction. It was too early in the day for a curry, and the last time I'd had a Chinese I had not enjoyed it. Italian sounded good – a pizza, maybe, or a light pasta dish – so I searched my memory banks for a decent place located not too far away from where I was standing.

  There was a small Italian café along one of the streets that bisected the Headrow. I had eaten there many times, and despite the place changing owners more times than I changed my suit, the food was never less than excellent. I hurried along the main drag, looking for the correct street, and soon recognised it because of the tiny news stand on the corner that sold hardcore pornography alongside the daily newspapers. I wondered if Kareena Singh might have appeared in one of those skin mags, or if she only ever starred in her father's films…

  Cutting along a narrow side street, I crossed the road and passed a second hand bookshop with a "Closing Down Sale" sign in the window, a computer repair centre with whitewashed windows and a boarded up building that I seemed to remember had been a printing firm the last time I'd come this way. The recession was slowly tearing the city apart, piece by piece. But it seemed to me that another kind of recession – one of the human spirit – was developing behind the scenes, and its collateral damage would be even worse.