Cut Short (9 page)

  'What do you want?' he growled.

  'Get dressed, Mr Drew,' Peterson replied. 'We're taking a trip to the station. We'd like to ask you a few more questions.' The girl rose unsteadily to her feet, tugging at her skirt. She yanked a dirty T-shirt over her head.

  'You arresting me?' Johnny Drew demanded.

  'You arresting him or what?' the girl repeated sullenly. Her speech was slurred.

  'Shut it, Millie,' Drew snarled. She hung her head, glaring up at the detectives through her dark fringe.

  'You arresting me then or what?' He struck a defiant pose, legs apart, hands on hips.

  'We'll arrest you for wasting our time, if you don't get dressed now,' the DS answered.

  'Beat it, Millie,' Drew shouted over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bedroom, muttering about privacy, Peterson on his heels. The girl slammed the front door so hard the windows shook.

  The suspect sulked in the car all the way to the station.

  In the interview room, Peterson went in hard. 'You like beating up girls, don't you? It gives you a kick. That's right, isn't it? Makes you feel powerful.'

  Drew wasn't cowed. 'What's it to you?' he countered, gazing levelly at the DS. 'None of your fucking business, that's what. I want a lawyer.' He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and stared at Peterson. They left him to kick his heels while they sorted out a brief. Once they reassembled, Peterson resumed. Geraldine felt confident that if Drew
was
guilty the sergeant would crack him, but she wasn't convinced they had the right man.

  'You were telling us how much you enjoy beating up girls, Johnny.'

  'So? If a girl needs a bit of a slap now and again, what's it to you? Some women like a bit of rough.' He tried to wink at Geraldine but they could see he was scared. Too clever to deny that he'd raised his hand to Angela, Geraldine thought he must surely be too smart to risk discovery by attacking his own girlfriend in broad daylight in public. She didn't feel comfortable with this line of enquiry.

  'A bit of a slap?' Peterson was saying. 'A broken rib, a broken arm. You think some women like that, do you? How would you like it?'

  'Accidents. She fell and no one can tell you any different.' Drew flapped his hand dismissively but he was riled.

  'Lose your temper a lot, do you, Johnny?' Peterson asked.

  'Only with filth like you,' Drew countered.

  'What about your girlfriend's black eye, Johnny? Was that an accident too?'

  'She fell over,' Drew repeated stubbornly, his temper under control again. 'Look,' he said, sitting up suddenly. 'So there was maybe the odd time I raised my hand to her. But not as often as she'd have liked. She asked for it. I'm only human.' He appealed to Peterson. 'Don't tell me you've never been provoked, Sergeant? You know how a woman can get you all worked up. And Angie knew how to aggravate. It wasn't like she didn't know exactly what she was doing. She knew what was coming, but she never let up. I'd warn her.' He shrugged. 'Don't ask me why she kept on at me. You know how it is, Sergeant. What's a man to do? Then it'd be all tears and snuffling and apologies.' He didn't clarify who had apologised to whom and for what. The solicitor whispered in Drew's ear and the suspect nodded and shut up.

  Geraldine glanced down at the report from Rotherhithe. The local CID had traced Angela's mother. Mrs Phelps no longer had any contact with her daughter. At fifteen, Angela Waters had run away from home when her mother remarried. Mrs Phelps had no idea where her daughter was living, and didn't care. It was a squalid but familiar story. Angela's father was an alcoholic who used to beat his wife and small daughter viciously. He'd made no attempt to find them when his wife had packed up and left and they'd never heard from him again. After that, Mandy Phelps had drifted from one violent partner to another.

  'We heard you argued a lot with Angela,' Peterson said.

  'Who? Me and Ange?' Drew threw back his head and laughed. 'Don't give me that. Where did you hear that then? From the neighbours? Those walls are thin as paper. What did they hear then? What specifically did they hear? Interfering bastards. Ought to mind their own fucking business.' There was a pause. He seemed to have regained his confidence. 'No one heard me and Ange arguing. Couldn't have. She had a really quiet voice. No one told you that, did they?' He snorted. 'They couldn't say for sure it was me and Ange, could they?' He glanced at the solicitor sitting silently at his side. 'What they heard was shouting off the telly, that's what. She used to love her soaps, Ange did. That must be what they heard. We never argued. Not me and Ange. She wouldn't argue. Wasn't her style. You didn't know her.'

  'She wouldn't answer back in case she got a beating?'

  Drew glanced at his brief again. 'I never beat her, right? Like I told you, maybe a bit of a slap now and again, when she asked for it. That's all. Some women like a man to be in charge, you know what I mean. But she wouldn't have stuck with me if she didn't like it. Stands to reason.'

  'Only it got a bit out of hand, that last time, didn't it, Johnny?' the sergeant persisted, getting nowhere.

  Drew was all arrogance again. 'What are you on about now? You know you've got nothing on me. Nothing better to do than harass an innocent bloke who's lost his girlfriend. Kick a man when he's down, why don't you? How's that for abuse?' The lawyer sat mute. Drew turned his attention back to Peterson. 'This is harassment. I ought to complain about you, Detective Sergeant.'

  'You went too far, didn't you?' Peterson pressed on. Geraldine could hear the exasperation in his voice but Drew was a cool customer. 'It was more than just a slap wasn't it? You didn't mean to kill her, did you? What happened, Johnny? Did she struggle? Fight back this time? Enough to provoke anyone, isn't it?'

  Drew stood up suddenly. 'I've had enough of your fucking crap, Sergeant. Are you going to charge me or what? I told you, I was working on Wednesday. Ask anyone. There's no way I touched her. You're barking up the wrong tree, and it's doing my head in. You should be out there, looking for the bastard that killed her, not hassling me.'

  'Why did you do it, Johnny?' Peterson asked.

  'I keep telling you, I never done it.' Drew rolled his eyes.

  '
WHY
?' Geraldine wrote on her piece of paper, frowning.

  Peterson persisted, but it was clear they were making no headway. In the end, even the sergeant had to concede they had nothing on Drew, and they let him go. He darted out of the door like a rat out of a trap.

  'Now where's he off to in such a hurry?' Peterson wondered aloud.

Johnny ran out of the police station as though a bomb was about to explode. Back on the street, he slowed down with an effort. He needed something to calm his nerves. His heart was thumping; he could hear it pounding in his ears. He slipped along an alley and reached the pub by an indirect route. No one was tailing him but he was jumpy as hell after the day he'd just had. He was taking no chances, not with the filth on his case. He sat hunched over a pint in a dark corner of the pub, waiting. As soon as his dealer arrived, Johnny slunk over. The dealer never hung around for long. He looked up but didn't invite Johnny to join him. His eyes flicked round nervously. He could tell something was wrong.

  'I just seen you, Johnny, legging it out of the cop shop.' His voice was low and angry. 'What's going on? You got a problem or what?'

  'No,' Johnny was quick to reassure him. 'Not a problem, exactly.'

  'What then?'

  'Well, yeah, in a way. I had to flush the gear down the kazi.' The dealer frowned as Johnny perched on the edge of a chair.

  'What the fuck you gone and done that for?' the dealer's eyes were restless, skimming round the bar.

  'Had a visit, didn't I?'

  'Shit.' The dealer wasn't laughing any more. His posture shifted as his legs tensed under the table. 'Busted?'

  Johnny stared at him, wondering what he'd brought. He shook his head. 'Nothing like that. It wasn't a bust.'

  'What then?' The dealer was losing interest in Johnny. His eyes continually browsed around to see who else was in the pub.

  Johnny explained. He'd been at home, all set, his gear laid out ready, when he'd heard a loud banging at his door. Looking out he'd seen two of them on his doorstep. 'Filth.'

  'What they come for, if it wasn't a bust?' The dealer narrowed his eyes.

  'You're all right. I flushed it away like I said. Only I needn't have bothered. It wasn't the drug squad.' He looked down. 'It's Angie. Some bastard done her in.' The dealer stared at him. Johnny made a whishing noise and pulled his hand across his throat.

  'They think it was you what done it?' the dealer asked. He was interested now.

  Johnny shrugged miserably. 'What do you think? She was all right, my Ange. She was a good kid.' He sighed. 'So, what you got? I don't suppose you could do us a discount, seeing as it's the second time this week. It's been a bloody nightmare. I can't believe I panicked like that. Good gear too.'

  'Only the best.' The dealer agreed. He considered. 'Shame about Angie,' he said at last. 'She was a good kid.'

  'Yeah.'

  'Still, least it wasn't Ballard's mob,' the dealer added.

  'Yeah, that's one good thing, I suppose. It wasn't Ballard's lot. They wouldn't have found anything, mind. I flushed it all away.'

  'Those bastards always find something,' the dealer told him. 'Even if they have to bring it themselves. Special delivery. You know that. How's about you get us a pint, then?'

  Johnny grinned in relief. 'We're all right then, are we?'

  'Sure thing. It's not your fault the filth come calling. Only you should lay low till it's blown over. Because they'll be back. You can count on it. Once they get hold of you, there's no knowing when they're going to stop poking their fucking noses in. Best to lie low, is my advice.'

  Johnny swallowed nervously. 'I'll be fine. They won't be back. Honest. They're done with me. So what you got for me?'

  The dealer stood up. 'See you around some time, Johnny,' he said softly, moving away.

  'What about that pint?' Johnny swore under his breath, furious with the filth for screwing everything up. It wasn't right. Now he needed to score and he was getting the cold shoulder. He spat angrily on the floor.

  'Oi!' a voice yelled at him.

  'Oh shut it,' he muttered, getting to his feet. 'I'm leaving.'

  He called in at the Chinese for a portion of greasy chips on his way back to the flat. He had no Angie to cook dinner for him now. He swore. Angie's death was causing him no end of grief. Back in the flat, he noticed a photo she'd put above the fire. He remembered when they'd taken it, the two of them together on the front at Blackpool the weekend they met. She looked so happy he was startled.

  He picked it up and stared at her smiling face. Her long fair hair had fallen across her eyes like a veil. She had a habit of brushing it off her face with the back of her hand. With a curse, Johnny chucked the photograph in the bin. He winced as the glass smashed, and fell to his knees. Carefully he picked at the photograph to extricate it from the cracked frame. A shard of glass slit his finger. He sat back on his heels and stared in dismay at a trickle of blood that slid across the photograph obscuring Angela's smile.

16

Terry

Melanie Rogers flicked her long blonde hair off her face. She was humming, stirring the beans, and didn't hear footsteps creeping up behind her. Suddenly she felt arms around her, squeezing all the breath out of her lungs.

  'Stop it, Terry!' she squealed. 'You nearly made me spill it!'

  'Give us a kiss then,' Terry laughed, nuzzling her neck with questing lips. Melanie enjoyed cooking for Terry in his grotty little kitchen. The first time, she'd experimented with a Gordon Ramsey recipe. Her cherry and port sauce had turned out perfectly but Terry had toyed with it and asked if she couldn't cook normal food.

  'What do you like then?' She'd tried not to look crestfallen.

  'Apart from you?'

  She'd giggled. 'You know what I mean.'

  'How can I think about food when you're here? But give me sausage and mash any day.' Melanie didn't mind. Simple food was a lot easier to prepare. It left more time for the bedroom.

  Melanie's parents had never thought much of Terry. In the end, it was their disapproval that had prompted her to pack her bags and turn up, uninvited, on his doorstep. Her parents had broached the subject when she got home from work one evening. What had started as a 'quiet word' had quickly escalated into a noisy quarrel until Melanie had driven off in a rage. Throwing her arms around Terry on the doorstep, she hadn't seen his eyes light up when he caught sight of her car over her shoulder or heard him whistle under his breath.

  'Are you for real?' he'd asked, his eyes on the silver Porsche as he grasped Melanie in a tight embrace. She'd pressed her body against his and smiled.

  Melanie loved being with Terry. Her parents' disapproval didn't bother her but she felt let down by her friend Lucy.

  'You're moving in with him? You've only just met him. You don't know anything about him, Mel.'

  'I know as much as I need to know. You sound like my mother,' Melanie replied crossly. 'And before you ask, no, he doesn't know who my dad is. Seriously, Lucy, you should see him. He's drop dead gorgeous.'

  'That's all right then,' Lucy replied and they laughed.

Peter Lamprey, head gardener at Lyceum Park, clicked his tongue disapprovingly on the roof of his mouth. His new assistant, Terry, was late for work again even though the boy only lived a mile or so away. He would have to have words with him. He'd seemed a pleasant enough lad when he'd first come along, but he'd turned out too easygoing for his own good. Peter had seen his type before. He selected a rake, and as he locked the tool shed saw the boy running lightly along the path towards him.