Kiss Me Quick (22 page)

Vince parked his car at the bottom of Waterloo Street, and made his way to Vaughn’s flat. Once Max Vogel had struggled up off the floor of the container, and dried his tears, then ceased his threats to sue Vince and Scotland Yard for every penny they possessed, he told Vince that Machin was on the phone and wanted to talk with him urgently.

So there was Vince, stepping under the police tape, heading down the stairs and into the gloom of his brother’s basement flop. Which was now a crime scene.

And there she was. The girl. On the floor. Dead. A depressed, bent syringe hanging out of her arm. Blood oozing from her nose, foam around her mouth. Eyes wide open in horror. It was the same MO as the other dead junkies. Six in all, now. The only thing really marking her out as different was the blemish she’d tried to cover up all her adult life with a Veronica Lake peekaboo
hairstyle
. The birthmark on her face.

‘Welcome to shit street, clean face.’ Machin emerged from the kitchen into the living room, Ginge, as ever, following a few paces behind him. Machin wore a malicious expression: the gloves were off now between them. It was war, open hostilities.

That didn’t bother Vince; he’d been expecting it.

‘I thought you should see this, son, before you go back to where you fucking belong.’

Vince, eyes on the girl, asked, ‘Is this Vaughn’s girlfriend?’

‘Max Vogel called me. He said you were harassing him. Searching a cargo of his without a warrant. What the fuck’s all that about? Is that the way you do things in the Met? ’Course, you’ve got form for that, sticking your nose into places you shouldn’t. I reckon you’ve gone rogue on us, Treadwell. What d’you reckon, Ginge – reckon he’s gone rogue on us?’

Ginge, without much enthusiasm, replied, ‘Guv.’

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Vince. ‘Is this Vaughn’s girl?’

Machin looked down at the girl, as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Who knows, poor cow. If she is, it makes sense. Not much to look at, either. A right face-ache.’

Machin went back into the kitchen and returned with a paper bag. He emptied the contents on to a side table. The same gear that had killed the others. Wrapped in cellophane, it was about the size of a big fist. A big fat fist that packed a killer blow.

‘We found this behind there.’ Machin pointed to an old brown sideboard. ‘We got an anonymous tip that your brother’s the dealer. He’s the one putting it out on the streets. He’s responsible for the deaths of six people.’

Vince, with his eyes still on the girl, gave Machin a swift nod. He wasn’t agreeing with him; the nod was just a receipt for the goods, the assessment. Which Machin had delivered as if it was fact. Vince wasn’t buying it. Not yet, anyway. Not because Vaughn was his brother, but just because good coppers don’t do that. Such supposition and speculation had not yet turned into stone-cold facts – no matter how bad it looked.

Vince bent down to take a closer look at the body, and began some real detective work. She was wearing a knitted jacket and matching skirt. Cheap but giving her a smart appearance. Her arm with the syringe in it had the jacket sleeve carefully rolled up. On closer inspection, it wasn’t. It was pulled up unevenly, hurriedly and forcefully. There was a small tear at the seam which looked fresh from where the sleeve had been yanked up. He looked at her shoes: black, small heel, buckle, again formal. It all looked wrong, her being in her Sunday best. She looked like a secretary in an insurance company or fresh out the typing pool. If she was going to do junk, she wouldn’t be dressed so formally. She’d have got herself nice and comfortable for the big nod. At least have kicked off her shoes, even taking into account the filthy carpet. And, most important, the bared arm was clean, baby smooth. No track marks. No history of sticking needles in
herself
. The suitcase in the room revealed that she’d just got back from somewhere, or was about to go somewhere. The contents of the case would tell them, through being fresh or worn clothes. But Vince doubted he would get a chance to check the contents.

Either way, it all looked rushed and wrong. She’d been unwittingly caught out.

Vince stood up and gave it a shot, already knowing he didn’t stand a chance. ‘I want to come to the morgue with you, to check her body for bruising and signs of a struggle.’

Machin laughed incredulously. ‘Whhhhat!’ He swung around to Ginge, pulled a face to emphasize that he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Ginge, not twigging that he was part of a double act, or else just pricked by his conscience, didn’t join in with the incredulity; he merely shrugged and looked away.

Machin’s face hardened. He stepped over the dead girl, stuck his face right into Vince’s. ‘You have to be fucking joking, Treadwell! This isn’t your case, this isn’t even your town any more. You were sent down here because you weren’t wanted up there. You were sent down here to chase shadows. And, by the sounds of it, you’ve fucked that up, too. We’re being billed for that broken crockery.’ He pointed at the girl. ‘This is real stuff, Treadwell. You’re not in Soho now, with your imaginary crimes. Driving everyone fuckin’ mad. Accusing good men of cover-ups. You’re out your coma now, and this is the real fuckin’ world. This is a real body, a real crime, real police business. And you’re not wanted. And if you go anywhere near your brother, try to warn him, try to get him out of town, or try to help him in any way, shape or form, we’ll know and we’ll throw the book, the shelves, the fuckin’ house at you!’

Vince knew that Machin wanted him to take a pop at him, chin him, give him his best shot. Because it would add to his woes. Vinnie ‘clean face’ Treadwell, loose cannon, rogue Old Bill. And Vince was sorely tempted. So he closed his eyes and rode the torrent out. And Machin carried on, wave after wave of pure, driven vitriol. Vince could feel Machin’s breath on him: cigarettes, stale booze,
fresh
booze, salt and vinegar. It was making him feel sick.

‘Jesus Christ!’ bellowed Machin, stepping back, his back heel treading on the dead girl’s hand. A sickening, wincing sound as a rigor-mortic finger snapped like a brittle twig.

‘Easy, guv!’ said Ginge, opening his mouth for the first time, before guiding his boss off the girl’s hand.

‘You fucking
freak
, Treadwell!’ shouted Machin, whipping out a white handkerchief from his top pocket and wiping Vince’s blood off his black brogues.

Vince looked down at his hand, which was bleeding. He’d dug his forefinger nail into the cut thumb he’d received from Vogel’s smashed porcelain figures. He abruptly turned his back on them and walked out of there.

As he left, Machin shouted out, ‘You’re finished, Treadwell! Fucking finished!’

Vince got into his car and drove to Adelaide Crescent. During the short drive, he tried to think about his brother. He tried to get worked up, sad, angry, heartbroken, whatever meaningful emotions you’re supposed to have when your brother is accused of being responsible for the deaths of six people. But he couldn’t. Vaughn was his brother, but in name only, it seemed. He had somehow slipped away from him. Vaughn’s fate now seemed sealed, the logical conclusion to his life. It had been on the cards for years that this scenario would finally play out: Vince would have to confront his brother as a copper.

He parked up outside Bobbie’s place and killed the engine. Then he clenched his fist and smashed it down on the steering wheel. Something came loose, either a bone in his hand or something in the steering column, he didn’t care which. A new thought had struck him: how he had messed up and played right into their hands. It all felt like a set-up. Like he was being painted into a picture, by a greater hand at work, and he couldn’t see his place in it. He felt as if he was banging his head against a brick wall – or, in this case, his hand on a steering wheel.

Vince glanced into the rear-view mirror just in time to catch sight of Bobbie walking up the street towards him. She was dressed formally, like the dead girl, but her outfit was the real thing. Expensively tailored Pierre Cardin, Yves St Laurent, the best that money could buy. Bobbie presented a stark contrast to the dead girl, one that divided the world up into its harsh component parts: the winners and the losers, the haves and the have-nots, the glamour pusses and the poor cows. The living and the dead.

Bobbie wore large black sunglasses that seemed to cover half her face like a mask. Her stride was brisk and he watched as she walked past, the clip of her heel gathering pace. She was
obviously
in a hurry. Her head down, she looked distracted as she ghosted past, so didn’t spot him sitting in the car. Vince got out and called to her. She glanced around at him, unsmiling, then carried on walking.

Vince loped along the street to catch up with her. Even
walking
by her side, she still didn’t look at him. From what was available to him of her face, he could tell she wasn’t pleased to see him. Her lips were pursed and angry.

He grabbed her arm and stopped her walking. ‘Tell me what’s wrong?’

She grabbed her arm back and told him, ‘Your brother. That’s what’s wrong!’

‘You’ve heard?’

‘I got a phone call ten minutes ago. I’ve been asked to go to the morgue to identify Wendy.’

Vince didn’t recognize the name but knew it was the dead girl. ‘I’ve just seen her.’

‘They want me to identify her before they tell her mother what’s happened.’

‘Why you?’

‘They found my number in her address book. It was circled,’ said Bobbie, her voice still with a lacerating edge. ‘She didn’t have many friends, and it seems my number took pride of place. I’d told her she could call me if she needed help, if she needed a friend.’

‘I’m sorry, Bobbie.’

‘I’m sorry for you, too. For having a brother like …’ her voice trailed off. She felt uneasy that the hatred she now felt for the man who had killed the girl could so easily transfer to his brother. ‘Well, you can’t pick your family, can you?’ she rationalized. ‘A bad deal all round, wouldn’t you say?’

Vince agreed, but didn’t say anything. Then he was hit by an idea. ‘I need a favour.’

‘What?’ Bobbie was in no mood to be doing favours for any man.

‘I want you to check if there’s any bruising on her arms, or anywhere else on her body.’ Bobbie looked confused. ‘She’ll be lying on a gurney, with a sheet over her body.’ She searched his face for any sign that he was joking. Realizing it was no joke, she shook her head in disbelief. ‘Vince, how am I supposed to do that? Don’t they have rules for this kind of thing?’

‘I’d go myself but, for obvious reasons, they don’t want me anywhere near this new case. Or near Brighton for that matter. Machin’s made it very clear that I’m not welcome.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Signs that she had the drug forced on her.’

‘If you’re trying to help your brother get away, then you’ll rot in hell with him.’

Vince recoiled at the strong words that packed a vicious punch. He took a deep breath. ‘Me and Vaughn aren’t close, never were. To be honest, I think he hates me. And I think he’s been heading for a long stretch all his life. It was bound to catch up with him. If he’s guilty, then so be it. I hope he gets what’s coming to him. But I don’t think she injected that heroin herself. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever injected heroin in her life. And I don’t think Vaughn did it either. And the reason I think he wouldn’t is because he hasn’t got it in him. And, to be more prosaic, he’s never had a girlfriend before, not a real one, so killing the one girl he could find wouldn’t be an option.’

Vince couldn’t see Bobbie’s eyes, but her jaw was set tight, defiant, fixed. Her lips were thinly drawn as her voice jabbed at him again. ‘I’m going to have to stand alongside her poor old widowed mother. Her daughter was all she had. And everyone else seems to agree she wasn’t much, but I liked her. Think about that too, whilst you’re at it.’

Vince, on the ropes, just nodded. He knew he only had a stock answer for her, but she deserved more.

‘I’ll do what you want,’ she said in a detached tone. ‘Marks on her arms, you say?’

‘Bruising anywhere.’

Bobbie gave him a curt nod and walked off.

‘I’ll call you.’

She carried on walking.

‘Bobbie, I’m sorry.’

She stopped and turned around. ‘Her name was Wendy … Wendy Hamilton. I think it’s a nice name. Don’t you?’

Yes, it was a nice name, he thought. It had a dignity about it. A dignity denied her in death.

‘She deserved better, Vincent.’

Vince watched as she disappeared around the corner, then he uttered, ‘The dead ones usually do.’

Vince stood in the phone box at the top of Palmeira Square. He dialled the operator, asking to be put through to Ray Dryden. In the time it took, Vince thought about his brother Vaughn. If he had a duty to, would he send his own flesh and blood to jail for the rest of his life, or worse? He didn’t know, but he knew he now had to get to him before Machin did, to find out the truth. But what if the truth wasn’t what he wanted to hear?

‘Putting you through now, caller.’

Saved by the bell. The call clicked into place and broke off his dilemma.

‘Ray Dryden.’

‘Ray, it’s me, Vince.’

‘Hey, Vinnie boy, how’s it going?’

‘It’s been better.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Any news on Eddie Tobin?’

‘I called your office, the number you gave me, got put through to a DC Marks. He said you’d gone back to London.’

That made sense, as DC Marks was Ginge. ‘Forget that. Eddie Tobin?’

‘He’s in your neck of the woods.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I got his home number off Mickey Brice. You know him?’

‘Brice of Vice, as the poem goes.’

‘That’s the fella. Brice and Tobin worked on the Messina brothers’ case. I know his son, who works in admin at West End Central. He put me in touch. I told Brice that an ex-copper I know wanted to get back in touch with him because he was having a golf weekend—’
Beep-beep-beep
.

The pips went. Vince poured the last of his change into the slot, to keep the call alive. ‘Make it quick, Ray, I’m on a meter here.’

‘OK, Brice said that Tobin had bought a bungalow in Bournemouth. Nice place, swimming pool, the works. Didn’t have the actual address, but he did have his number. I got his wife on the blower. Nice woman, very chatty – too chatty for Tobin’s tastes, I imagine. She said that Eddie couldn’t make it this
weekend
, as he was going down to Brighton on business. Even told me his hotel. The Grand.’

‘Did she say what business?’

‘No, she was too pissed off that he wasn’t taking her with him! He’s probably got a bird stashed away down there, or is taking one with him for a dirty weekend. What do you reckon?’

‘Yeah, lots of dirty weekends in this town. Lots of coincidences, too.’

‘Sounds like a pretty good one to me, Vince. This way you can bump into him, accidentally on purpose, without getting in trouble.’

‘Yeah, pretty good.’ Vince smiled to himself, then his voice dripped irony. ‘And God forbid I should get in trouble.’

‘What’s going on down there, Vince—’
Beep-beep-beep
.

Saved by the bell again. ‘I’ve gotta go, Ray. I’ll call you.’

The phone went dead. Vince put the receiver back in its cradle, and backed out of the phone booth, with a righteous smile on his face.