Time of Death (20 page)

Finally the Beemer made it through the last set of traffic-lights and turned into Gladstone Terrace. In front of her mansion block, Dale pulled into a bay marked
Motorcycles Only
and put
the car into neutral. Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’ started playing on the radio. Rosanna didn’t know if she would make it inside in time; if not she could make use of the bushes
either side of the front door. It wouldn’t be the first time, she thought ruefully.

‘That’s great, Ian, thank you.’ Before the car even stopped, she was trying to release the seat belt and make good her escape. However, in her intoxicated state, it was proving
a difficult task.

Seeing her difficulty, Dale smiled lecherously. ‘Here, let me help.’

Putting one hand on her knee, he reached over for the buckle with the other, copping a quick feel of her left breast on the way.

‘Ian!’ It came out as a squeak rather than a shout. With a click, the belt released itself and he was all over her. She could smell his sweat and could hear his panting. She tried to
sound forceful: ‘Get off!’

Grunting, he kept on pawing her, trying to force his tongue into her mouth. He was stuck half on top of her now, too heavy for her to try and lever him off. Her sense of nausea was overwhelming.
A hand went between her legs. Energised, she pulled her thumb out of her right fist and slowly, deliberately, jabbed it into his left eye.

Immediately, both hands went to his face, and he slumped back into the driver’s seat. ‘Hell! My eye! You’ve blinded me.’

It took Rosanna a second to realise that she was no longer wearing the seat belt. But then, even as she reached for the door release, she felt a terrible pain in her stomach. Turning back to
face Ian Dale, she was able to catch the look of horror in his good eye as she started to puke. For what seemed like an eternity, a prodigious stream of projectile vomit bounced off his shirt and
pooled in his lap. Finally the retching finished. Rosanna took a moment to ensure that there was nothing more to come before taking some deep breaths through her mouth. Pulling a tissue from her
pocket, she wiped her mouth daintily, before rolling it up into a ball and tossing it in the pile of sick. ‘Phew!’ She grinned, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘I feel a lot better
for that.’

Ian Dale still had one eye clamped shut. The other was bulging in shock. It looked as if he was going to cry. The inside of the car was a complete mess and the smell was truly appalling. Rosanna
opened the passenger door and swung her legs on to the pavement. ‘This is your wife’s car, isn’t it?’ She asked, turning back to take one last look at the mess. ‘It
looks as if you will have some explaining to do when you get home.’

‘Can I at least come in and clean up?’ Dale whimpered.

‘Are you kidding?’ Rosanna asked, edging out of her seat. ‘After you just tried to rape me?’

‘What?’ This time he did let out a sob. ‘It wasn’t rape.’

‘No, but it jolly well would have been,’ Rosanna said. She felt sober now and, even better, in control. ‘We’ll call it quits, then, but if you are still here by the time
I get upstairs I’ll call the police. And then I will call Erica.’

‘But . . .’ Dale’s protests died in his throat.

‘I’m sure that Mrs Dale would be very impressed by the sexual urges you are still able to display at your age.’

At the mention of his wife, Dale finally put the car into gear and released the handbrake.

‘Well done, Ian,’ Rosanna said, stepping out of the car. ‘That’s a good boy. Now, remember, you are getting off very lightly indeed. Have a good evening and see you
tomorrow.’ Slamming the door firmly shut, she threw her shoulders back and walked as steadily as she could manage towards the front door.

T
he windows of the rusty old Peugeot 307 were wound all the way down, but the smell inside the car was still disgusting. It was as if someone had vomited and then curled up in
a nest of fast-food wrappers and died under one of the front seats. Even with his latex gloves on, the man was reluctant to touch anything. He had already decided that when he got back to his
apartment he would shower – twice.

Trying to suck in cold air from outside, he stuck his head out of the driver’s window and fired up another cigarette, careful to drop the stub from the previous one into his jacket pocket.
As the smoke percolated into his lungs, he at least felt a little better. He had been waiting outside the dilapidated student pub in North London now for more than two hours. Every time a knot of
punters emerged, he let his hand hover over the ignition, ready to spring into action. But, so far, his target had not emerged.

Every minute that ticked by on the car’s electronic clock increased his annoyance level another notch. He was missing a poker game for this, and he loved his poker, even if it was an
expensive habit. Grinding his teeth, he thought about how ridiculous it was that he was having to sit here, waiting. In any proper country, he would be able to have someone walk right into the Cow
Pub, put a couple of .45s in the girl’s head, toss the gun on the floor and walk out. No questions, no problems, no comeback and there would be change out of $100 US. But this was not a
proper country, he knew that well enough. The weather was vile, smoking was almost a criminal offence, and shooting people in public was considered ‘bad form’.

The thought made him laugh. Bad form was what he did best.

He glanced at his watch: eleven fifty. Yawning, he started picking his nose.

When she finally appeared, he was just flicking a ball of snot at a passing mongrel.

‘How nice to see you,’ he muttered.

Finally, after all this time, he had caught a break. The woman was on her own, singing along quietly to a tune playing on her iPod. Swaying to the music. Probably drunk.

Perfect.

He started the engine and watched as she stepped between a couple of parked cars, twenty yards or so further up the two-lane road. Peering out from behind a small Ford, she saw that there was no
traffic in either direction. Stepping out, she got halfway across before realising that the pavement on the far side had been closed off for repairs. Turning away from him, she continued walking
down the road itself, heading towards the traffic-lights at the next junction.

Putting the car into gear, he carefully manoeuvred it out into the roadway. She was thirty yards in front of him now, as he moved his foot on to the accelerator. By the time she realised what
was happening, he was almost upon her. Half-turning, there was barely time for the incredulity to register on her face. There was a satisfying thud and she was flipped up over the car bonnet, and
sent bouncing down the road.

Did she recognise him as she flew past? It was unlikely but he hoped so. He wanted her to know
why
– why this was happening to her; why she had got herself killed. That should be
the last thought crawling through her brain before she expired.

Looking back, he saw the street was still empty – no witnesses, no reaction, plenty of time for him to go back and make sure the job was done properly. But the satisfied grin had not
reached his face when his thoughts were interrupted by the scream of a horn. He was sailing through the junction before he realised it, through a red light, almost sideswiping a black cab as it
roared past him.

‘Mother of God!’ he cursed, bringing the Peugeot to a halt.

The taxi stopped in a squeal of rubber off to his left. He could see the driver get out and head towards him with fury in his eyes. The cabbie hadn’t seen the girl yet, but there was no
question of going back now. No matter: a look in the rear-view mirror showed her still lying prostrate on the tarmac. He’d hit her at speed. She wasn’t getting up again. He was
confident that the job was done. Stomping on the accelerator for a second time, he left the taxi driver’s curses flailing on the wind, and headed off into the night.

R
osanna closed the front door and stood in the entry hall of Reith Mansions, listening for the sound of Ian Dale’s BMW pulling away from the kerb. Peeking through the
letter box, to make sure that her unwelcome suitor had finally gone, she let out a drunken squeak of triumph. ‘Good riddance, you odious little man,’ she cackled. ‘Let’s see
how you talk your way out of
that
one when you get home.’ Taking her mobile from her jacket pocket, she pulled up Erica Dale’s number on the screen. For a few moments, her finger
hovered over the call button, before she thought better of it. ‘You’ve had enough excitement for one day, girl,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘Time for some sleep.’

Recalling vaguely that the building’s lift was out of order, Rosanna slowly staggered up two flights of stairs. Swaying slightly in front of the door to her flat, she began rummaging
through her bag in search of her keys. When they were not immediately forthcoming, she tipped the bag upside down, emptying the contents on to the carpet in the corridor. What a pile of crap, she
thought. I really must sort it out. Falling to her knees, she began sifting through the debris.

‘Hurrah!’ Grabbing the keys, she slowly struggled back to her feet. Reaching for the lock, it took her another moment to realise that she was not alone. She made a face as her
pickled brain tried to process this information.

‘What are
you
doing here?’ she asked, not looking up. ‘It’s late and I’ve got work in the morning. Plus, I don’t feel well.’ She tried to insert
the key in the lock and missed. When she tried again, it fell back to the floor. ‘Shit!’ She bent down and felt woozy.

Then she felt a firm hand on her collar, pulling her backwards. ‘Hey!’ Rosanna tried to stand upright, but her legs buckled. Her stomach surged and she thought she was going to be
sick again. She half-fell away from the door, tottering back towards the stairs. One of her shoes came off and she felt the ground disappear from beneath her. The same hand reached out towards her,
but she couldn’t grab hold of it as she started bouncing backwards down the stairs.

I
t was hot and Carlyle was bothered. Standing on the cobbles of Covent Garden piazza, inside the flaccid police tape, he wiped some sweat from his brow and looked at the
tourists staring back at him. Didn’t they have anything better to do than gawp at some poor bloke who had keeled over while playing the bongos for their entertainment?Over the last hour,
people had come and gone, but nevertheless the crowd had been growing steadily. Now it was easily more than a hundred strong, which was probably a much bigger audience than poor Dennis Felix had
ever enjoyed while he was alive. Carlyle was almost tempted to pass the dead man’s hat round and ask for contributions towards the funeral expenses. If nothing else, that would have cleared
away the crowd.

Standing next to him, sweating profusely, was Sergeant Dave Prentice. On a rare and unwelcome foray from his usual position behind the front desk at the station, he was reciting the basic facts
that had so far been gleaned about the unfortunate musician: ‘Mid-thirties apparently. From Estonia apparently. Lives somewhere in East London.’

‘Apparently,’ Carlyle said, without thinking.

Prentice shot him a dirty look. ‘He’s been playing at this pitch three or four times a week for over a year.’

‘Well done,’ said Carlyle, trying to retrieve the situation. ‘That was quick.’

‘Speak to
her
.’ Prentice pointed at a woman standing nearby. ‘She knows him.’

Carlyle caught the woman’s eye and beckoned her over. Young and gaunt, she was about 5 feet 4 inches, with dark rings round her eyes that matched her black hair. You need a good feed and
some prolonged exposure to sunlight, he thought. She was dressed in baggy green trousers and a cropped pink vest, allowing her to display a selection of rings protruding from her belly button. With
too much jewellery and not enough make-up, she looked primed to run away and join the circus. Maybe she already had.

‘I’m Inspector Carlyle and I work with Sergeant Prentice here.’

The girl stepped directly in front of Carlyle, but said nothing. Despite the heat, she was shivering and he could see that she had been crying.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

The girl eyed him suspiciously. Then she glanced at the body lying on a trolley, hidden under a blanket, waiting to be taken away by the crew that had edged their ambulance to one corner of the
square.

‘It’s not a trick question,’ Carlyle snapped, his meagre reserves of empathy already exhausted.

‘Kylie.’

How unlucky, thought Carlyle, to be named after a midget Australian pop star. He focused his gaze on a spot an inch above her head. ‘Okay, Kylie, what can you tell me about Mr
Felix?’

‘He was from Tallinn, in Estonia.’ She scratched her neck. ‘That’s like, Russia, I think. Somewhere round there anyway.’

‘What else?’

Kylie thought it over at length. ‘I’ve known him for about six months,’ she said finally.

‘How?’

‘How what?’ She gave him a look like an inquisitive puppy.

Carlyle took a deep breath and counted to ten. Calm yourself, he thought. Don’t let little things wind you up. You have to try and keep things under control.

‘How did you know him?’
Were you fucking him? Did he try and dump you? Could you have cared enough to try and kill him? How did he die?

‘I work over there.’ She pointed to a fast-food trailer that had been parked by the entrance to the Jubilee Hall gym.

Carlyle realised that he hadn’t been to the gym for almost a week. He felt sluggish. I need a workout, he thought.

‘Dennis would often stop by for a smoothie and a chat. And I would listen to him play. He was good. Did an amazing version of “Wonderwall”.’

Shame I missed that one, Carlyle thought. ‘So what happened this morning?’

‘I dunno,’ she shrugged. ‘I saw him arrive and set up. He started drumming and then I had to get a customer a cappuccino. When I looked again, Felix was kind of slumped over to
one side. No one seemed to be paying him any attention.’ Her eyes lost focus. ‘Maybe they thought it was part of his act.’