With No One As Witness (85 page)

“Well, he wouldn’t, I expect. I can’t say Rob’d ever be the sort to go shopping for pity, no matter how bad he felt about his dad’s passing. Vic was one who didn’t ever tolerate whingers, and you know what they say: as the sapling’s bent. But make no mistake about it, my dear. That boy felt deeply when he found himself alone.”

“There are no other relations?”

“Oh, there’s a sister somewhere, a lot older than Rob, but she took off years ago and didn’t show up to either funeral. Married, kids, Australia or who knows where. Far as I know, she’s not been in touch since she was eighteen.” Mrs. Puccini gazed at Ulrike more sharply then, as if evaluating her. When she next spoke, it was apparent why. “On the other hand, dear, between you, me, and Trixie here”—she indicated the dog with a shake of the lead, which the animal apparently took as a sign to resume her walk because she lumbered to her feet from where she’d been squatting gustily at Mrs. Puccini’s ankles—“he wasn’t a very nice bloke, that Victor.”

“Rob’s father.”

“As ever was. A real shocker when he went like that, true, but not a lot of hearts were breaking at the thought of it in this neighbourhood, if you must know.”

Ulrike heard this, but she was still attempting to process the first bit of information: that Robbie Kilfoyle’s dad was in fact dead. She was comparing this to what Rob had told her recently…Sky Television, wasn’t it? Something called Sail Away? All she said to Mrs. Puccini was, “I do wish he’d told me. It helps to talk.”

“Oh, I expect he’s talking.” Unaccountably, Mrs. Puccini nodded once again towards the Gwynne Place Steps. “There’s always a friendly ear when you’re paying for it.”

“Paying?” Friendly ears and paying suggested one of two things: prostitution, which seemed about as much Rob’s style as armed robbery, or psychotherapy, which seemed equally unlikely.

Mrs. Puccini appeared to know what she was thinking because she gave a hoot of laughter before she explained. “The hotel,” she said. “At the base of the steps. He goes to the bar there most nights. I expect that’s where he is right now.”

This proved to be the case when Ulrike bade Mrs. Puccini and Trixie good night and headed across the square and down the steps. She found that they led to an unassuming and unmistakably postwar tower block, heavily given over to chocolate-coloured bricks and minimal exterior decoration. Inside, however, it boasted a lobby done up in faux art deco, its walls hung with paintings depicting well-heeled men and women lounging and partying between the two world wars. At one end of this lobby, a door marked the entrance to the Othello Bar. It seemed strange to Ulrike that Robbie—or anyone from the neighbourhood—would choose a hotel rather than a nearby pub in which to do his drinking, but she decided that the Othello Bar had one quality to recommend it, at least on this night: There was virtually no one present. If Robbie wished to bend the sympathetic ear of the barman, that individual was entirely available. There were seats at the bar to boot, another feature making the Othello perhaps more welcoming than the corner pub.

Robbie Kilfoyle was at one of these seats. Two of the tables were occupied by businessmen working at laptops with their lagers before them; one other table was taken up by three women whose enormous bums, white trainers, and choice of drink at this time of night—white wine—suggested they were American tourists. Otherwise the bar was empty. Thirties music played from speakers in the ceiling.

Ulrike slid onto the stool next to Robbie. He glanced her way once, then again when the sight of her registered with him. His eyes widened.

“Hi,” she said. “One of your neighbours said you might be here.”

He said, “Ulrike!,” and looked round her as if to see if she was accompanied by someone. He was wearing a snug black jersey, she noted, which emphasised his physique in a way that his usual neatly ironed white shirt had never done. Lessons from Griff? she wondered. He had quite a nice body.

The barman heard Rob exclaim and came to take her order. She said she’d have a brandy, and when he fetched it for her, she told Rob that Mrs. Puccini had suggested she look for him here. “She said you’d been coming here regularly since your dad died,” Ulrike added.

Robbie looked away and then back at her. He didn’t attempt to obfuscate, and Ulrike had to admire him for that. He said, “I didn’t like to tell you about it. That he’d died. I couldn’t think of a way to tell you. It seemed like it would’ve been…” He thought about it, it appeared, as he turned his pint of lager between his hands. “It would have been like asking for special treatment. Like hoping someone’d feel sorry for me and give me something as a result.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Ulrike asked. “I hope nothing anyone’s done at Colossus would make you feel you had no friends to confide in.”

“No, no,” he said. “I don’t think that. I s’pose I just wasn’t ready to talk about it.”

“Are you now?” This was, she saw, an opportunity to forge the loyalty bond with Robbie. While she had bigger concerns than the death of a man that had taken place months ago—a man she had never even met—she wanted Robbie to know that he had a friend at Colossus and that friend was sitting right next to him in the Othello Bar.

“Am I ready to talk about it?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“Painful?”

A glance in her direction. “Why d’you say that?”

She shrugged. “It seems obvious. You apparently had a close relationship with him. You lived together, after all. You must have spent a great deal of time together. I remember your telling me about how the two of you watched tele—” She stopped, the words cut off by the realisation. She twirled her brandy glass slowly and made herself finish. “You watched television with him. You did say you watched television with him.”

“And we did,” he replied. “My dad was a bugger and a half on good days, but he never went after anyone when the telly was on. I think it hypnotised him. So whenever we were alone together—especially after Mum finally went into hospital—I turned on the telly to keep him off my back. Force of habit when I was talking to you about watching the telly with him, I guess. That’s all we ever really did together.” He drained his beer. “Why’d you come?” he asked.

Why had she come? Suddenly, it seemed rather unimportant. She sifted through topics to find one that was simultaneously believable and innocuous. She said, “Actually, to thank you.”

“What for?”

“You do so much round Colossus. Sometimes you don’t get acknowledged enough.”

“You came round here for that?” Robbie sounded incredulous, as any reasonable person might.

Ulrike knew the ground was treacherous here, so she decided that opting for the truth was wise. “More than that, really. I’m being…well…investigated, Rob. So I’m sorting out who my friends are. You must have heard.”

“What? Who your friends are?”

“That I’m being investigated.”

“I know the cops’ve been round.”

“Not that investigation.”

“Then what?”

“The board of trustees are looking into my performance as director of Colossus. You must have known they came round today.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why must I have known? I’m pond scum over there. Least important and last informed.”

He said it casually, but she could tell he was…what? Frustrated? Bitter? Angry? Why hadn’t she seen this before? And what was she supposed to do about it now, other than apologise, make a vague promise about things changing round Colossus, and go on her way?

She said, “I’m going to try to change that, Rob.”

“If I take your part in the coming conflict.”

“I’m not saying—”

“It’s okay.” He shoved his pint glass away, shaking his head when the barman offered him another. He settled his bill and hers and said, “I understand it’s a game. I get the politics of everything. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest you were.”

“No offence’s been taken. You’re doing what you have to do.” He slid off his stool. “How’d you get here?” he asked. “You didn’t bike over, did you?”

She told him she had done. She finished off her brandy and said, “So I’d better set off.”

He said, “It’s late. I’ll take you home.”

“Take me? I thought you cycled as well.”

“To work,” he said. “Otherwise, no. I got Dad’s van off him when he died in the summer. Poor sod. He bought himself a camper for his pension years and dropped dead the next week. Never even had a chance to use it. Come on. We can fit your bike inside. I’ve done it before.”

“Thanks, but that’s really not necessary. It puts you to trouble, and—”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s not any trouble.” He took her arm. He said, “’Night, Dan,” to the barman and he guided Ulrike not to the door through which she’d come but towards a corridor. This led, she found, to the toilets and, beyond them, to the kitchen, which he entered. Only a single cook remained, and he said, “Rob,” with a nod of hello as they passed through. She saw there was another exit here, an escape route for the kitchen workers should a fire start, and this was the door that Robbie chose. It took them to a narrow carpark behind the hotel, canyoned on one side by the building itself and on the other side by a slope at the top of which was Granville Square. In a far dark corner of the carpark, a van stood waiting. It looked old and harmless, with rust spots pitting the faded white lettering on its side.

“My bike,” Ulrike began.

“Up in the square? We’ll sort that out. Get in. We’ll drive round to pick it up.”

She looked round the carpark. It was dimly lit and otherwise deserted. She looked at Robbie. He shot her a smile. She thought of Colossus and how hard she’d worked and how much would fall into ruin if she was made to hand it over to someone else. Someone like Neil. Someone like Griff. Anyone, in fact.

Some things needed a leap of faith, she decided. This was one of them.

At the van, Robbie opened the door for her. She climbed inside. He shut the door. She felt for the seat belt but couldn’t find it anywhere above her shoulder. When Robbie joined her and saw her searching, he started the van up and said, “Oh, sorry. That’s a bit tricky. It’s lower than you’d expect. I’ve got a torch here somewhere. Let me give you some light.”

He rustled round on the floor next to his own seat. Ulrike watched him bring up a torch. He said. “This should be of some help,” and she turned back to reach over for the belt once again.

Everything happened in less than three seconds after that. She waited for the light to shine from the torch. She said, “Rob?,” and then felt the jolt run through her body. She gasped for breath.

The first spasm shook her. The second rendered her semiconscious. The third teetered her on the edge from which she slid into the dark.

HARROW ROAD’S REPUTATION AS A POLICE STATION wasn’t a good one, but cops had a lot to contend with in West Kilburn. They were dealing with everything from the usual social and cultural conflicts one found within a multiethnic community, to street crime, drugs, and a thriving black market. They found themselves perpetually coping with gangs as well. In an area dominated by housing estates and grim tower blocks built in the sixties when architectural imagination was moribund, legends abounded of cops being outrun, outmanoeuvred, and outsmarted in places like the interlocking and tunnel-like corridors of the notorious Mozart Estate. The police had been outnumbered forever in this part of town. They knew it, which didn’t improve their tempers when it came to meeting the needs of the public.

When Barbara and Nkata arrived, they found a heated argument going on in reception. A Rastafarian accompanied by a hugely pregnant woman and two children was demanding action of a special constable—“I wan’ that fuckin’ car back, man. You t’ink dis woman plan on giving birth in the street?”—who claimed things to be “out of my power, sir. You’ll have to talk to one of the officers who’re working on the case.”

The Rasta said, “Shit, then,” and turned on his heel. He grabbed his woman’s arm and made for the door, saying, “Blood,” to Nkata with a nod as he passed him.

Nkata identified himself and Barbara to the special constable. They were there to see Detective Sergeant Starr, he said. Harrow Road had a boy in lockup, fingered as the shooter in a street crime in Belgravia.

“He’s ’xpecting us,” Nkata said.

Harrow Road had reported to Belgravia, who’d reported, in turn, to New Scotland Yard. The snout in West Kilburn had proved reliable. He’d named a kid who resembled the one seen on the CCTV films from Cadogan Lane, and the cops had found him in very short order. He hadn’t even been on the run. The job on Helen Lynley done, he’d merely repaired to his home, via underground to Westbourne Park because his mug had been visible on their CCTV tapes as well, sans companion this time. Nothing could have been easier. All that remained was matching his fingerprints to those on the gun found in the garden near the scene of the crime.

John Stewart had told Nkata to take it. Nkata had asked Barbara to accompany him. By the time they got there, it was ten o’clock at night. They could have waited till morning—they’d been working fourteen hours at that point and they were both knackered—but neither one of them was willing to wait. There was a chance that Stewart would hand this job over to someone else, and they didn’t want that.

Sergeant Starr turned out to be a black man, slightly shorter than Nkata but bulkier. He had the look of a pleasant-faced pugilist.

He said, “We’ve already had this yob in for street brawling and arson. Those times, he’s pointed the finger elsewhere. You know the sort. It wasn’t me, you fucking pigs.” He glanced at Barbara as if to ask pardon for his language. She waved a weary hand at him. He went on. “But the family’s got a whole history of trouble. Dad got shot and killed in a drug dispute in the street. Mum toasted her brain with something, and she’s been out of the picture for a while. Sister tried to pull off a mugging and ended up in front of the magistrate. The aunt they live with hasn’t been willing to hear shit about the kids being on the fast track to trouble, though. She’s got a shop down the road that she works in full-time and a younger boyfriend keeping her busy in the bedroom, so she can’t afford to see what’s going on under her nose, if you know what I mean. It was always just a matter of time. We tried to tell her first time we had the kid in here, but she wasn’t having it. Same old story.”