Chapter Three

Mark left the restaurant and drove on. He was on the Coventry ring road in minutes. It was like a mini M25, but without the traffic. At this time on a warm Friday night most people had got where they where going or were going nowhere at all. He tried to remember where Tony lived. Lena had driven up that time she had persuaded him to come. Mark didn’t even know what Tony did. Something in advertising, Lena said, which could mean anything. The man didn’t look like Lena. Tony was like her mother, she said, but Mark had never seen her parents. They’d never got around to visiting. Neither of them wanted to get into families. Her parents were from Lithuania originally, Lena had told him, but Lena was born and bred a Brit, yet another accent seemed to force its way out when she was in temper, an echo of her ancestry perhaps. It was one of her quirks that marked her out as different, quirks that he liked. He liked the vagueness of her background, it made him worry about his own less. When they met he’d been a private island, ‘keep off’ signs bristling all over him, deliberately isolated, cut off from others, emotions kept in check, and hiding his past. All the things he’d learned to do to survive. Slowly, and very cautiously, Mark had opened up to Lena, and in her gently persistent way she drew his past out of him. She was the only person he’d ever told about Shane, but Lena had never said much about herself. Now Mark realised how little he knew about her. She liked the fact he didn’t ask questions, and he’d left it at that. Now he wished he hadn’t, now he thought she might have had reasons for her secrecy.

Mark drove into rows of terraces until he recognised Tony’s street. For the showy man he was, Tony’s house didn’t seem right. It was in a street of identikit homes, places for people on the first rung of the ladder, or maybe the last. A few were boarded up. Tony’s Merc was probably worth more than most of them. He was driving one the last time Mark saw him, proudly showing off the number plate to Lena. He’d arranged the letters to almost spell his name. Tony still had the car, which made it easier to find the house. Mark drove past it a few times. All the old instincts were kicking in. Ducking and diving, feeling the eyes of the pigs everywhere. Working for the agency had been perfect for him. He’d stayed on the right side of the law, just, but now Mark felt like a roaming kid again, with a chip on his shoulder the size of the world.

There was a light on in Tony’s front room, Mark could see in as he passed. Tony was there, on the phone, maybe making arrangements to come down to London. Maybe telling the police about his sister’s boyfriend. Mark still wasn’t sure what he was doing here. Telling Tony how he’d found Lena, and how he’d ran, might not be the best action, but the man was his only real link to her. He needed to tell someone he hadn’t done it, and he needed someone to share his grief.

Thought processes were slowly returning and Mark realised how stupid he’d been. There was practically no chance of finding out what had happened and if he went back now at least he could be involved in her funeral – they’d let him do that, even if he was chief suspect. Lena had never believed in an afterlife, or any type of ceremony, not even marriage. If anything ever happens to me, have a good drink, play some music, and get on with your life, she’d once told him. He’d thought it cold, but knew she was only reflecting his own beliefs. He wondered who’d be there, certainly more police and press than friends. Neither of them really had any. It must have hit the news by now. Stories like this were the real stuff of life. Not politics or sport or some film tart’s new boyfriend, but pain, suffering, someone going down in the most brutal way. They spread it over the front page, for people to enjoy their mock horror over their fucking cornflakes and buttered toast.

Mark was getting angry, which wouldn’t do. Getting even was much better. He realised revenge was uppermost in his mind. It was blocking out any other feelings and he didn’t want to think about the good times with Lena. There’d be time to do that later. She was another Shane. Two bolts from the blue to shoot him down. Yes, revenge was good, a counterbalance for the hurt, but he didn’t even have shadows to chase. Lena was dead, but he had no motive, no suspects, and no ideas.

After a final drive past, Mark parked about fifty yards away from Tony’s house. The daylight was almost gone and street lamps were coming on, pink slashes turning to orange amidst the gloom. There was a pub on the corner, and Mark felt the urge to go there, to sink a few large whiskies so quickly that they’d light a fire in his chest. Maybe there’d be an echo of the old illusory courage he’d tried to get out of bottles when he was a kid. He hadn’t needed this type of support for a long time, but it wouldn’t do, sitting at a bar when Lena’s story might be flashed onto any TV. They would have got hold of a photo of Lena by now. Her agency could provide hundreds, to suit every occasion. That would stop punters in mid-sip at their local.

Get a load of that, Dave, wouldn’t you like to go home to her?

No, not now, Carl, don’t you know what happened to her? I read it in The Sun, in work, done like a kipper, she was

Is she someone famous?

Nah, just some model, foreign, I think.

Mark saw movement in the house. It was him, picking up something near the window. The guy hadn’t changed much, medium height, stocky turning to fat. Tony still had big hair and a T-shirt with a fcuk logo on it which summed him up. Mark decided to go round the back, there wasn’t any reason to, just old habits kicking in. He knew there was a yard there. Maybe Tony was the type who forgot to lock his back door. There’d been lots of houses like that in the valley, he’d rarely had to break in anywhere.

A double-glazed door opened for him and Mark was in the kitchen. Tony was on his mobile, he could hear him moving around the room. He was talking in a foreign language. Mark stood there until the talking stopped, then moved quietly towards the living room. He had seconds to decide how to play this. Mark was surprised Tony was still here and he was even more surprised that he knew anything other than English. The talking stopped, as Mark stood in the doorway watching Tony fiddle around with his TV remote. The set was his main feature, a yard or so of colour on his wall, but the sound wasn’t on. He’d turn any second now. People always sensed when they were being watched, some sooner than others.

‘Who the fuck’s that?’ Tony shouted, snatching up an ash-tray.

Mark stepped forward into the room as Tony stepped back.

‘What do you want?’

Tony blinked hard.

‘Mark? It is you, isn’t it? Where the hell did you come from? I almost had a turn then, you stupid bastard. Why didn’t you ring the bell, like everyone else?’

Tony put the ashtray down and smiled with relief. He stuck out a hand.

‘What you doing here, mate? Is my sister with you?’

‘No, she’s not.’

Mark hoped his voice was steady, and that his features were under control. This made no sense. How could he not know about Lena?

‘What’s wrong, pal?’ Tony said. ‘You look as rough as guts. I’ll get you a drink. Whisky, isn’t it?’

Nothing was right about this. Tony was the kind of man who liked to call strangers mate, pal, squire, but he was not a friendly man. He should be going off on one for him walking in the back way, someone he’d only seen a few times in his life. Mark wanted to blurt it out about Lena, to get rid of some of the burden and confide in someone, but something held him back, the same sense that had made him come in the back way. Tony handed him a very large scotch.

‘Good stuff, that is. Ten year malt. Sit down, mate, before you fall down.’

Mark did feel unsteady. He clutched his drink and sank into a chair. A large image of a woman perched on Tony’s shoulder as he also sat down. A woman on the TV who looked a little like Lena, but not enough to make Mark jump. She was on a talk show anyway, not the news. He thought of Lena alive, he wanted her to be alive, need surged through him, for the clock to be turned back, for the day to start again with him getting into bed with her, smelling her tired hair and waiting for her to wake.

‘Mark, you’re miles away, mate. Look, what’s up, you just appearing like this? You on a job up here, or something?’

‘Yeah, that’s right, a job. I thought I’d call in. Sorry I came round the back. Force of habit.’

Tony’s mouth opened into a wide grin, his whitened teeth matching his ridiculous tan.

‘Checking out some sap on a dirty weekend, eh?’

‘Something like that.’

‘So, how you been then?’

‘OK.’

Tony was afraid of him. Mark could recognise fear very quickly. Sometimes it was masked with aggression, but when it was there he knew. People had often been afraid of him, but usually they had a reason. Tony had no reason, but this brash, showy, guy was sweating badly now, and the more he smiled, the more he sweated. Tony smelt like a woman. He’d overdosed on expensive aftershave that still managed to smell cheap. Attempts had also been made to control his wiry black hair with gel. He was obviously going out.

Mark drank the whisky as calmly as he could, watching silver beads gather on the backs of Tony’s hairy hands. The man had an olive complexion, more south Europe than north and Mark could see nothing of Lena in him. He’d been disappointed when he first met the guy. Lena had been trying to draw him out of himself at the time and thought Tony might be useful for this but the look on his face when they met put paid to that. Tony’s way of talking was strange, like an actor who was poor at accents, and didn’t know which one to adopt. In one evening he’d gone through a mix of south London, black country, and something else, something indefinable which spoke of his past. Mark wished now he’d talked to Lena more about her background, but she had always pushed his questions away and got him to talk about his own life.

Tony fingered an oversized medallion that hung from a chain around his neck. It was a gold coin which had been re-shaped, and another one matched it on a little finger. The clusters of hair on his hands were quite moist now. Mark wondered if the guy was acting, if he knew about Lena and was waiting for the police to get here.

‘You look as if you were about to go out,’ Mark said.

‘I was. I am. A hot date, you might say.’

‘Huh huh. Well, don’t let me keep you. I’ll come out with you. I should have phoned when I was up here, but you know how it is, in my job.’

‘Yeah, sure, don’t worry. I know, Lena insisted you call in, didn’t she? How is my lovely sister? Haven’t heard from her lately.’

‘She’s been working a lot.’

‘Nice to see her so successful.’

Mark found it hard to keep his voice even. He finished the whisky and felt it burn. He wanted it to, it gave him something else to concentrate on, for something was wrong here.

‘Well, shall we go then?’ Tony said. ‘I’ve got to get across town. Are you going back down tonight?’

‘Yes, I’m all finished here.’

All finished. Only Lena was finished. Nothing else had started. He’d stolen a car and ran. No plan, no ideas, just rabbit action, and a surreal kind of action at that. You find your girlfriend cut up, a voice on the phone chills you, starts you running, and you head off for your one contact. At least Tony was the only one Mark knew about. If Lena had others she’d never shared them with him. He’d taken work calls for her sometimes, that was about it. They’d both been very private people and now it was costing him.

Tony put out a greasy hand which Mark felt rather than shook, for it fell through his own without hardly touching it. Mark watched Tony drive off in the silver Merc with TON 1 on the plate, and walked to his own illicit vehicle. Tony glanced back once and Mark saw him put his mobile phone to his ear. He turned on the radio in the Mondeo and searched for news. A calm, well-modelled voice took him through the world horror show. Blood in Iraq, Afghanistan, Israel, Africa, the world was dripping in it; someone had stabbed a policeman in Leeds, politicians were being politicians, but again, no Lena. Nothing about a woman who’d been found butchered in a London flat. No comments from shocked neighbours about how she’d been a lovely girl who was always quiet and very friendly. Nothing at all.

The last few hours had been useless, Mark wasn’t even sure which way he should point the car. He wished it could drive him out of this nightmare but the tightening in his guts told him it was only just starting. He drove out of the city and stopped at the first services on the M6. It was the same one as before. It was almost midnight, not a good time to phone Kelly, but the man answered, on the mobile Mark had given him a few months ago. Kelly was stumbling about somewhere, going in and out of signal, his drink-sodden voice inquiring cautiously into the phone.

‘Kelly, stop moving around and listen.’

‘Whosat?’

‘Richards.’

Kelly’s voice steadied.

‘Mr Richards, good evening to you, sir.’

‘Yeah, sounds like it’s been, for you. Listen, and I want a clear fucking answer. Anything been happening around the flat? After I left?’

‘Happening, Mr Richards ?’

‘Don’t go vague on me, Kelly, you do that with other people.’

‘Sorry, I’ve had a bit to drink, like. Nothing’s been happening. It’s been a quiet as churches round here today, Mr Richards. I was just remarking on it to the lads in the Queen’s.’

Mark thought for a moment. Even pissed up, Kelly was reliable for information such as this. Police should have been all over the area. Cordoning it off with their blue and white ribbon, bringing in the men in white suits, all the usual rituals when a body is found.

‘You still there, Mr Richards?’

‘Yes.’

‘Uh, you still got that car?’

‘Never mind about that. Listen, you keep that phone on, and don’t even think of telling me you’ve lost the charger. Put it next to your head when you crash out. I might need you.’

Mark turned off his phone before Kelly could respond. He knew he’d do what he was told, no matter how pissed. Fear and greed always worked a perfect pincer movement on Kelly.

A plane was going over above, it was low, about to land somewhere. It fought against the motorway noise and won, for traffic was thin now. Planes had been one of Mark’s favourite sounds as a kid. Especially if they were really high up and he could hardly see them, just trace their vapour trails with his keen eyes, and hear the faint drone of engines as they tracked across his section of sky. He’d be on the hillside somewhere, hands behind his head, maybe rare sun on his face, watching them until the trails spread into white feathers, to be taken by the clouds. The planes were a comfort, they spoke of other places, other possibilities, things he might do one day. They meant people escaping, like he escaped to the hills, which were right for him, which understood his need to get away; within minutes of having been amongst people he could walk alone. Since he refused to fly, Lena would never have understood this childhood fondness. The one job he’d done abroad, in Holland, he’d had to drive and take the ferry, making things awkward and annoying the agency by the time taken, but it was that or nothing. He couldn’t get his head round the thought of being in that small capsule, many thousands of feet above the earth and completely helpless. His system rebelled against the thought of putting himself into anyone else’s hands so completely. Lena had started to change that.

Mark went into the services, needing to freshen up. This was part of his territory now, he’d become an urban man, something he’d once despised. He’d grown used to rush and bustle, it was where the work was. When he first started working as an investigator they often sent him around the country looking for people, it had amazed him how many people were hiding. Society had a secret inner layer of dodgers, everything from murder to debt, and service stations were the points on his search map. Their grim food, the ability they had to match the worst of his moods, had always told him how alone he was and how like the people he chased. Worse off, maybe, for he needed them, and they could certainly do without him. Then he met Lena and when he moved in with her his perception began to change. Night time places didn’t get to him so much, usually they told him he was on his way home, job finished, and their plastic emptiness made the journey sweeter. He’d had someone to go back to, but she was gone and Mark was back to the original thoughts. In the rest room he threw some water into his face, and heard someone throwing up in one of the cubicles.

Mark went back to the car and turned the radio on again. Still nothing. He found some music, nothing he could recognise, but that wasn’t surprising, for he’d never taken much interest in it, old or modern. It was one of the traits that had marked him out years ago. When the kids on the estate had gone on about the latest band, they were met by blank stares and lack of interest on his part, but what played was good for this time of night. A cowboy crooner wanted his woman back. You’re not alone there, mate, Mark thought. All the adrenaline had drained out of him. The shock of this day was turning to tiredness, he felt like he’d never slept and it was hard to think straight, or think at all. The motorway was practically empty now but blue lights were approaching rapidly. He tensed, and wondered where Kelly had got the false plates from, but the squad car was past him, travelling on fast.

Mark hit the edge of London at first light, the pale yellow light of late summer that forecast another hot day. He parked up the car. The police would run a check on the plates and find they were from something stolen years ago.

He went into the first café he saw open, and had more coffee and grease. There were a few truckers eating with him and one guy who looked like he’d been clubbing all night, maybe gone straight from work for he had that kind of suit on, fat, blue tie still around his neck, but at a crazy angle, as if it was attempted to garrotte him. He fingered it nervously as he ate. The man was about Mark’s age and ate the same breakfast. Their eyes met briefly, his registering consolation, the solidarity of the lonely, the loser. That sad git thinks I’m like him, Mark thought, that we’ve both been on the pull and failed, that we are on our own, then was guilty to be even thinking like this less than a day after he’d found Lena. Anyway, he was on his own. Never more so.

There was an overhead television in the café, turned on even at this time in the morning. The local news came on. Lena would have to be on it. She’d have to be the main story. But again nothing. Mark was baffled. She couldn’t still be there could she, her murder undiscovered? That thought chilled him to his stomach. He’d heard sirens approaching, but they were always present on London streets. His panic, and the voice on the phone, had directed them to the flat, and he’d run away without waiting to find out if they were coming for him or not. The voice knew what had happened, the voice knew he was there. The voice wanted him to run.

The headache that had been threatening all night began in earnest, he felt it kick-start a vein above his right eye. It began to throb, insistently, like a finger tapping against his forehead, then the pain spread until it had all of his head in its grasp. A band tightened around his skull and tried to crush it. He tried in vain to cast it off, he tried in vain to think of a plan but there was only sludge in his head, and at its core a pain that he could scarcely dare acknowledge. He had to keep it under wraps until all this was over. The headache might turn into a migraine, which was the last thing he needed. He had them three or four times a year, when all he could do was shut down his body and wait for them to go. He’d been lucky with the work for they usually came on when he was inactive and waiting for Lena to come back from a job. He didn’t like time on his hands, too many thoughts jostled for position in his head. Mark bought a large bottle of water from the man behind the café counter.

‘Know how you feel, mate,’ the man said, ‘I was the same at your age.’

Mark walked through north London suburbs. The sun was out now, but not yet too warm on his face. Early morning people were about, milkmen, a postman delivering letters to affluent houses in leafy streets, people walking to the nearest tube. He joined them.

Mark went straight to Kelly’s. He needed somewhere to think, and maybe sleep, even Kelly’s squalor would do. He knocked the door for some time before Kelly appeared. A night-before smell appeared with him. Booze, curry and strong body odour. Kelly smelt like a pub at ten in the morning. Despite the weather he stood and shivered in his thin vest, his ribs standing out like the bars of a cage. He sniffed the morning air and blinked in the light as he scratched his stubbly face; he’d never looked more like a weasel. Mark pushed past him into the bed-sit. More smells greeted him, even more pungent.

‘Christ, Kelly, how can you live like this?’

‘Like what? You gimme a start, Mr Richards. This is early for me, like.’

‘You amaze me.’

Mark brushed junk from the one chair and sat on it. He was dog-tired, even in this festering den sleep threatened to overwhelm him.

‘Wassup?’ Kelly said. ‘First the car, now you here. Not your style, Mr Richards. Look, I don’ want no trouble. Don’ mind doing the odd favour for you, but I don’ want nothing heavy   and you look like it’s something heavy.’

Mark went straight to the window and tried to force it open, an action it wasn’t used to. It had stuck fast with layers of paint.

‘Careful, Mr Richards, don’t bust it.’

‘It’s been quiet, you said.’

‘Yeah, nothing happening here. Why, what you expecting to happen?’

‘Never mind.’

‘You still got that car?’

‘You know better than to ask me questions. Don’t worry, it’s not outside.’

Mark took in the nine stone waste of space that Kelly was and felt embarrassed that he’d had to turn to someone like this. Loners always had a price to pay, at one time or another, and his was now, and he was as far away from a plan of action as ever. Tony came back into his mind. There were something badly wrong there, and Tony’s farewell was ringing bells in his head. He sounded a bit like the voice on the phone, but maybe this was desperation talking, and the thumping pain in his head.

‘You OK, Mr Richards? You look like you had a better night than me.’

‘Get dressed,’ Mark said. ‘You might think of getting washed too, if you can remember how.’

‘Leave it out, Mr Richards. Look, I don’ want to be doing nothing today. As I said, it was a bit of a rough night, like.’

‘It was your usual night, and you will be doing something today. I just want you to sniff around a bit. You’re the best for that and there’ll be a few quid in it.’

Kelly stiffened a little with pride at what he thought was a compliment. Mark had learned that praise was almost as useful as threats with Kelly, especially if linked with money. He threw a twenty at him, and it was caught and hidden in one action.

‘Come on then, get your arse together.’

Twenty minutes later they were out on the street. Mark saw their reflection in the shop window under Kelly’s place. It looked like he was in charge of a funfair gimp. Kelly, about half his size, struggling to keep up with him, his wiry red fuzz standing up brush-like on his head. The overcoat made him look like some nocturnal animal hurrying to get underground before it got too light.

They cut through the small park opposite the flat and stood by the railings. Mark could see their front door. He still thought of it as theirs. Kelly was right, all was quiet. There was no young copper standing guard outside, fidgety and bored, no activity at all. The nerve over Mark’s eye went into overdrive. He wanted his eyes to close, but if he shut them he saw images of Lena. A freeze-frame history of yesterday took over. Finding her, finding her like that, the voice on the phone, his flight. His ineffective action since. He felt sick, and held onto the railings.

‘You’re not well, Mr Richards. I’d get some kip if I was you. Your missus home, is she? Cracking looking girl, she is.’

Mark’s hands screwed up into fists, an echo of the childhood rages he thought he’d conquered for good. For a moment he wanted to smash Kelly, and toss his pathetic body over the railings. Sensing danger, Kelly stepped back, ready to bolt.

‘Look, Mr Richards, what we doing here?’

Mark breathed deeply and regained control. He searched for the key to the flat and put it in Kelly’s hand.

‘All I want you to do is to go over the road, let yourself in, look round the place, then come back and tell me what you see.’

‘Wha’ for? I don’ get it.’

‘You don’t have to get it. Just do it.’

Mark helped Kelly on his way. The man didn’t want to be part of this but was more afraid of Mark than the situation. If he found Lena, Kelly would be out of there like a shot, puking on the road, and thinking Mark a killer. He should find Lena, the dead didn’t get up and walk away. Things were going on here Mark didn’t understand, but everything he’d learned over the last ten years told him she wouldn’t be there. That voice on the phone had wanted him out. It had known he’d run, the stupid knee-jerk reaction of the kid from the wasted estate. That estate, and his time on it, was still in his blood   they’ll think it was you. That had been enough for him to take off, minutes after finding Lena, the one woman he’d ever really cared about. Mark Richards, the street-wise hard man, had left her, and ran out blindly, and nothing had been gained from it.

The sun was well up now, and it punished him. It told him that this would be another long day, and so would the next, and the one after that. All of them would be long, until he found out why Lena had been killed and who had killed her. Until he put things right.

Kelly was not inside the flat for long. He came out calmly after a few minutes. Mark knew the answer but asked the question anyway.

‘Well?’

‘Nothing, Mr Richards. Everything was OK there. Tidy, like. Letters on the mat by the door. Look, I don’ know what I’m s’posed to be looking for anyway. You never tell me nothing. Lovely place though, innit? Can I go now, I gotta get a bit of breakfast.’

‘Give me the key back.’

Mark pulled Kelly close to him as he handed over the key, and went through his pockets. Kelly squirmed like an eel, saliva escaping from the stumps of his teeth but he did not dare pull away.

‘Leave it out, Mr Richards. I’d never nick nothing off you. ‘Specially with you stood outside.’

‘You can’t help yourself. None of us can.’

‘You don’ half talk funny sometimes. Look, why don’ you come down the café? You look like you can do with a few coffees.’

‘No, I’ve got things to do. Off you go.’

Mark held onto Kelly’s coat as he tried to turn.

‘One last thing. What have you done today?’

‘Today? I haven’t even got up yet, Mr Richards.’

‘Okay, then. Keep your mobile close and keep it on. I might need you in a hurry.’

Kelly almost stood to attention as he listened to Mark’s instructions, like a soldier in some ragbag army. Then he winked, nodded, tidied his ragged overcoat and was gone, fading effortlessly into the street.

Mark walked across to the flat, and let himself in. It was not easy to push the front door open, and he stood on the threshold for a moment, shaking. That smell had gone, but another had taken its place. A light fragrance had been sprayed around, he recognised it. Jasmine, Lena’s favourite.

Mark picked up the mail at his feet, one for him, and three for her. Nothing important. His hand tightened around a bill, and started to twist the envelope. It should have been the neck of whoever had been here. His shirt was starting to stick to his back, his forehead was damp, and the nerve was active. It wouldn’t let him go, not until this was over. Maybe not even then. The temperature had been pushing thirty for days, as a poor summer went out with a bang. Much too hot for him, even on a good day, and this wasn’t one. Lena loved the sun, and laughed at his nanny warnings of its dangers. She tanned easily, while he stayed in shadow whenever possible. They shared a small rooftop with other tenants, but it had become Lena’s private suntrap. She should be there now, waiting for him to bring her up something cold.

He threw the letters down and managed to go into the bedroom. Slowly pushing the door open, he expected anything. The vein was really letting him have it now, pulsating, and pounding in time with his heart.

The bedroom was empty. Someone had cleaned it up. Last year Mark had attempted his first DIY, stripping the bedroom of carpets and sanding down the floorboards. Lena had wanted it this way and it was better for his dust allergy, but a carpet would have been much harder to clean. The bed was freshly made, and the sheets drawn tight, hotel style. They were new and he didn’t recognise them. He’d made it easy for them by running, given them the time to do this. Mark decided it must be them, not him. He sat down on the bed, then sank down. He wanted to immerse himself here, where Lena had died, but wasn’t sure why. Need maybe, not reason. Grief not action. He found it hard to get his breath, and his eyes were threatening to lose control again.

His eyes searched the room, everything was where it should be, but as the sun came through the blinds he saw something on the lampshade, a red speck on the yellow shade. He knew it was blood, her blood. He stretched out and rubbed at it with a finger, and particles came away. They’d missed this, or maybe left it for him to find. To make the last day real.