The Business Of Dying

37

I tried hard to hold in the shock that smacked me right between the eyes. Raymond Keen, a man I'd known for seven years, a man I'd killed for, involved in something so terrible that just the briefest thought of it made my skin crawl.

'I know Raymond Keen,' I told him. 'It doesn't seem his style to kill kids in some sort of sex game.'

'Why would I lie?' he answered, which at this juncture was a fair point. 'He's the client. I don't know if he's getting the girls on behalf of someone else.'

I thought about it for a moment. Raymond, after all, was a businessman. It was difficult to believe that he could be involved in a business quite so base and sick as the planned murder of children, but in the end no more difficult to believe than the involvement of Roberts, whose job it was to look after the mental welfare of kids, and I had no doubt that Kover was telling the truth about his part in all this. There was, I suppose, a ruthless logic in it all. Somewhere out there there were people – hopefully few, but who could tell – who got their sexual thrills from killing kids. Perhaps Kover was right, and Raymond was simply tapping into this vile market, using kids whose disappearance wasn't going to attract much attention. And like all his ventures he was keeping as far away from the action as possible. It was easy to see why and how he'd recruited someone like Kover, who was never going to have any sort of moral problem about sending kids to their deaths. But Roberts? That was far more difficult to swallow.

'So, where's Roberts now?'

'I had to tell Mr Keen about what happened with the other woman, that I'd had to kill her. He was worried about Dr Roberts letting stuff slip and giving the game away, so he got me to do Roberts as well. Just to stay on the safe side.'

'How did you kill him?'

'I asked to meet him last night to discuss things. I picked him up outside his flat. When he got in the car, I just leaned over and stuck a knife in his guts, then locked the doors. Then I drove up to Mr Keen's place. He said he'd take it from there.'

'You have been busy these past few days. So, Mark Wells-'

'Who?'

'The man who's been charged with the murder you committed. Or one of them, anyway.'

'Oh yeah, the pimp.'

'Was he involved in any way?'

Kover shook his head. 'No. He had nothing to do with it.'

'So how did you manage to set him up?'

'Dr Roberts did it. At first he wasn't going to bother, but he got cold feet when you lot came knocking. He said you came to Coleman House asking questions. I think it spooked him a bit.'

'How did he get hold of Wells's shirt?'

'It was in the girl… Molly's possessions. She told him once that the shirt reminded her of him. I think she was in love with the bloke or something. The possessions were still at the home, so Dr Roberts just took it out and planted it. He was cunning like that. Then he phoned, put on a woman's accent, and tipped off you lot.'

I remembered his pleasant sing-song voice. If anyone could have impersonated a female, it would have been him. Bastard.

'What about the knife?'

'He'd heard from girls at the home that this Wells liked to threaten people with a big butcher's knife. That's what I… that's what I killed her with. I kept the weapon, and just to, you know, fix him up perfect, Dr Roberts planted it near his place.'

'And that was that.'

'That's how it happened.'

'Raymond supplies you with a mobile, right?'

He nodded. 'Yeah.'

'Where is it?'

'Why? What do you want it for?'

'Don't fuck me about, Kover. You're the one who's tied up and drenched in petrol. Where is it?'

'In my pocket.' He just about managed to pat the outer pocket of his coat.

I stepped over and removed it, switching it on. 'I'm going to dial Raymond's private number now. When he picks it up, you're going to tell him you want a meeting with him as soon as possible. Preferably tonight. I expect he'll be reluctant. Don't worry. Be aggressive. Insist. Get a time. Make sure you definitely get a time. And don't give a fucking thing away. Understand? You fuck this up and you'll burn like a piece of charcoal.'

'Look, please. Just let me go. I've told you what you wanted to know.'

I punched in the numbers and put the phone to his ear. Just to show I meant business, I flicked the lighter on again and waved it gently in front of his face.

A minute passed. It didn't look promising. Then Kover was talking.

'Raymond, it's Alan. I need a meet. It's urgent.' There was a pause, and I could just about make out Raymond's booming tones at the other end, although I couldn't hear what he was saying. 'Something's come up. Something I can't talk about over the phone.' I leaned forward so that my ear was close to the phone. I could smell Kover's dry, sour breath. Raymond said something about being unavailable for a while. Kover kept trying, saying that he desperately needed to talk. I think Raymond asked him why again, and he tried to explain that it was confidential, that it was something that had to be discussed face to face. He carried on in this vein for maybe another minute, then he began to listen. Then he said OK a couple of times and the line went dead.

I stood back up and lit yet another cigarette. 'Well?'

'He says he doesn't want to meet anyone, but if it's an emergency, then I should get up to his house tonight. Before midnight. He says it's at-'

'Yeah, I know where it is.' Raymond's main residence was a mansion on the Hertfordshire/ Essex border. I'd never been there before, but I was aware of its location. I dragged on the cigarette. 'Did he say he was going anywhere? After midnight?'

'No, he didn't say anything.'

'One more question. How the hell did you and Roberts ever get involved with Keen?'

'Dr Roberts knew him from somewhere. And I knew Dr Roberts.'

I didn't bother asking again how Kover and Roberts knew each other. Doubtless it was down to their shared interest.

Sighing, I turned and walked over to the window. The view was of a gloomy monolithic towerblock which was so close that it would have blocked out the sunlight, had there been any. Outside it was raining hard, and fog was obscuring the glow of the bright orange street lights. A man, his coat pulled up so it was almost completely covering his face, hurried past on the street below. He was half running, as if simply being outside was enough to put him in mortal danger.

As I stood there looking out, I remembered back to when I'd been a kid of thirteen. We'd had a field out the back of our house with a huge oak tree in it. We used to climb it during the summer. My dad used to come back from work every night at half past six, rarely earlier and never later, and me and him and my sister would go out into the field and play football. We did it every night, unless it was raining, and it was best in summer when the sun went down behind the tree and the neighbours' kids came out and joined in. They'd been good days, probably even the best days of my life. Life's good when you're a kid; it should be, anyway. I pictured Molly Hagger, the little blonde girl with the curly hair. Thirteen years old. Her last hours must have been a confused, terrifying hell. Abducted from the grey, bleak streets of a wet, cold city – a city that had put her on to drugs and stolen any last scrap of innocence she had – and taken away to be used, beaten, destroyed, for the pleasure of men who dripped with the sickness of absolute corruption. Men who would steal a life just to create a better, more satisfying orgasm. She should have been playing football and having fun with parents who cared about her. Instead, her remains lay anonymous and forgotten, somewhere they'd never be found. Forgotten by everyone, even by her best friend, who'd tried to use the situation for her own selfish advantage.

Forgotten by everyone. Except me.

'Look, can you let me out of here? I need a doctor for these fucking burns. I'm in a lot of pain.'

I continued to stare out of the window, puffing thoughtfully on my cigarette. I thought of Carla Graham and wondered if, had she lived, we'd have got anywhere together.

'You know, Kover,' I said, speaking without looking at him, 'I've done a lot of bad things in my life.'

'Look, I've answered your quest-'

'Some of them really bad.'

'Don't do anything stupid, please!'

'This, however, is not one of them.'

I swung round, and before he could react the cigarette had left my hand and the funeral pyre began to burn, the roar of the flames drowned out by his screams.