A Good day to die

29

'Sonya Blacklip,' said Emma, telling me something I already knew.

She was sitting cross-legged on her orange sofa, dressed in a plain, loose-fitting white T-shirt and blue jeans. Her freshly washed hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and she was drinking one of the four-pack of Fosters I'd brought with me when I'd turned up at her place a few minutes earlier. She looked remarkably fragrant and relaxed, given the twenty-four hours she'd had. I was drinking from one of the other cans too and smoking a cigarette while I sat on the chair opposite, listening to what she had to say. It had just turned seven p.m., and I was feeling pretty relaxed myself.

'… Was the real name of Ann Taylor,' I added.

'That's right.' She then gave me a thorough rundown of what she had learnt about Ann, corroborating everything that Andrea and Grant had told me earlier.

'The course of psychotherapy that Ann was put on began in October of last year, and the doctor in charge of it was a woman called…' She paused while she consulted her notebook. '… Madeline Cheney, and from what I can gather she's an expert in her field. She's spent years studying the retrieval and reconstruction of memory. And after a number of one-to-one sessions with Ann, she managed to coax from her aspects of her past that Ann hadn't talked about to anyone else. What Dr Cheney found out made grim reading. I haven't been able to get all the details — most of it's not in the public domain — but she made a written submission to the court in which she testified that, in her opinion, Ann had suffered extensive sexual abuse as a child at the hands of her father, starting when she was as young as four, shortly after her mother died, and continuing until the age of eleven, at which point she finally ran away from home, and ended up here in London.' Emma paused for a moment and looked at me. 'The claims were pretty horrific. According to the testimony, it wasn't just her father who abused her, but his friends too, and there were other children who also suffered at the hands of the same group. However, when the police investigated, they never identified any of them, and the only person who faced any charges relating to the abuse was Ann's father, Richard. But he skipped bail, and ended up murdered in a hotel in Manila before the case ever came to trial.'

'I need to speak to Dr Cheney,' I said. 'Where does she practise? Do you know?'

'You don't ask for much, do you? I've got her number and address here.' She waved her notebook in my direction. 'But I'd like to know what this has got to do with the murders of Malik and Khan.'

I sipped my beer, thinking once again that I had a real soft spot for this girl. I told her about my question-and-answer session with Jamie Delly, including the situation I'd found him in, and the second session I'd had with Andrea and Grant.

Emma seemed more concerned about why Tyndall's men were torturing Delly than the actual torture itself. 'That suggests that Tyndall didn't actually have anything to do with the shooting of Malik and Khan, doesn't it? Because if he had, surely he'd have known what the two of them were meeting about?'

'I don't know,' I said.

'And if that's the case, then who sent me that doll with the blood on?'

'I don't know that either.'

'But there's something you're not telling me,' she stated firmly. 'Because nothing you've said so far points to Ann Taylor's mental state having anything to do with any of this. So what is it?'

'I think Andrea and Grant know more than they were letting on. They were very keen to avoid talking about Ann Taylor — particularly her psychotherapy.'

Emma shook her head. 'No, there's more to it than that. And I want to know what it is.'

There was no way I could avoid the question now. We'd reached a crux in our brief relationship. It's always been a habit of mine to absorb as much information as possible from the people I talk to, while giving out the absolute minimum. There's nothing to be gained from telling people your innermost secrets; doing that just makes you vulnerable. But this time I knew I was going to have to come clean. If I gave her any more grounds for suspicion, our partnership was finished.

'I got the names of the people whose numbers you gave me on Saturday,' she continued. 'The ones that supposedly came from Les Pope's mobile. One of the numbers on there also belongs to Les Pope. So what was he doing phoning himself? Unless, of course, you were bullshitting me and they didn't come from Pope's phone at all, but from someone else's. Which seems a lot more likely, don't you think?'

On the night I'd met her in the Ben Crouch Tavern, I'd observed that something in Emma's girlish demeanour invited people to underestimate her, and I'd made exactly that mistake. I suspected that I wasn't the first.

'All right. I'll tell you what I know and how I know it, but be prepared not to like what you hear.'

She gave a hollow laugh. 'You're a self-confessed mass murderer. Don't worry, I'm fully prepared on that front.'

So I told her. About Blacklip; about Slippery Billy West; about everything. The only things I kept from her were the locations of the killings, and where I'd been these past three years, but even that would have been fairly obvious, given where Blacklip's corpse had been found.

When I'd finished she didn't speak for a while. Instead she just sat there watching me. She gave no indication of how she felt, although it wasn't that hard to guess. I lit a cigarette and wondered if it was worth my while trying to justify what I'd done. In the end, I decided it wasn't. She knew that one of the men I'd killed had been a violent and long-standing child abuser, and that the other had been the hitman who'd slain Malik and Jason Khan. That should have been justification enough.

'Why didn't you tell me all this before?' she asked eventually.

'You didn't need to know. And it wouldn't have made you feel any better about me, would it?'

She started to say something, but I put up a hand to stop her. I could hear movement outside — the shuffling of feet.

We both listened.

The only sound in the room was the faint tinny chattering of the TV in the corner.

A loud knock on the door startled us both. We looked at each other.

The knock came again. 'Emma, are you there?' The voice was naturally loud — deep and authoritative. 'It's DCI Barron. I'm here with DS Boyd. We'd like a quick word, if we could.'

Emma looked alarmed. She glanced over at me for guidance and I motioned for her to let them in. I got up, picked up the ashtray I was using and my drink, and headed for the staircase, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

'Just coming,' I heard Emma call as I reached the third stair.

By the time she'd opened the door I was on the landing, leaning over the edge of the staircase to listen to whatever DCI Barron and his colleague had to say, and hoping that Emma didn't take the opportunity to get her name in lights and a plum job on one of the nationals by telling them about the fugitive currently in her house. I might have trusted her implicitly that morning but I wasn't so sure now, not with the law on the doorstep, and me having just admitted that there were a further two murders to add to my rapidly growing list of crimes.

'What can I do for you both?' I heard Emma ask as they came into the house and she offered them seats.

'You were asking about a gentleman by the name of Jamie Delly last night,' said Barron. 'You called one of my colleagues, John Gallan, asking if he had Delly's address. Would that be right?'

Emma must have said something in the affirmative, because Barron asked why she'd wanted to know.

'I wanted to speak to him about his brother, Jason,' she answered. 'As part of my own investigation.'

The female officer, Boyd, then spoke, but her voice was quieter and I couldn't make out what she was saying. Something about Emma's articles, it sounded like, and her tone was more abrupt.

Barron interjected to inform Emma that the police had been called to Jamie's flat that morning. 'We've been keeping an eye on him as part of our investigation into the Malik/Khan murders, and we received a call this morning from one of his neighbours saying there was a disturbance going on at his place, and the sounds of a struggle. DS Boyd and I were the first to attend. We saw a tall, slim, bearded man of about forty leaving the premises, but he disappeared before we could apprehend him. When we arrived at the flat we found Mr Delly semi-naked in his bathtub having suffered a number of very nasty injuries which suggested he'd been tortured. He's being treated in hospital now.'

Boyd asked Emma whether she knew of anyone fitting that description who might have had links with the case.

Emma said she didn't, and I offered her a silent thank-you. But I wondered how long it would take them to link the description to the man who'd been involved in the Soho shootings. A while yet, I hoped. There was a lot of CCTV footage to go through and I'd been wearing completely different clothes. But it was a worry.

'What did you think Jamie Delly could tell you about Jason?' asked Boyd, her voice louder and clearer now.

Emma said this was her business, but Boyd replied that given what had happened that morning it was police business as well.

'I'm still interested in finding a motive for the murders,' Emma explained. 'It's a high-profile case but it doesn't seem to be moving very fast. I thought Jamie might be able to shed some light on things. I was going to visit him tomorrow.'

'Well, he's not saying anything to us,' said Barron, 'so if you get any information out of him, please let us know.'

Emma said she would.

The conversation continued with Barron and Boyd trying to find out where Emma was with her own investigations. Barron then suggested that, given the tone of her articles, she should be extra vigilant in case she herself became a target, which was when she told them about the break-in the previous night and the bloodied doll that had been left behind as a warning. After admonishing her for not reporting the incident, and asking to see the doll, he became even more forceful in his warnings. His tone was genuine enough, though, and I was confident that the main reason he was saying all this was because he was worried for her. I wasn't sure I could say the same about Boyd. Her manner was more hostile, which I suppose was understandable. As a woman she wouldn't be so easily impressed by a pretty girl, and, like most coppers, she didn't like journalists nosing into her investigations, particularly when those journalists were being critical.

'We can offer you police protection if you like,' said Barron, promising to take the doll to the station for further examination, but Emma declined.

Boyd then asked if she could use the bathroom. I heard her get to her feet as Emma told her it was first left at the top of the stairs.

As Boyd climbed the stairs, I retreated into Emma's bedroom and went round to the far side of her bed, feeling like a kid again as I sunk to my hands and knees and made myself as inconspicuous as possible in the darkness.

I heard her reach the top of the stairs, but rather than go straight on into the bathroom, she stopped. A second later, the door to the bedroom made a scuffing noise as it was pushed open, and I could sense her in here with me. She moved swiftly across the carpet and I suddenly wondered what on earth I'd do if she discovered me here: the man she'd seen that morning at Delly's place, hunched on the floor in front of her. I began to sweat.

A few more steps and she was almost on me. I gritted my teeth and remained as still as possible, silencing even my breathing and resisting the urge to go for my gun.

It was only when her legs were three feet away from my head that she stopped, and I could see her looking around Emma's desk. She opened the desk drawer and had a quick poke about inside. It looked like she had plastic police-issue gloves on.

I stayed as still as a statue, knowing that she only had to turn her head ever so slightly and drop her gaze downwards and the lives of the four people in this house would be changed for ever. One tiny movement; such huge ramifications.

But she didn't. Instead, she shut the drawer without removing anything, turned on her heels, and left the room. A few seconds later I heard the toilet flushing and Boyd heading back down the stairs. It was at that point that I finally started breathing properly again.

They didn't stay long after that. I couldn't hear what they were saying because I remained in the bedroom, but I heard the front door open and shut, and after what felt like a suitable interval, I got to my feet and emerged from my hiding place.

When I returned to the lounge, Emma was smoking a cigarette and looking stressed. 'I ought to bloody well kick you out,' she told me bitterly. 'What if they talk to my neighbours and one of them saw you coming in?'

'No one's seen me round here and I'll be very careful that they don't in future,' I promised her, before changing the subject. 'Did you know that when DS Boyd came upstairs she rifled through your desk drawer?'

Emma frowned. 'Did she? What do you think she was looking for?'

'I don't know. Sources, information, anything, I suppose.'

'Isn't that illegal?'

'It is, and anything she found would be inadmissable in court, but it's the sort of thing that happens now and again. The police are like anyone else: they want results, and sometimes they're prepared to cut corners. But I was surprised she felt the need to do that. I mean, most of the sources for your articles on this case have been cops, haven't they?'

She nodded, still frowning.

'Is Barron one of your contacts?' I asked, assuming by the way he'd been talking to her that he was.

'Yes, he's been helpful on this case.'

'I don't recognize the name. Is he based at Islington?'

She shook her head. 'No. He's retired, technically, but they brought him back for this case because the Met's so short of detectives. They're doing that a lot these days.'

'And who was the other guy? The one you phoned about Delly's address?' Again, it had been a name I hadn't recognized.

'John Gallan. He's a DI at Islington. A nice guy, and helpful too, but he'd still arrest me like a shot if he knew I was harbouring you.'

It was then that I realized quite how much danger I was putting her in by using her as my unofficial assistant, and I knew it was going to have to stop. 'Look, I know I'm causing you problems with my involvement in this, so I'm going to say goodbye now. Thanks for all your help, and if I do end up finding out the motive behind the Malik and Khan killings, I'll let you know. All I'd ask in the meantime is that you don't tell anyone I'm back here.'

'It's not safe for you either, Dennis. My advice would be to return to the place you came from while you're still in a position to.'

Blondie had said pretty much the same thing to me two days ago and, like Emma, he'd had a point. But I was getting close now, I could feel it, and I didn't want to let go. For the last three years life had been easy, but it had also been unfulfilling. The truth was, I liked hunting. For twenty years, prior to my ignominious departure from England, I'd hunted criminals every day, sometimes for insignificant crimes, sometimes for murder, and I'd enjoyed it. I'd enjoyed the chase, the evidence-gathering, the slow but steady peeling away of the layers of fat to reveal the bare bones of the mystery beneath, the one mistake that would ensnare my prey. The fact that the prey usually ended up getting a far lower sentence than his crime deserved was a matter of some disappointment, but never enough to stop me from trying again. And now, free from the constraints of an undermanned and overregulated police force, the prey wouldn't escape so lightly. And I was enjoying the puzzle, too. This was a real mystery — not one of the grimy, pitiful tragedies that make up so much of the world's murder statistics. A series of murders and attempted murders had been committed, yet I still had no initial motive. All I knew was that if I found the motive, all the layers would peel away and I'd be left with my solution. When you're a twenty-year copper, ex or current, you don't turn away from a challenge like that. You revel in it. Even if the stakes were so high.

I walked over to the chair and picked up my coat. 'If you could give me the contact details of the psychotherapist who treated Ann, I'd appreciate it.'

Emma sighed. 'Look, sit down.'

'I thought…'

'I know I ought to let you go, but I've invested a lot of effort in this case; it's something that I've watched the police plod through almost as if they don't want to solve it, and because of that, I've been determined to. And now it seems there's even more to it than I thought. Do you honestly think that Ann's father had something to do with it?'

She returned to her original place on the sofa, so I sat down too.

'Well, this is what we've got,' I said. 'Les Pope ordered and arranged the murder of Richard Blacklip a year ago, very shortly after Blacklip had been charged with offences relating to the sexual abuse of his daughter, Ann, which had taken place some years earlier. Ann was the girlfriend of Jason Khan. Jason Khan was shot just over five weeks ago, along with Asif Malik, after Khan telephoned Malik and called him to a meeting in a cafe. It may well be that Jason had important information he wanted to share with Malik, someone who, according to his brother, he knew from the past. We still don't know what that information concerned. It might have been something to do with Thadeus Holdings, or Nicholas Tyndall and his operations, or Ann herself. Whatever it was, it was something very serious, and Ann was no doubt privy to it as well, because she was killed a few days later. So it's possible it had something to do with the relevations her psychotherapy revealed. But if that's the case, why did Ann live for so long after her father's death without coming to any harm? Why didn't they get rid of her at the time of his arrest if her knowledge was that incendiary?'

'That's why I can't see how it can be anything to do with it.'

'It may not be, but the Blacklip connection's too coincidental to pass up without looking at further. I need to visit the psychotherapist and see what light she can throw on things.'

'Do you think that's a good idea?'

'I don't want you doing it. Barron's right: you are taking a risk if you're seen to still be sniffing around. Leave it with me. I think it'd be wise if you took a bit of a back seat for the moment.'

For once, Emma didn't argue. In fact, she surprised me. She asked me if I was hungry. 'I'm going to cook some spaghetti in tomato sauce. You can stay for some if you want.'

One thing I've learned through life is never to turn down an invitation from an attractive lady. You've always got too much time to regret it.

Which was a pity, really, because had I left there and then, things might have turned out very differently.