Good as Dead

TWENTY-NINE

As Holland and Kitson reversed into a parking space a few doors down from the address they had been given in Hackney, they saw a young man step out on to the pavement and start walking towards them. Nineteen or twenty, with dark hair that seemed pasted to his scalp and tattoos clearly visible on the arm outstretched to yank a bull terrier puppy along behind him.

Holland checked the black and white headshot clipped to the folder in his lap. ‘That’ll be our boy, then.’

‘Bless him,’ Kitson said. She nodded down to the file. ‘Say anything in there about him being an animal lover?’

The file detailed the assorted crimes and misdemeanours that had resulted in Peter David Allen serving various sentences in three different Young Offenders Institutions since he was fourteen years old: actual bodily harm, burglary, threatening behaviour, sexual assault. Up until nine weeks previously, he had been a prisoner at Barndale, serving eight months out of thirteen after attacking a woman with a fence post when she had dared to try and stop him stealing her car.

Holland tossed the folder on to the back seat. ‘Pete seems to like animals rather more than people.’

They watched Allen haul his dog past the car, waited a minute or two, then got out and followed.

‘Just makes him typically British,’ Kitson said. They walked a hundred yards behind Allen on the opposite side of the road. ‘More money gets given to the RSPCA every year than the NSPCC, did you know that? Makes you proud, doesn’t it?’

‘Country’s going to the dogs,’ Holland said.

‘Funny… ’

At the end of the street, Allen turned left on to Dalston Lane. He ducked briefly into a grocer’s and came out chugging from a can of Red Bull and tearing the wrapping from a packet of Marlboro. A hundred yards further on, he stopped to tie the dog to a lamppost and disappeared into a bookmaker’s.

When he emerged a few minutes later clutching his betting slip, Kitson was leaning against the lamppost checking her phone. Holland was on his haunches making a fuss of the puppy, who was happily chewing at his sleeve.

‘Fuck you doing?’ Allen asked.

Holland looked up. ‘Nice dog,’ he said. ‘Course it almost certainly won’t be by the time you’ve finished with it.’ He gave the puppy’s belly one last rub then stood up. ‘It’s all about how you bring them up, isn’t it? Same as kids really, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’

‘You what?’

Allen’s stance was still aggressive, but he was clearly confused. His mouth opened then closed again, before his eyes flicked to the warrant card Kitson was waving at him and his shoulders slumped. Without a word he stepped across to untie his dog, then turned and walked back the way he’d come.

Holland and Kitson fell into step either side of him.

‘Got yourself a job then, Pete?’ Kitson asked.

‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Just making conversation. I mean either you have, or you’re just pissing your dole money away on the gee-gees.’

‘It’s my money.’

They paused as the dog stopped and squatted outside the same grocer’s Allen had been into a few minutes earlier. Allen dragged the puppy across the pavement, lit a cigarette and watched as the dog went about its business in the gutter.

‘You’d better hope you win,’ Holland said. ‘There’s a two-hundred-quid fine for that.’

Allen smirked. They carried on walking.

‘You been out what, a couple of months?’ Holland asked.

Allen shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

‘Back on your feet?’

‘Getting there.’

‘More than Amin Akhtar is, that’s for sure.’

Allen said, ‘Who?’

They turned into the street where Allen lived. A row of old artisans’ cottages ran for almost half its length, but at the far end the Victorian terraces had been knocked down and replaced by blocks of council-owned maisonettes. The small front gardens were nicely maintained for the most part, but there were bars on almost all the doors and windows. Allen had moved a few feet ahead of Kitson and Holland as he approached his front door. He reached for his key then turned to see them following him up the front path. He shook his head. ‘No chance.’

‘We only want a chat,’ Kitson said. ‘What are you so jumpy about?’

‘Not without a warrant. That’s harassment, whatever.’

‘Don’t need one if you invite us in.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Allen opened the door, but when he turned to close it he found Holland’s foot in the way.

‘That’s very kind of you, Pete.’ Holland pushed his way inside and Kitson followed. ‘But we can only stay a few minutes… ’

A small hallway-cum-porch led straight into a living room. Allen marched past Holland and Kitson and took the dog through into the kitchen. They watched as he opened a back door and let the puppy out on to a tiny, turd-covered patio at the back. Kitson opened another door on to a narrow corridor with what she presumed were a bedroom and bathroom running off it, while Holland walked across to examine the sleek black stereo and the rows of CDs and DVDs on the shelves above it.

Allen came back in to see Kitson emerging through the doorway and Holland rifling through his collection of thrash metal and torture porn. He stood in the centre of the living room and raised his arms in outrage.

Said, ‘This is taking the piss.’

Holland nodded towards the stereo system: a Denon CD and Blu-Ray player; the big Bose speakers at either end of the room and the smaller ones mounted high up on the walls. ‘This is decent gear, Pete. I wouldn’t mind something like this myself.’ He turned to look at the plasma TV that took up most of one wall. ‘Have to put in a bit more overtime though.’

‘I’ve got receipts,’ Allen said. ‘All right?’

Holland looked impressed. ‘You must be getting some good tips then.’

‘What?’

‘On the horses.’

‘Yeah, I’ve had a few winners.’

‘And we can check that, can we?’ Kitson asked. ‘Obviously your bookie up the road keeps records of all his payouts.’ She sat down on a faded brown armchair. ‘For tax reasons, you know?’

Allen seemed to grow agitated suddenly. He walked over to the wall and leaned back hard against it. ‘Is there any point to this?’ He pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘Because if you’re waiting for tea and biscuits you can stick them up your arse.’

Holland dropped into the chair that was in front of the TV and turned it round so that he and Kitson were both facing Allen. ‘Why did you put Amin Akhtar in hospital?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t,’ Allen said.

‘Sure?’ Kitson asked. ‘Five minutes ago you didn’t even know who he was.’

‘I just meant… I never knew him very well, that’s all. You know how many kids there are in there?’

‘Why does it matter if you knew him or not?’ Holland asked. ‘How well did you know that woman you battered with the fence post?’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Some of the prison officers think it was.’

‘Well they can kiss my arse, same as you can.’ Allen was doing his very best to look cocky, but there was still nervousness around the eyes as he tried and failed to stare Holland and Kitson out. ‘Look, I never took a knife to that kid, what else can I tell you?’

‘Who said anything about a knife?’

Allen looked flustered, but only for a second or two. Then he smiled, pleased with himself. ‘Everybody knew he’d been slashed, so you’re not being clever. Something like that happens, word gets round before the poor bastard’s finished bleeding. Besides, the screws turned my cell over looking for it, didn’t they? And they found sod all.’

‘It’s a fair point, Pete,’ Kitson said. ‘There isn’t a scrap of evidence and the fact is that even if you told us right here and now that it was you, we’re far too busy to do a great deal about it. I mean the kid’s dead now, right, and it wasn’t like you had anything to do with that.’ She waited, studied his face. ‘But let’s just say hypothetically that it was you who attacked him-’

‘It wasn’t.’

Kitson held her hand up. ‘For the sake of argument, all right? If it was you, then why might you have done it? Like you say, you barely knew the kid, right? It wasn’t like it was revenge for some fight you’d had with him or he’d said something to piss you off in the canteen, was it? Not a kid like him. I mean… fair play to you, you did a very nice job, you got away with it somehow. You managed to stash the knife somewhere, got yourself cleaned up, but it was still a hell of a risk.’ She turned to Holland. ‘Don’t you reckon?’

Holland nodded. ‘You’d have to be an idiot.’

‘What were you, just a few days from being released? Something like that would have put plenty more time on your sentence, so there’s no way you’d have done it without a seriously good reason, is there? Without something decent in it for you, I mean. You’re not Brain of Britain, but you’re not an idiot, are you, Pete?’

Allen struggled for something to say. Settled for: ‘This is bollocks.’

‘Maybe you did it because someone asked you to.’

‘What?’ Allen shook his head and tried to laugh, but it was tight, strangled.

‘Where did the money come from for all this?’ Holland asked. The dog was whimpering outside the kitchen, scratching at the back door. ‘And don’t tell us it was the three-thirty at Kempton Park, because we’re certainly not idiots.’

Allen sniffed and looked as though he was considering spitting on the floor, until he remembered he was in his own living room. He pushed himself away from the wall and said, ‘I’ve got to feed my dog.’

Holland and Kitson watched as Allen sauntered into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. They heard him open the back door, then listened to the skitter of the puppy’s claws on the tiles and Allen fussing over it, his voice deliberately raised so that they could hear just how unconcerned he was.

‘If you tell us who put you up to it, we can guarantee you won’t be prosecuted for the attack,’ Kitson shouted.

Holland looked at her. They had been authorised to give no such guarantee. Kitson shrugged.

There was no response from the kitchen.

After half a minute they stood up to leave, but as Kitson moved back towards the porch, Holland walked across and leaned in close to the kitchen door. ‘Good luck.’

There was a pause before Allen answered. ‘What?’

‘I was talking to the dog,’ Holland said.