Shooting Elvis Read online

  ‘You could still go,’ I said. ‘I’d help you with the money if that’s the problem.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Chas, but no. I thought it might be fun if we both went.’

  ‘I’d like that. Perhaps when this enquiry’s over,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps then.’

  Except, I thought, there’d be another enquiry after this one. ‘Did you buy a dress?’ I asked.

  She smiled at me. ‘Yes. Cost me a fortune. You can pay for that, if you want.’

  ‘I’d love to. Are you going to show me it?’

  ‘No, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’ She was silent for a few seconds, then began, ‘I just wish…’

  ‘Wish what?’

  ‘Oh, that I could wear glamorous dresses.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m just too…you know.’ She glanced down at her chest. ‘I can’t wear them.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ I assured her. ‘You’ve a figure most women would kill for.’

  ‘No I haven’t. I wish I had, you know…’ – she pinched her T-shirt between fingers and thumbs in the appropriate places and tugged it outwards – ‘a bit more up here.’

  I laughed out loud. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t laugh at me. I think I’ll have a boob job when I finish running. Would you pay for one of those for me, please?’

  ‘No way,’ I told her. ‘And you’d need two, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Well don’t you dare. You’re perfect just as you are.’

  ‘Do you mean that, Charlie?’

  I looked at her, held her gaze for a long time. ‘Every word of it,’ I said.

  The man with shiny shoes was displeased but not downhearted. Discovering that his last chosen victim was a black man was a blow, but it opened up another avenue of possibilities. He went upstairs to consult his files, this time for 2004. It was time to come up to date.

  He found what he wanted in minutes. Jermaine Lapetite was a twenty-five-year-old Jamaican with the sexual appetite of a horde of Mongols. At thirteen he was accused of raping a girl and stealing her bicycle. He pleaded guilty to the bike, not guilty to the rape, and was acquitted because she was too traumatised to give evidence. At fourteen he sexually assaulted his careers advice teacher and was put in a young offenders’ institute. He came out at twenty and since then had fathered six children to four different women. At his most recent court appearance he was accused of dealing in crack cocaine. His defence was that he needed the money to meet his financial responsibilities, although he had never paid a penny towards the upkeep of any of his offspring. He was given bail and the newspapers showed him outside court, wearing more gold than a maharaja’s elephant, waving to his friends.

  ‘Fucking parasite,’ the man with shiny shoes hissed, and few would have disagreed with him. He jotted a few notes and turned his computer on. Seconds later he was trawling through the electoral roll for Heckley.

  Lapetite lived on the edge of town, where the council houses were being demolished as part of Heckley’s Plan for the Future 2000. As blocks were cleared of tenants the buildings were bulldozed because, they said, rebuilding was cheaper than refurbishment, although the rebuilding hadn’t started yet. A few hardy old-timers clung to the last remnants of what had once been a community, and a few others lived there more reluctantly because the council had deposited them there. This was a sink estate in its death throes. Two of Lapetite’s mistresses lived in adjacent streets with their multi-hued children.

  The man with shiny shoes was in his car, not the white van, so he had to be careful. The van, which he kept in a lock-up garage a mile from his home, couldn’t be traced to him, but the car could. After an exploratory drive round he parked outside a pub off the estate and walked the half-mile back to Lapetite’s house. It was early enough not to arouse suspicion, but dusk was falling.

  It couldn’t have been better. The estate was quiet, deserted, and had the air of a western town when the baddies are due to ride in. The houses were in blocks of three, with great gaps between them. In a couple of places heaps of bricks indicated the bulldozers’ last victims. When the site was totally clear the haggling would start, he thought. Deals would be struck, palms would be oiled, hospitality would flow like communion wine at a God-fest. In a year or two the bijou residences would start to pop up and perhaps a few councillors would relocate into not-so-bijou residences on the outskirts of town. A sudden breeze sent a plume of dust spiralling from a heap of rubble, and the man with shiny shoes felt for the handle of the cosh in his jacket pocket.

  This was it, number 133, right at the end of a long street that dissected the estate. There was no gate or hedge, because the owner had a car parked in the front garden. A Subaru Impreza, six years old, with an exhaust pipe big enough to accommodate a family of rabbits. An upstairs window was boarded up and the downstairs ones looked incapable of transmitting light. Washing windows wasn’t on Jermaine Lapetite’s agenda, along with gardening, painting or opening curtains. The place looked deserted, and the man with shiny shoes felt a pang of disappointment, but he’d try, all the same. This had just started out as a reconnoitre, but if things were favourable, he’d do the deed. There was no time like the present, and the quicker the country was rid of scum like Lapetite, the better.

  He knocked briskly on the door and waited, looking round for signs of life. There were none, but he knew that someone would be watching from behind a curtain. It didn’t matter. The police had no interest in the estate and the few residents remaining had no trust in the police. If some Rasta drug dealer just happened to be killed their sympathies would be with the killer.

  He knocked again, louder, and thought he heard a noise from within. Next time he hammered on the glass and shouted through the letterbox.

  ‘Wha’ d’you want?’ someone called from within.

  ‘Police,’ he called back.

  ‘Whassit about, man?’

  ‘I want a word.’

  ‘You got warrant?’

  ‘No. I just want a chat. It won’t take long.’

  The door opened on a chain and Jermaine Lapetite peered out. The man with shiny shoes was relieved to see he was quite short, not like the black giant he’d encountered four nights earlier.

  ‘You no got warrant?’ Lapetite insisted.

  ‘No, I just want a chat, either here or at the nick. It’s up to you.’

  Lapetite unhooked the chain, pulled the door open and turned to go into the depths of the house. The man with shiny shoes pushed the door closed and followed, two strides behind. As Lapetite paused to open an internal door the man with shiny shoes brought the cosh down on his head. Lapetite crumpled to the floor without a sound. It was a temptation to hit him again and again, but the man with shiny shoes resisted. If he did, blood would be sprayed about, and blood could tell stories. He checked for a pulse, all the time listening for movements in case anyone else was in the house. When he was satisfied that his victim was dead he locked the door and went exploring.

  It was dark when he’d finished, and he was soaked in sweat from his exertions. He left the door unlocked and walked briskly back to where he’d parked the car. A pint would have been welcome, but he resisted that, too. He’d have a celebratory drink when he was safely home. It was a pity about the microwave, though. He’d seen it too late, but perhaps next time… The engine fired first spin and he pulled out into the road. It had all gone to plan, better than to plan, and that was satisfactory in itself. But the real satisfaction was in knowing that Lapetite was dead. He’d rape and peddle drugs no more, and when they heard about it from the papers and television – and they certainly would – all his victims would feel a pang of satisfaction that justice had been done at last. That was the real reward.

  There’s a word men use to describe certain beautiful women at the height of their attraction that goes right back to the days of the caveman. It’s not wasted on the normal, sta
ndard bimbo with her oversized boobs and smooth outline. It’s reserved for women who have often excelled at sport and have muscles that ripple under the skin and a shape defined by effort rather than years of dieting. Muscles that are understated but useful, not sculpted in the gym by hours of pointless exercise until they look grotesque. Women that hold themselves erect and walk purposefully, oozing self-confidence and sex appeal. The word men use is fit.

  The dress Sonia had bought was in clingy silk, the colour you glimpse as a kingfisher flashes across a sunlit river. It was high at the front and cut low, really low, at the back, with a diagonal hemline that showed her legs. Sonia’s assets were on show and she had enough to fund a medium-sized Far Eastern bank. Sonia looked fit. I took one glance and decided I didn’t want to share her with anyone.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I declared, hardly able to breathe. ‘Let’s stay in.’

  ‘Will I do?’ she asked, giving a twirl.

  ‘No,’ I told her.

  ‘No?’ she echoed, crestfallen.

  ‘No. You can’t go looking like that. I won’t be able to fight off all the other poor blokes there, with their worthy wives and their varicose veins and bunions. They’ll gang up and murder me.’

  ‘So I’ll do?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Believe me, you’ll do.’

  The Rotary club spring ball is an annual affair, as are the summer ball, the autumn ball and the Christmas ball. Ball is putting it rather grandly, disco music being predominant, with an old-fashioned dance band filling in between the DJ’s sessions. While he does his stuff with hits from the Seventies they toddle off to the bar and reminisce about the good old days when they played with Joe Loss and Ted Heath.

  It was a warm evening, so Sonia’s panic about not having a coat for the dash from the car park was unnecessary. She draped a fake pashmina across her shoulders and the problem was solved. We grabbed a couple of drinks and I did my best not to mingle. I’m not very good at mingling. We danced to a couple of Abba records and as soon as the buffet was announced open I steered Sonia towards it.

  There were some of those little biscuits with Camembert cheese on them. It smells like an onion seller’s socks and has the consistency of coagulated snail slime, but I find it irresistible. I put a respectable quantity on my plate, with some dolls-house sausage rolls, pineapple-and-cheese-on-a-stick, midget pork pies and samosas. I saw the samosas a bit late, and grabbed the last few. I found myself reaching for the garlic bread, but thought better of it. Maybe not tonight.

  Sonia filled her plate with salad, rice and various coleslaws. We found a corner near the big fireplace and stood there eating, our drinks on the mantelpiece, until Mark Stanwick found us.

  ‘Charlie!’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise you were coming. This must be…’

  ‘Sonia Thornton,’ I told him, and to her, ‘Mark Stanwick.’ If he thought I was going to introduce him as superintendent he was mistaken.

  A woman I took to be his wife was a couple of steps behind him. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ he said. ‘Can I introduce you to my wife, Dorothea.’

  We shook hands. ‘Hello Dorothea,’ I said. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’ I meant it. She had the face of someone who does kind acts and a smile that reached her eyes.

  They apologised for interrupting us while we ate and went off to grab some food for themselves. Later, after more Abba and a tribute to Nat King Cole by the band, they rejoined us. A photographer from the Heckley Gazette was circulating and he took a photograph of the four of us. The band was playing ‘Unchained Melody’.

  Stanwick coughed and said, ‘This is a favourite of mine. Unfortunately Dorothea is nursing a sprained ankle. Would you mind if I asked Sonia for a dance, Charlie?’

  I gave an approving face-pull and looked at her. Sonia smiled and turned towards the dance floor, Stanwick following like an eager pup.

  ‘How did you sprain your ankle, Dorothea?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I fell down the steps at Heckley General. I do voluntary work there.’

  ‘That’s as good a place as any to sprain an ankle. Did they fast-track you through A and E?’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, I’m ashamed to admit that I did receive preferential treatment. We bypassed A and E.’

  ‘And why not? Does your work there take up much time?’

  ‘You know how it is, Charlie. I’m supposed to do two mornings and two evenings, but it works out at nearly a full-time job. I don’t mind, I love it, but we’re lucky that Mark can keep reasonable hours, otherwise we’d never see each other. He brings lots of work home with him, but he’s fortunate in having men like you to take the pressure off him. He really appreciates you.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. He was in charge of career development and I specialised in feeling collars. I wasn’t aware of having ever taken any pressure off him. I wondered what line he’d spun the gullible Dorothea about his role in Her Majesty’s Police Force, but acknowledged that he wasn’t the first to glamorise his role, and he wouldn’t be the last. While we were talking I noticed John Williamson, aka Dr Bones, with his wife, looking for somewhere to sit and eat. She didn’t know me but I caught her attention and introduced myself and Dorothea. The doc shook my hand and slapped my shoulder. I told him that Sonia was dancing.

  ‘I hope she saves enough energy for one with me,’ he said. ‘Dancing is the only athletic pursuit I can fully compete in. Wait until you see my tango.’

  They came back from the dance floor and it was handshakes all round again. Sonia told Stanwick that the doc was a magician and had saved her career, and Stanwick said that it must have given him a great deal of satisfaction. A couple sitting at a table noticed that the doc was blind and gave up their chairs, and we left them tucking into the buffet. Sonia put her arm around me, just to confirm whom she was with. I liked the feel of it and placed my hand in the small of her back, stroking it lightly with my fingertips.

  At functions like this the ‘Last Waltz’ can never come soon enough for me. We did one circuit of the floor and I steered Sonia towards the cloakrooms. As we walked across the lawn towards the car park the wavering chords of the National Anthem came drifting through the open windows. They like to do things properly at the Rotary Club. No doubt Stanwick would be standing to attention, fist pressed to his heart. Twenty minutes later Sonia and I were in my kitchen, holding each other. I was leaning back against the work surface, with my jacket still on, waiting for the kettle to boil; Sonia was pressed against me, her arms under my jacket, head on my shoulder. We decided not to bother with a bedtime drink, so I turned off the kettle and led the way upstairs.

  I was cleaning my teeth when the phone rang. I screamed, ‘Don’t answer it!’ through a mouthful of Colgate foam, but my shout was muffled and I nearly choked. By the time I’d rinsed it away and stopped spluttering Sonia was telling someone that she’d get me for him. It was one-thirty. At one-thirty it wasn’t a social call or someone selling timeshare. I went into the bedroom and she handed me the phone.

  ‘Priest,’ I said into it.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ someone said. ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

  ‘Get on with it,’ I growled as I struggled to pull my shirt back on.

  Chapter Seven

  They’d told me that it was number 133, but the parked police car gave it away. Three-quarters of the houses had been demolished, the survivors standing like mesas in a western desert. The moon had risen and a few spots of rain dashed against the windscreen. A dog loomed into the headlights, standing its ground stoically as I swerved around it to park behind the panda.

  ‘What have we got?’ I asked the sergeant who climbed out to meet me.

  ‘Hello, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Black guy. Murder, if you ask me, but I think you’d better look for yourself.’

  ‘How did it come in?’

  ‘Anonymous tip-off, three nines.’

  ‘That’s a big help. Right, point me towards him.’

  The door was unlocked. ‘Was it unlocked when you
came?’ I asked, and the Sergeant told me it was. ‘OK. Wait there and I’ll find my own way.’ I found a light switch with my torch beam and switched it on. The wallpaper was straight out of somebody’s impression of a migraine attack.

  ‘Upstairs, did you say?’ I shouted back.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Which side did you walk on?’

  ‘Hard over to the left.’

  ‘Cheers.’ I have them all trained to be forensically aware. These days, we can identify a footprint on a carpet or a flake of dandruff from a slaphead. It’s just a matter of time and money. I found another light switch and turned it on. When I made my report I’d say that the lights were off. It usually doesn’t matter, but sometime it might. It’s all about attention to detail.

  He was in the bathroom, hanging upside down from a ceiling joist with his head in the toilet. A few drips of blood from a wound to his head had made pink clouds in the water in the bowl.

  Yep, I thought, that’s murder, and made my way back downstairs.

  I handed the whole thing over to the geeks. They turned their ESLA equipment loose on the stair carpet to establish who’d been up and down them; sprayed luminol all over the place looking for blood; dusted everywhere for fingerprints and dabbed Sellotape on all the surfaces to collect fibres. The pathologist arrived at seven and spent twenty minutes with the body before we cut it down.

  ‘Are you doing these yourself, Charlie,’ he asked me as we sat in his car sharing his flask of coffee, ‘to brighten up an otherwise dull life?’

  ‘It looks a bit like that,’ I admitted. ‘We’ve certainly upped the weirdness quotient with these last two.’

  ‘Do you think they’re linked?’

  ‘I don’t know, yet.’

  ‘Or is this one black on black?’

  Black on black killings are almost always associated with drug dealing. We’re accused of not paying them much attention, and there may be some truth in that, but we have our reasons. The Yardies have some misplaced creed about only living until they are thirty. Anything beyond that is a bonus. And they don’t cooperate with the police. This is not to be confused with grassing. They’ll grass on their mothers to save their own skins, but anything else is just not done. A wall of silence descends that we can’t penetrate.