Shooting Elvis (16 page)

‘And did it help?’

‘No, not a lot.’

The door burst open and Eddie Carmichael bustled in, carrying an orange and black plastic bag. When he’d made himself a coffee and joined us I said, ‘Swapping stories with your old army buddy, were you, Eddie?’

‘Army buddy?’ he replied. ‘Me and Stanwick? Who told you we were army buddies?’

‘As a matter of fact, he did.’

‘No. We met in the Met.’ He paused for a second,
then repeated it. ‘Met in the Met. That’s nearly funny.’

‘Nearly,’ Jeff agreed, before I could.

‘I was in the REME for three years,’ Eddie explained. ‘Stanwick was in the officer cadet corps at some toffee-nosed school in North Yorkshire. Appletreewick, or somewhere.’

‘Ampleforth?’ I suggested.

‘Yeah, that’s probably it, guv. He wasn’t in the army proper. We compared notes once or twice, that’s all.’

‘Right. So what’s in the bag?’

He held it aloft. It was a Harley Davidson carrier. ‘I’ve been shopping,’ he declared. ‘There’s a Harley shop in Brighouse so I thought I’d go along to see if I could learn anything. No joy, I’m afraid. The proprietor agrees that they’re mainly a bunch of middle class posers. He looked the part, though. Big bushy beard and long hair, but he has letters after his name. He’s a bachelor of science from Birmingham. It wasn’t a wasted journey entirely, though. I bought this.’

He shook the carrier upside down until a black T-shirt fell from it. He spread it out so we could see the big bald eagle logo on the front, then turned it over. Emblazoned in white letters across the back was the legend:

‘Good, innit?’ he proclaimed. ‘The wife’ll go spare when she sees this.’

‘Hmm. Not a single spelling mistake,’ Jeff agreed.

Maggie stood up and walked away. As she passed me she hissed, ‘Tosspot,’ but I don’t think she meant me.

John Rose’s report from the Bramshill boffins was waiting on my desk, but I made a couple of phone calls before I picked it up. My expectations were low, and I wasn’t disappointed. There’d been a remarkably similar murder in Belgium, back in 1998, but the killer had died in custody. Dropping an electric fire into the bath was a popular MO, and very fashionable in Switzerland, for some strange reason, but it was usually a partner-
on-partner
crime. Suicide by self-electrocution had a steady but depressing following, usually after other methods had failed. John had added a note saying that he’d asked them to go back ten years, did I want to extend the period? The contact officer reminded us that we were required to keep him informed of any developments.

I made a note in the log and marked the report for filing. It had to be done, but we were on our own with this one.

Sonia and I went for a run in the park, followed by grilled salmon, new potatoes and garden peas, with apple pie and custard for pudding. It’s my favourite
meal. We shared a bottle of Barramundi and sat talking, a Philip Glass playing softly in the background. Some say it’s wallpaper music, but wallpaper has its place in our lives and it’s great for covering cracks. I told her about the meeting and we had a laugh about Terry Hyson. It’s a deliberate ploy by me, to keep her interested in my work and hope that she understands what it means to me. In return, I give all the support I can to her running career.

‘Tell me about South Africa,’ I said.

She placed her wine glass on the low table. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she said. ‘It was just a thought. I had a month in Arizona, back in ’95, and it was terrific. I knocked twenty seconds off my best 5,000 metres time. The facilities were good, but the main thing was the weather. It was perfect. I got a super tan. South Africa is an alternative and it costs less. Arizona was subsidised, but I wouldn’t get a grant now. I’m not regarded as a prospect; I’d have to pay my way.’

‘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, standard 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.