Zip Gun Boogie (20 page)

26

I
drove straight back to Jones'. By the time I got there it was almost midday. I passed through the police and security lines into the garage with no trouble. All was serene. At least there'd been no fresh bodies found, which was a relief to all. I parked up and went to my suite. I called the Cromwell, and got through to the doctor with whom I'd left the sample of smack the previous day. He confirmed that as far as the lab could ascertain, it came from the same batch as the heroin that Shapiro had OD'd on. Then I went looking for Ninotchka.

She was in her suite. Once again I got in with no trouble. I felt like I was golden. At least I did until we got into her office, and she turned on me. ‘What the hell did you do to Elmo yesterday?' she demanded.

I had to think for a moment. ‘What?' I said stupidly. I'd survived for so long without sleep I was having difficulty remembering who I was, let alone anything else.

‘You broke his nose. And Gloria's wrist,' she said. ‘They were at the hospital all day.'

It all came back to me. ‘I hope it hurt,' I said. ‘That fat freak tried to stick me with a carving knife.'

‘You probably deserved it.'

‘Charming! I was doing you a favour, remember? And by the way, you should get a new connection. He's selling you street shit. You should be careful of dealing with faggots. They're often unstable.'

‘You are a bastard,' she spat.

‘At times. Who isn't? And talking of unstable, I've just been down to try and find your old boyfriend.'

‘Who?'

‘Sorry, I forgot. There've been so many, haven't there? You must get confused.' As soon as I said it, I regretted it.

‘Jesus,' she said. ‘A bastard is right.'

‘I'm sorry. Forget I said that. I was out of order,' I said.

‘I suppose you mean Bobby,' she said tiredly, as if it was almost too much effort to speak.

‘That's right.'

‘And?'

‘And he's missing.' I didn't mention that a pair of drumsticks were missing too. I thought I'd said enough already.

‘Since when?'

‘God knows. A few days. I spoke to his father. But he's not exactly the most reliable witness I've ever come across.'

‘I liked him.'

‘I think he's probably changed a good deal since you last saw him. They both have.'

‘You just want Bobby to be guilty.'

‘Sorry, Ninotchka,' I said. ‘I know how you feel about him.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘Tell the police. Like I should have done last night.'

‘To hell with you then!'

I was getting really pissed off with her. No matter what I did I couldn't win. ‘What'll make you believe he did it?' I asked. ‘A signed confession?'

She didn't answer.

‘I'm sorry,' I said for the third time. ‘But what can I do?'

‘Like I said, go to hell.'

So I went.

First I went to Shapiro's suite. He was there with Lindy, having a spot of light lunch. I asked to speak with him privately, and he took me into one of the bedrooms. When we were alone I asked him one question. At first he refused to answer. So I answered it for him. He was surprised that I knew. But eventually he confirmed that what I'd suspected was true. I thanked him and left them to their pasta with garlic sauce. Then I found Lomax. He was in the bar as usual. I turned down the offer of a drink.
He
confirmed that Turdo had been drum roadie for Bobby Boyle before Boyle left the band. After that I went down to the incident room and found Carpenter and Ripley, and laid the whole thing out for them. Piece by piece.

I told them what Elmo had told me the day before. On the previous Monday evening, he had sold Turdo two grams of smack. It was the first time Turdo had purchased drugs from Elmo. I told them that Turdo had worked for Boyle. I told them what had happened to Shapiro later that night, and why I'd been called in to work for the band. The two policemen were very interested in that particular piece of information. Next, I told them what Shapiro had just admitted to me: that Turdo had given him the wrap that contained, not coke as he thought, but street-grade heroin. The policemen were very interested in that piece of information too. I told them that the smack was identical to the stuff Elmo had supplied to me. I didn't tell them who I was buying it for. I told them about seeing Boyle at the scene of the murder of the security man. I told them about the missing drumsticks, and Bobby Boyle's address in Slough and that he had been missing all week. Finally I gave them Elmo's address. Unfortunately I let slip what I'd done to the happy couple. But I told you, I was very tired.

When I finished I gave them my conclusions: that Bobby Boyle was as guilty as hell of two murders and one attempted murder. Whether or not he was fit to plead was entirely another matter. His motive: revenge.

Carpenter listened to my summing up in silence, and then sent Ripley to put out a description of Boyle on the wire.

Then he about burnt my ears off. He threatened me with arrest for obstruction and wasting police time, and touched on possession of Class A drugs, and GBH on Elmo and Gloria. Then he told me that, if anyone else had got killed whilst I withheld information, I would have been an accessory before and after the fact.

I sat and took it all. I had no choice.

When he finally let me go, I went up to my suite, and went to bed.

To hell with the lot of them, I thought.

27

O
f course I couldn't sleep, tired as I was. I just lay in bed staring at the ceiling above me. All of a sudden I fancied a swim. An olympic-sized pool in the basement Lomax had said. But there was a problem. I had no trunks. I telephoned down to the Men's Shoppe and asked for Jeremy. He came straight on the line. I explained what I wanted.

‘No problem, Mr Sharman,' he said. ‘I'll have one of my assistants meet you at the pool with a selection of swimming costumes in five minutes.'

‘Thank you, Jeremy,' I said.

‘It's a pleasure,' he replied and we both hung up.

I put on jeans and a T-shirt and slipped my bare feet into a pair of loafers, and went down to the basement. The pool was signposted and standing outside was one of the guys who had brought the clothes up to my suite three days before.

‘Mr Sharman,' he said. ‘Jeremy sent these for you. Size medium?'

I nodded.

‘Any particular style or colour?'

I took a navy blue pair off the top. ‘These'll do.'

‘Are you sure? Do you wish to try them?'

‘They'll be fine.'

‘Very well, sir. There are towels and robes in the cubicles. Enjoy your swim.'

‘I will,' I said, and watched him walk away before I pushed open the door to the pool. It had a vaulted ceiling and green-doored cubicles stretching away on both sides. The pool itself was big. Olympic sized was right, and totally deserted. The place stank of chlorine and tendrils of vapour rose from the still water. Every sound I made was amplified and echoed around the tiled walls. I walked to the closest cubicle and changed into the trunks. They fitted just right. I went outside and dived straight in. The water was warm and I doggy paddled for a few minutes, then struck out and did one, two, three lengths' breast stroke, the same backstroke. After that I felt pleasantly exercised and floated in the water, almost falling asleep. Eventually I pulled myself out and dried off. I got dressed again and went back to my room, yawning all the way. That time I had no trouble at all getting to sleep.

I woke with a start about five. The room was cool and dark and silent. I thought about my date with Chris Kennedy-Sloane for drinks and a little light conversation about
Pandora's Box.
It seemed pretty irrelevant now, but I decided to go anyway. I had nothing better to do, and my ears were still burning from being bawled out by both Ninotchka and Carpenter. A trip to the City of London seemed to be a decent option.

I took a shower, shaved, and dressed in a suit and tie. By that time it was almost five thirty. I went downstairs and asked the doorman to get me a cab. I'd had drinks with Kennedy-Sloane before and I knew better than to drive. Besides it was rush hour on a Friday evening. I gave the cabbie the address and settled back in my seat and looked out of the window at the other nine-tenths battling their way home after a stressful week at the office.

The cab arrived at the block that housed Kennedy-Sloane & Partners at five to six. I took the lift upwards and presented myself at the reception desk at six on the dot. The receptionist buzzed through to Kennedy-Sloane's secretary. People were leaving for the weekend, and I guessed I'd got there just in time. As if to confirm the thought, his secretary was tidying up her desk, but before she went, she showed me into her boss's office.

It was everything I'd expected and more. Top floor, big picture window with a view of Tower Bridge on one side and the NatWest Tower on the other. Minimalist furniture and a vast expanse of bare, black varnished floor. A bar stocked with more booze than the average pub's saloon bar, and Chris Kennedy-Sloane behind half an acre of desk, empty, except for his feet on the top, talking on a portable telephone. Love it, I thought.

He finished the call with a ‘
Ciao, bambino
', dropped the phone, swung round on his executive chair, and jumped up to greet me. I looked round again for his benefit. ‘Love it,' I said.

‘I just knew you would. Come over and have a drink.'

We adjourned to two leather and chrome chairs by the window that looked over the river, and Kennedy-Sloane conjured up two Japanese beers in freezing black bottles. ‘You can't get it here,' he said. ‘I have it shipped in.'

‘Chris,' I said, ‘you are a prick.'

‘Agreed, but the beer is superb.'

He was right, it was.

When we'd both lit cigarettes, and settled down comfortably, Kennedy-Sloane said: ‘So what do you want to know?'

‘It's purely academic now,' I said. ‘The whole thing's over bar the shouting.'

‘How come?'

So I told him. The whole story from first to last. It had all the ingredients I knew he'd love. Murder, mayhem, intrigue. The whole nine yards. When I'd finished he fetched two more beers from the fridge. ‘Well, Sherlock,' he said, ‘the boy done well.'

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘But funnily enough, I don't feel very proud of myself.'

‘You should.'

I pulled a face and lit another cigarette and looked down at the tiny cars and people in the street below, and envied them. I wished it was me going home to a house and a family and a wife and children and a hot meal and a night in, in front of the TV.

‘Cheer up,' said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘You wouldn't last a week.'

‘What, are you a mind reader now?' I asked.

‘I know that look. At least you're not in such a bad way as
Pandora's Box
is.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘They're in shit. Very deep shit indeed. The band are not doing well at all.'

‘I thought they sold records by the truckload.'

‘Used to.'

‘And they've sold out five nights at Wembley Arena soon.'

‘If you believe that, my friend, you'll believe anything.'

‘Is that a fact?'

He nodded wisely.

‘So what's up?'

‘Tastes change. The band has changed.'

‘They've been doing that for over twenty years.'

‘Getting old maybe.'

‘Aren't we all?'

‘We're all not in the business of human happiness.'

‘Chapter and verse,' I said.

‘Simple. Receipts are down. Expenses are up. That little posse spend like money's going out of fashion sometime this evening.'

‘I heard they could afford it.'

‘They could once.'

‘They can now.' I showed him my new Rolex.

‘Nice,' he said. ‘If a little ostentatious.'

‘Chris, I never thought I'd hear you complain at ostentation.'

‘Times have changed, I told you. It's tough out there these days.'

‘Well, it may be tough out there, but Pandora managed to stump up for over twenty of these suckers the other night.'

‘Is that right?' He actually sounded impressed.

‘Yup. At ten grand per.'

‘Show,' said Kennedy-Sloane. I took off the watch and passed it to him. He took it over to the window. It wouldn't have surprised me if he'd taken off the back and examined the movement with a jeweller's eye glass.

‘Well?' I asked.

‘It's real,' he said.

‘I could have told you that.'

‘Over twenty you say.'

‘That's right. And you say he's skint?'

‘Definitely. The income is drying up. And at least two members are in serious personal financial trouble.'

‘Who?'

‘Pandora and Box. The founding fathers of the band.'

‘What kind of financial trouble.'

‘Bad investments and too much blowski. Talking of which, would you…?' He fished a paper wrap from his breast pocket. I was tempted, but I didn't want to get into a long session and end up at 3 a.m. in some hooker's bar with Kennedy-Sloane in full cry. ‘Not for me,' I said. ‘I'll have another beer. But you go ahead.'

‘It's the best.'

‘It always is. Next time maybe.'

‘Please yourself,' he said, and got up and went to his desk. He opened the wrap and tapped a few rocks out on to the shiny top, and cut them with one of his credit cards. He rolled up a twenty-pound note and took a snort up each nostril, then got two more beers and came back. ‘It was unlucky that Shapiro survived the OD,' he said as he sat down.

‘Come again?'

‘Unlucky for the rest of the band, that is. And anyone with an ear for real music, of course.'

‘How come?'

‘The best career move right now is for one of them to kick the bucket.'

‘Tell me more.' I was interested now.

‘When a band like that gets as big as they did, if one of them died, it could spell disaster for the rest. End of story in fact, a lot of times. And the more popular a band gets the more temptation is put in the little bastards' ways, so the first thing you do is to get every member of the band to take out a life insurance policy on every other member. Big ones.'

‘How much?'

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? A million dollars. Five. It depends. The premiums aren't cheap, but it's worth it.'

‘Is that legal?'

‘Perfectly. Tax deductible even.'

‘So if someone wanted a quick bob or two…' I said.

‘… kill off one of the others,' he finished the sentence for me.

‘Precisely. And when the band's on the skids like
The Box
are, it could solve a lot of problems for the rest of them.'

‘Cold-blooded.'

‘Life in the fast lane is cold-blooded.'

‘And
The Box
do live in the fast lane. Someone told me they were the dyingest band in the world.'

‘Convenient, wouldn't you say?'

‘I sure would.' For the first time I had qualms about Boyle's guilt. But it must have been him, I thought. ‘I suppose if you leave the band, the cover would lapse too?'

‘Yes. That's written into the policies.'

‘So Bobby Boyle wouldn't benefit if any of the others died?'

‘No. Anyway, if what you say is true and he gives his royalties away …' His tone of voice told me that he considered the act to be worse than sacrilege. ‘I don't suppose he'd be interested in benefiting if one of the others died.'

‘I don't think it was money that motivated him. I think he just hates them for kicking him out.'

‘Who can blame him?'

‘So, Chris,' I said after I'd finished another beer, ‘thanks for the info.'

‘A pleasure. A great shame that I can't see a way to make a few bob out of it. But still, it's always good to see an old friend doing well.'

‘I don't know that I am.'

‘You are. Take my word for it.'

‘Thanks again. I'll be off now, I think.'

‘You won't join me for dinner?'

‘No, I don't think so. I'm not in the mood.'

‘Another time then.'

‘Sure.'

‘Soon.'

‘Very,' I said.

‘Ring me.'

‘I will.'

‘I'll see you out,' he said, and did. I caught a passing cab, and got him to head back to the hotel.