Broken Dolls Page 9

  They passed through the garage area on their way out of the estate, standing to watch as a pick-up lorry lifted Razor’s Vauxhall Astra up in the air, dumping it unceremoniously down on the trailer.

  ‘Bastards!’ Caz muttered. ‘Why’d they have to take his bleedin’ car? He’ll be fucked off when he finds out.’

  Dutch nodded silently, still lost in her own thoughts.

  They rounded a bend and Caz saw the familiar figure of her friend Ayeisha ambling along the concrete walkway towards them. They had met in a children’s home and had been firm friends for some years now, even though Ayeisha was younger than she. When she’d moved in with Razor, they’d remained friends, with Ayeisha regularly visiting them and occasionally staying when she couldn’t be bothered to return to the home. Redz and Dutch were counted amongst her friends now, though Razor still seemed to frighten her, much to Caz’s amusement. If he was about, Ayeisha would usually make herself scarce, but tonight they could all relax. Caz grinned as they greeted each other. It would be good to hear her news.

  The door to DK’s flat was ajar, so they pushed it open and entered, waving towards several users who were watching a war film on the TV. They moved straight through to the kitchen, where a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff stood on the draining board. Caz indicated towards the bottle, but Ayeisha declined, instead pouring herself a beer from a four-pack she was carrying. As Caz poured out two neat glasses of vodka, Dutch eventually broke her silence.

  ‘Caz, tell me what happened to Redz.’

  Caz drained her glass and refilled it, before repeating the story, while Dutch and Ayeisha listened quietly. Dutch’s hairpiece had slipped to one side during the earlier raid and wisps of her own hair, normally straightened carefully, were curling and frizzy.

  Nearing the end of the account, Dutch sat down heavily. ‘I’ve always said it’s too dangerous in London. It should be made safer. This sort of thing don’t happen in Amsterdam ’cause it’s all legal and the punters are screened better. There’s too many bleedin’ pervs here.’

  Caz gulped down half the glass, pulling up a seat and sitting opposite her friend. Dutch was her mentor, the one she had always looked up to. At twenty-one she had seen and done plenty in her life. She had been raised in the slums of Birmingham by her immigrant parents, but whilst her siblings had studied hard, Dutch had preferred to spend her time hanging around on the streets, gaining a reputation for being an easy lay with the boys. She had accompanied them eagerly on a lad’s weekend to Amsterdam and what she saw whilst there appealed to her. When the boys returned, satisfied with their fill of cannabis cafes and casual sex, Dutch had stayed, finding work in the sleazy strip joints and pole-dancing clubs of Amsterdam’s red-light district.

  The men and the money, however, failed to fill the void in her life and, missing her parents and family, she returned to Birmingham only to find they’d disowned her. In despair, she travelled to London to seek work in the clubs and bars of Soho, quickly gaining her street name and a somewhat flamboyant reputation. She rapidly succumbed to crack and heroin and soon became Razor’s first working girl. Behind the brash exterior, Caz knew that Dutch was frightened; frightened of the punters and petrified of working the streets, preferring the safety of Amsterdam’s regulated brothels, but she had no choice.

  She watched as Dutch, still clearly stricken, searched for any more leftover booze, feeling a mix of sympathy, envy and camaraderie towards her older flatmate. Dutch was tall, black and willowy, with high cheekbones, full lips and an extrovert personality that kept Razor enchanted. She was his favourite choice for sex, offering games and experiences learned from her time in Holland. Sometimes Caz would lie listening to Dutch and Razor, jealously wishing she’d been chosen in the place of her friend. Although Razor could be rough and inconsiderate, it was a victory of sorts to sleep with him rather than the total strangers of the streets.

  Ayeisha moved across and put an arm around Dutch’s shoulder, calming her slightly. She turned towards Caz, her face still pinched and drawn. ‘So do you think it’s The Punter that Mand described who done Redz then?’

  ‘It looks like it, don’t it?’ Caz downed the last dregs from her glass and pushed the empty glass across the table. ‘Fuck knows what Razor’ll do if he gets hold of him before the Old Bill does.’

  ‘He’ll do time inside,’ Dutch spoke with conviction. ‘Razor’s not one to let things lie. He won’t sleep ’til he gets his revenge on whoever’s done this.’

  Caz nodded, her gaze moving between her two friends. Dutch was right. She’d heard him say as much.

  Chapter 19

  ‘You’ve been arrested in connection with the murder of Grace Flaherty, or Redz as you know her. What were you doing last night?’ Charlie came straight to the point. There was no benefit in playing softly-softly with someone who knew the score.

  Razor leant back in his chair, his legs spread wide and his arms folded in front of him. He stared from Charlie to Hunter, his lip curling in a sneer.

  ‘No comment.’

  His solicitor slid a piece of paper across the desk towards Charlie. After half an hour in consultation before the interview commenced, saying nothing was clearly going to be their strategy. She picked it up and read out aloud the words that were written on it.

  ‘This is a prepared statement: I, Clinton James Roberts, did not murder Grace Flaherty, also known as Redz, and I had no involvement in her death. I spent the night she died with my girlfriend Charlene Philips, before going straight to a bar in Brixton, where I was seen by many people, including a barmaid I have known for many years called Viv. I have nothing further to add.’

  She placed the piece of paper on top of her own notes despondently.

  ‘How did you get to the bar?’ The statement he’d given would have to be probed.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Were you driving your car?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘If so, were you on your own?’

  ‘No comment.’

  The terms of Razor’s interrogation were set. He had provided two alibis and was saying nothing more. Even when she brought up the CCTV footage, he refused to answer. There was nothing more she could do, other than pose the questions and wait for his two-word reply, but he had to be given the chance to answer the accusation, to give his first defence. If she didn’t ask, he’d have a get-out-of-jail-free card when he got to court.

  Charlie was positively seething with frustration. After the initial elation of the CCTV and his arrest, it now appeared that the impetus had slowed. Few witnesses could be found and forensics were still awaited on the alleyway and now on Razor’s flat and car, though officers at the car pound had revealed that a quantity of dried blood and some hair could be clearly seen by the front passenger seat and footwell. Charlie was encouraged by this news, desperately hoping that it would belong to Redz, but until DNA had been extracted and an identification provided, it was not even worth a mention in Razor’s interview. Why give him prior warning until they had the actual proof?

  It would have to wait, until next time.

  As she concluded the interview and turned off the recording, Razor propelled himself towards her, so close she could almost taste the stench of stale cannabis and tobacco on his breath.

  ‘Was that all right, officer? Or do you want a piece of me too? Like my girls do.’ He leant back, his hands moving across his groin. ‘You know I’d be only too happy to oblige.’

  Hunter shot up, the vein on his forehead bulging prominently, his voice tight. ‘Your girls don’t want a piece of you. You treat them like shit.’ He bent over, mirroring Razor’s previous pose, his face directly in front of their suspect. ‘What they really want is peace away from you… and that’s exactly what we aim to give them when we get you locked away for life.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Are you nearly finished, love, only we’re closing up soon?’

  The Punter’s thoughts were interrupted by the waitress, middle-aged, overweight and
with a mouth missing half her teeth. She lifted the menu, sticking a yellow-coated tongue through a gap in her front incisors and wiped the table over with a grubby dishcloth.

  He had no choice, even though he was sorely tempted to stay put. Standing up, he fished in his pocket and threw the money he owed on to the table in front of him before stalking out. He hated being forced into action by someone, particularly a female, and particularly one who was ugly and inferior, but today he dared not cause a scene.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ the waitress called out sarcastically, further increasing his ire.

  A cool breeze swirled about the emptying shops, calming him back to his charming, persuasive persona. It was almost dark, the nights closing in by late afternoon in December. Christmas was his favourite time of the year; cold enough that his clients would be ensconced in their houses to listen to his patter, but too engrossed in preparations for the forthcoming festivities to fully consider any financial advice, signing almost anything he recommended in order to get rid of him. His commission figures always went up at Christmas.

  His reflection stared back at him from the window of the shop he passed, darkly handsome, with closely cropped hair, a clear complexion and large, brown eyes framed with long, curling lashes. His facial features were as striking as his strong, muscular body and he exuded good health and a strong sense of well-being. His looks, added to his successful business acumen, had at least enabled his parents to choose one of the more striking girls from his community for him to marry. Or she was, before childbirth.

  The crowds were thinning, and as he watched their exodus, he had nothing but contempt for them, caught up in their humdrum existences. He was superior to the masses, destined for greatness; his elderly parents had told him so. The younger generation would aspire to be like him, to emulate his lifestyle. People would know his name and be full of admiration.

  He came to a small garage and purchased a petrol can, chatting amiably with the cashier. He filled it with fuel and paid, also selecting a pack of screwdrivers, a box of cigars and a packet of matches.

  The car was as he’d left it and the street was empty. He let himself in and pulled the picnic blanket off the dashboard, exposing wisps of hair glued to the facia by the dried blood. Although the sight excited him immediately, he knew he had to concentrate on what had to be done.

  He turned the ignition and pulled away, keenly aware that he was now driving a stolen car, and one that was covered in a murder victim’s blood. The sounds of sirens seemed to be everywhere, each wail growing louder and louder as emergency vehicles appeared, fading as they disappeared through the traffic. With each diminishing tail-light, his confidence grew. He wouldn’t be caught. He was too good.

  The car park on Battersea Common had a few cars parked randomly about, but on the whole it was quiet and dark. He would have to be careful. He drove to the far end, where a small gate allowed access to the common for council vehicles. The gate had been knocked askew by a tipper truck several months previously and still hung open on its hinges. The Punter drove through and continued along the rutted pathway. Nearing the end of the track, he turned sharply left into a secluded clearing. It was empty now; too late for the clandestine trysts of work colleagues, but too early for the late-night hormonal fumblings of teenagers.

  The moon was not yet up and the trees guarding the clearing were dark and menacing. He switched his lights off and sat in the car for a few minutes, his eyes acclimatising to the blackness, listening intently to the slightest sound that would signify another’s presence.

  There was nothing.

  He unscrewed the lid of the petrol can and started emptying its contents all over the bloody interior. He took his leather coat from the boot and threw it across the back seats, spilling petrol out across its blood-splattered sleeves, careful to ensure every incriminating spot would be eliminated.

  Finally, taking the screwdriver from his pocket, he forced it into the ignition barrel, twisting the lock beyond recognition and throwing the bent screwdriver into the footwell. Carefully, he withdrew to the cover of the trees, took out the matches and again listened.

  Still nothing.

  The noise from the tiny detonation of the match seemed to echo around the clearing and its light flared like a beacon, spotlighting the grisly scene. The Punter moved silently over to the car and opened the passenger door. He threw the lighted match into its rear and watched breathlessly as the back seat exploded into flames. Swiftly, he struck another match and threw it down on the petrol-sodden picnic blanket, admiring the ferocity with which it caught fire. He slammed the door and moved back into the shadowy security of the trees, staring mesmerised as the whole interior of the car lit up and blazed in a mass of white-hot flames.

  As the first of the windows splintered outwards into the clearing, he retreated into the woods, picking his way carefully back towards the roadway at the edge of the common before turning casually to look back.

  A mass of smoke and flames stretched up from the clearing into the black sky, the bright fingers of fire pointing upwards in a sign of defiance. Already the wail of sirens was getting closer.

  The Punter smiled a satisfied smile. His stolen vehicle and everything in it would be burnt beyond recognition, any incriminating evidence from the previous night’s activities converted perfectly to ash.

  Lighting a cigar, he turned and started making his way home to his sweet, compliant wife.

  Chapter 21

  Razor screwed up his bail form and stuffed it into his jacket pocket as he walked away from the station. He was being released – much to the annoyance of the two cops who had interviewed him – on condition he lived and slept at DK’s flat and returned for a possible ID parade if necessary. They couldn’t keep him any longer. They had nothing on him and, apart from his alibis, he’d left them nothing to pick over.

  He smiled wryly at the irony of it. There had been so many times, during a lifetime of crime, when he had been guilty but got away with it. On this occasion though, when he was actually innocent, he had been forced to remain on bail. Still, the less said, the better… and apart from seizing his car and keeping him from his flat temporarily, which was bloody annoying, it seemed to be working.

  He now had one week of freedom before he had to return. One week to track down The Punter… and one week to get Caz and Dutch properly in line. They’d both have to work extra hard to make up for the loss of Redz’ income.

  He pulled out his tobacco and rolled a cigarette, lighting it in the protection of a shop doorway. Tonight was relatively mild and dry for this time of the year, which meant greater numbers of Christmas partygoers would be out and about. Thursdays were the new Saturdays. In a couple of hours, the clubs would pull down their shutters and the hordes of testosterone-fuelled young men would be out on the streets vying for the attention of any available girl. The thought brought his dilemma sharply into focus. His two girls needed to be out earning double.

  Finishing the last of his roll-up, he threw the glowing dog-end down on to the concrete and turned into an alleyway behind the shops. Rooting around inside a nearby skip, he found a length of discarded metal and a rock.

  Five minutes later, he was sitting in the driver’s seat of an old Fiesta, listening as the engine spluttered into life. The car looked to belong to a young mother, toys and sweet wrappers were strewn around a child seat in the rear and a pair of high-heeled shoes lay across the passenger foot-well, but he cared nothing for the owner’s inconvenience. His need was greater.

  There was no trace of either Caz or Dutch in their usual patches, so he made his way to DK’s flat, his anger spiking. Maybe DK would know where the hell they were. As he neared his mate’s front door, he heard the sound of laughter coming from within. The door was ajar so he pushed it open and strode into the lounge to see Caz, Dutch and Ayeisha arranged comfortably across a sofa, giggling. DK sat opposite, obviously enjoying the spectacle. Empty cans littered the floor, along with freshly blackened foil and the remnants of
cling-film wraps.

  Before he could say anything, Caz and Dutch let out a cheer and, with squeals of laughter, jumped up from their seats and lurched in his direction. As they wrapped their legs around him from each side, Razor felt a hand slip down the front of his trousers, any trace of anger disappearing as his senses took precedent.

  Forgetting Redz and The Punter, he unzipped his trousers and lay back. Tonight they would celebrate his release from custody. Tomorrow he would get down to business.

  *

  The Punter roused at the ring of the doorbell. His wife stirred next to him, turning over and murmuring sleepily. The sound came again and suddenly he was awake as a wave of panic engulfed him.

  His wife was up now, heading towards the window. ‘It’s the police,’ she whispered, spinning round towards him. ‘What could they want at this time of night?’

  He didn’t know. The clock was showing ten minutes past midnight. What if someone had seen him after all? What if they were there to arrest him for the whore’s murder? His body refused to move, his mouth was dry and as he ran his shaking fingers over his head, he rewound through his movements, thinking through every eventuality, covering every question.

  A cold blast of air from the open window brought his imaginings sharply into focus as his wife leant out, speaking to the officers at the front door. She pulled the window shut.

  ‘Did they say what they wanted, babe?’ He still couldn’t think straight.