My Bloody Alibi Read online

  © Dominic Milne 2010

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain by Pulp Press

  All paper used in the printing of this book has been made from wood grown in managed, sustainable forests.

  ISBN13: 978-1-907499-23-4

  Printed and bound in the UK

  Pulp Press is an imprint of Indepenpress Publishing Limited

  25 Eastern Place

  Brighton

  BN2 1GJ

  A catalogue record of this book is available from

  the British Library

  Cover design by Alex Young

  www.brainofalexyoung.com

  For Becky

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks must go to my mum and dad, the rest of the family and the friends who’ve tolerated me in my various artistic endeavours over the years, particularly Steve Mason, Pete Barker, Norm, Rob, Booger, Caroline, Natalie, Lucy Angwin, David Hepple and the ever-inspirational Zaf Ayub. Major plaudits also go to the brilliant Cathi Unsworth for her constant support, Helen Senior for her great web design and of course to Becky Hunter for just about everything else. Finally, a special hats-off moment is in order for Danny and Pulp Press for giving me this fantastic opportunity.

  www.dominicmilne.com

  1

  Soho was on fire. A flurry of gunshot spat out, pistol-whipping a yellow sky. A siren howled like a lone wolf in the distance. High-pitched screams echoed across the West End skyline, the noise piercing the nightclub drawl below like a knife through rotten flesh. Cass Hall stood defiant on the rooftop in her shades and platinum-blonde wig, thigh-length boots splayed out like a pair of leather scissors, ready to cut some sucker to ribbons. The gunfire was coming from the direction of The Alley Cat Club, the same place where right now Cass’s alibi was dancing on a podium. At least she hoped so.

  A cloud of smoke rose from Berwick Street; something had kicked off big time. Was any of that mayhem down to mad Marcella? It wouldn’t have surprised Cass. That girl could start a riot in a nunnery. Marcella was no ordinary head-case. She was a head-case’s head-case; one of the hardest women Cass had ever known and the best friend she ever had. People said they could have been twins. She smiled at the thought. Boy, if they only knew.

  Another string of shots rang out like a military death salute; the hairs on her neck stood to attention. Gas canisters blasted one after the other, going down like a line of exploding dominoes. What the hell was all that about? Sirens wailed like harpies in the blue night. As the seconds passed they grew in number and volume, but whatever was causing that commotion didn’t really matter to Cass right now. If anything she reckoned the noise should probably work to her advantage. The bigger the distraction, the better the cover for the scene she had planned.

  The sky threw out a wicked belch. Something sinister was brewing above, as well as on the ground. Clouds, the colour of puce custard, were growing thicker and darker by the second. They’d sucked up a little too much of that city sludge and, like fat greedy children, were getting ready to heave. Cass felt her blood roar; red thunder coursing through her veins. Like a bull ready to charge, she ground her long heel against the concrete and a bead of sweat trickled slowly down her spine.

  ‘Where are you, you mother-fucker?’ she yelled into the night. ‘It’s payback time.’

  Right on cue, the pig Jack Thorne wobbled into view from the foot of the alleyway below, his beer-belly profile silhouetted against the neon lights of the massage parlour across the street. From her vantage point she could make out the sleaze-ball grin on Thorne’s face; the balding lines on his fat, potato-white scalp; the black police boots; the sweat patches under the arms of his short-sleeved police-issue shirt. He was checking the doors, looking for a number seven; lucky for some but definitely not for this boy.

  He located the door, which had been left unlocked and disappeared inside. Cass quickly crossed the rooftop and made her way down the fire escape. The old ladder was loose and more than a little dangerous. It probably hadn’t been used in years. Decades of weather decay had weakened the cement that held the long steel bolts to the wall. She jumped down the last few steps to her balcony and landed square on her feet; a perfect landing with a dancer’s coordination; no mean feat in six-inch heels.

  A fat raindrop slapped her on the hand, followed by another on her shoulder. They reminded her of something she’d heard about frogs falling out of the sky during South American rainstorms; a plague of frogs; vengeance for all the evils of the world. She climbed through the sash window at the back of her room, checked everything was in place and waited in position behind the door. Within a minute the storm crashed down on the building like a sledgehammer. Rain battered the leaking roof; fork lightning blitzed the metal of the fire escape; gunfire continued to explode in the background. A plague of thunder, hail, fire and death had hit Soho; the city working itself into an almighty frenzy.

  Where had that bastard Thorne got to? He had to be near now. It was only three floors up to the flat. Then again, climbing six flights of stairs probably felt like scaling the Eiffel Tower for that tub of pig lard. Sure enough, a few seconds later there was a knock at the door.

  Cass paused and took a deep breath.

  She opened the door, killer smile at the ready.

  And before she had a chance to speak, a big right fist hit her square on the jaw and knocked her flying backwards…

  2

  Four Nights Earlier

  Wednesday: Cass Hall sauntered towards the doorway of The Alley Cat Club on Berwick Street, complete with shades, scarlet underwear and thigh-length leather boots. Her platinum-blond wig brushed the exposed skin on her shoulder blades, where the name S-Y-L-V-A-N-A was tattooed in bold black ink. Her earrings were the same bright gold as the diamond-shaped ring on the middle finger of her right hand, which doubled up as a handy knuckle-duster. Every muscle on view was toned to perfection, her dark-brown skin glistening wildly in the heady mixture of neon and Soho streetlight.

  Cass had done her homework since she’d left Holloway prison a week earlier. She was a woman with a plan and stage one of that plan began right here. Mad Marcella would be out tomorrow and the club was perfect for what they had in mind. As she passed through crowded Soho, feet stopped and jaws dropped all around her. She strolled nonchalantly past the mesmerised queue of mug punters outside the club and straight up to the no-necks with mouthpieces at the door.

  ‘I’m here to see Cal honey,’ she said to one of the bouncers before he had chance to find his tongue, which was already hanging down somewhere near the pavement. “Cal” was Cal Henson, the owner of the club.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’ asked the second no-neck. Cass turned her head to him and smiled.

  ‘Sweetheart, nobody in their wildest dreams is really expecting me. Just tell him Sylvana wants to make his acquaintance.’

  After a wide-eyed shrug to his colleague, the guy opened the door to let her through and muttered something into his mouthpiece. Once inside, Cass found herself confronted by a bunch of leering crew-cuts in regulation suits. The gang, who looked like they might work in the city as professional leeches, were hovering outside the cloakroom. An attendant with a beehive haircut and cannonballs for breasts had been fielding all their best lines, armed with just a few safety pins and a plastic smile the size of a cricket bat. With Cass in view, the gang turned their attention to her. The
biggest of them stood in front of her and spread his considerable frame out. He had the look of a market boy, who might be punching above his weight on the stock exchange.

  ‘Alright darling,’ he said, in broad cockney. ‘You must be looking for me.’

  The schoolboy nudges between the gang were quickly followed by a chorus of whoops and hollers. Cass was pleased he was the biggest of the bunch. Once she’d dealt with him she figured the rest would keep a safe distance. It could also prove a novel way to announce her arrival on the scene.

  She stood back and looked him up and down. He was a big guy, well-built but kind of oily. He stank of arrogance and cheap lager; just another ten-a-penny dropkick to add to all the others she’d passed on life’s journey. Guys like this made her sick. They’d hover round sleazy bars like a bunch of jackals; brave in numbers, but void between the ears and usually between the legs.

  ‘And why might I want to look for you?’ she replied.

  ‘Cos I’ve got a six-inch tongue and I can breathe through my ears.’

  The gang laughed like they’d never heard that old one before. Oily Boy fixed his eyes on Cass’s breasts, licked his lips and leaned towards her.

  ‘I suggest you get out of my way little boy,’ she replied. ‘I’d hate to make you look stupid in front of your ugly friends. I’m not sure your ego could stand it.’

  Oily Boy’s mood suddenly changed. The leering smile was replaced by an evil glare. She knew guys like him, the kind whose mood could turn on a sixpence. She could imagine the bruises on the wife back home when his team lost, or if his horse didn’t come in.

  ‘Who do you think you’re talking to like that bitch?’ he snarled. ‘You don’t even belong in this country.’

  So the guy was a racist, as well as a sleaze. Cass glanced round at the nodding gang once more; the uniform-cropped haircuts suddenly made more sense.

  Soho had seen some major trouble on that score recently. Cass had heard about it from some of the girls in prison, who worked the clubs and local streets. A spin-off group from the British National Party had singled out the area for special treatment of late. A vicious splinter-group of neo-fascist extremist thugs, they were targeting the streets of W1 with a cruel vengeance. After all, Soho was everything they hated about modern Britain, being as it was a melting pot of blacks, immigrants, gays, transsexuals and the rest. The neo-fascist gang had been very proactive in recent weeks, infiltrating the local clubs, organising beatings and shootings. There had even been a couple of firebombs hurled through windows.

  Soho was fighting back however. A counter-movement had been organised among the gay community to combat the attacks. The movement was growing fast, along with the unrest, and the local law were becoming increasingly twitchy about the situation. There was even worry that a full scale war might break out at some point.

  ‘What are you anyway?’ carried on Oily Boy. ‘Just another black whore, so why don’t you start behaving like one...’

  He raised his right hand to her face, but before he could get near she took a short step back and threw a straight karate punch into his groin. Oily Boy sank to the floor like he’d taken a bullet in the gut. She swung round, ready to strike any of his leech entourage, but they all took a step backwards. Perhaps Oily Boy wasn’t as popular as he thought. Doubled up on the carpet, his face turned bright red as he desperately tried to find his breath. She looked at her knuckle-duster ring; this guy would have a naval the shape of a diamond for a while.

  ‘You’ll live to regret that, bitch,’ he grunted from his squat position. The beehive behind the counter started applauding. Cass turned to see one of the no-necks with the mouthpieces also staring at her handy-work. A smile had spread across his face.

  ‘Be a darling and tell Mr Henson I’d like to see him now,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in the bar.’

  She stepped over Oily Boy and through his gang of racist lackeys, who parted like the Red Sea to let her pass.

  3

  The cell doors were slamming shut once more in Holloway prison. Marcella settled down for her last night behind the high walls with the barbed-wire trimming. The prison felt like an oven. The nightshift screws paced up and down the hall outside struggling to keep cool in the relentless heat, but ‘Mad’ Marcella Gray had been cooking on a slow-burn for years, making ready for that beautiful day when the front gate would open up and the big wide world outside would swallow her whole again. She knew she wouldn’t sleep tonight; freedom was too close for that, so she lay back and counted down the minutes, listening to the distant drone of the city traffic.

  The low hum of the cars was punctuated by the noises from the cells and the dorms around her; bad sleep and uneasy dreams; the sound of fear. Nightmares bubbled up to the surface at times for even the hardest of cons. She’d had them herself when she first came in; had to be pinned down by the staff once, she got so damn worked up in the night. They beat her up, strapped her in a jacket and gave her enough sedative to knock the stuffing out of a bull rhinoceros.

  A vivid dream sent her over the edge that night, one she’d seen all too often. She thought her little brother Rico was being taken away from her again. She saw the tears in his eyes and needle marks in his arm. She woke up pouring with sweat then she remembered Rico was already dead – murdered; that just made her go more crazy. She was screaming the name “LEONARD” over and over, when they carted her away to the isolation unit. From that night on she was known as “Mad” Marcella; the screws’ nightmare. Cass used to get the chills as well, when they shared a cell; bad dreams about bad cops. They both got over it mind, especially when their plan started to take shape.

  It started as fantasy, a little personal therapy to help wile away the endless hours of tedium under lock and key. Then it became a kind of hypothetical “what if?” They talked the idea through, over and over, until eventually the “what if?” became a “how?” and a “when?” The plan became an obsession; a blueprint for the ultimate revenge: two women, one sexy character, two dead scumballs, one perfect alibi. Beautiful. Jack Thorne and Barry Leonard, the two men who’d done them so much damage in their young lives, would finally get all they deserved.

  Her partner was out there right now doing the groundwork, sowing the seeds of the operation. By the time she got out of this hell-hole, Cass would have done the business at The Alley Cat Club and “Sylvana” would have a job dancing in front of some of Soho’s sleaziest.

  There weren’t many could stop Cass Hall when she went to work. She was one of the few girls Marcella had come across who she’d think twice about taking on herself. It was just as well they became blood during their time together. Some of the girls used to say they were like twins. They were wrong of course. Sisters maybe, but different enough if you bothered to look properly. They sure as hell scared themselves sometimes though, when they stood face to face in their cell. They both agreed it was like standing in front of one seriously fucked-up mirror.

  A scream rang out from somewhere down the hall; another nightmare. Marcella thought about her little brother Rico again; then she thought about the bastard Barry Leonard and what she was going to do to him when she got out.

  4

  The Alley Cat was more spider-like than anything vaguely feline. The front consisted of a corridor flanked by small dark booths, the tables inside covered by a web-like mesh of black metal. Beyond the booths was a large floor with a bar down one side. The dance floor had a podium in each corner, while a glitter ball - straight out of the 1970s - revolved in the middle of the room. Another double-door on the far side led to the toilets, which were marked ‘Alley Cats’ and ‘Pussycats’. An idiot DJ in a box above the doorway was busy murdering a Barry White classic, beating it to death with a heavy-handed bass drum mix. The place was renowned as Soho’s premier retro club, which meant they played a lot of same-old, same-bloody-old music and gave a succession of owners an excuse not to bother decorating.

  The dance floor was like a zoo; one that was heavy on the apes. There wer
e even cages around the sides of the room. No surprises that the lion’s share of the punters were male, some still suited from a day at the office, others looking like they’d never been near an office, except maybe to get instructions from their brief. Different generations of sleaze-ball mingled and swapped cash for pills, drinks, for favours. Drunken boys tried to impress girls in gaudy outfits; pill-popping pleasure-seekers scuttled around like dung beetles, not knowing which turd to turn to first. The usual deals were going down in the shadowy corners, as the sucker punters buried themselves in their worst excesses, wallowing in the pit of their most base animal cravings. The only thing missing was a wildlife film crew.

  Clubland, thought Cass. Beautiful. She knew there was a better life than this somewhere out there, but then she kind of liked this one. Sure, it stank in virtually every respect – from the bad chat-up lines to the blocked toilets - but like a slow car crash, it made pretty damn compelling viewing.

  She made her way across to the long bar, where a pack of thirsty customers clamoured like baying dogs for their drinks. At one end, a guy wearing a black leather jacket was sitting alone, nursing a pint of Guinness in his big hands. He looked somewhere in his mid-twenties, with a head of thick black hair and full sideburns to match. He was gazing into the mirror behind the bar, his eyes wide and reflective. He was the first guy Cass had seen all evening who warranted a second glance. Apart from anything else, he stood out because of the wide berth he was being given by the other punters. The guy had a presence, a brooding menace, like a lightly-smoking volcano with a belly full of lava on the simmer. He was pleasing on the eye alright, but odds on to be just another jerk. Besides, Cass wasn’t looking for that kind of action right now. If the plan was to have any chance of working, she needed to get a job dancing in the club. Tonight.