My Bloody Alibi Page 6

  ‘Barry Leonard is a particularly odious little man,’ said Henson. ‘He has a penchant for young boys, teenagers, preferably African, or at least dark-skinned. Illegal immigrants from Somalia and such places make Leonard very happy. They come to Soho seeking refuge and very quickly become fish in his proverbial, and sometimes literal, barrel. Frightful business really.’

  Cass’s ears pricked up at the information. An ugly thought struck her. Marcella’s brother Rico resembled much of what Henson had just described.

  ‘But the answer to your question is yes. With the right bait, I’m sure Leonard can be delivered. Where and when exactly does your “friend” want him?’

  ‘I’ll let you know the details later,’ she replied.

  ‘And then I’ll let you know what I want in return. This won’t come cheap you know Sylvana. We are after all talking about a man’s life.’

  ‘I figured as much.’

  She stood up and turned towards the door.

  ‘How do you know you can trust me?’ asked Henson.

  ‘I don’t,’ she replied. ‘But if you double-cross me I’ll kill you. And if I don’t manage it, a certain someone else will come to finish the job and believe me honey, that would be the motherfucker of all nightmares for you.’

  Henson was laughing as she opened the door to leave. Eric the bouncer was standing on the other side grinning. The meeting had gone well, she thought; as well as a deal with the devil could be expected.

  Eric sat down awaiting his next instruction. Henson took a remote control from his desk draw and turned on the closed circuit television screens above the door. There was an individual screen for the dance floor, another for the bar and one for the corridor leading to the cloakroom and exit. He watched the impressive figure of Sylvana strut through the empty club towards the front door, before switching over to the video tape of the previous night. After a minute’s fast-forwarding, he slowed the tape down and watched the footage. The dance floor camera was trained on Liam Kenny, the Irishman sitting at the bar just like he had every night since he arrived in town. Henson continued to forward until he found the frame he wanted then pressed pause. Sylvana was sitting talking to Liam by the bar, the pair drinking a mixture of Guinness and brandy. A moment later they stood up and made their way out. Henson watched them leave on the adjacent screen that covered the front of house.

  ‘Ah Eric,’ said Henson, waving his remote at the screen. ‘Look at that. Love’s young dream. Such a beautiful thing to behold. The very essence of life itself. Do pass me a tissue.’

  ‘Yes Mr Henson.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to really pass me one you fool. Did you hear all that from out there?’

  ‘Every word Mr Henson. Are you going to do what she wants?’

  ‘Primarily, perhaps. I never did like Barry Leonard. The man’s a barbarian. I really didn’t care for her threats though Eric. I suppose we can always teach her a lesson later. I spy a window of opportunity here.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean Mr Henson.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do. Let’s just say I think I may have just found a way of dealing with a certain Irish problem.’

  21

  7pm: Marcella sat in the Fitzroy Tavern waiting for round two with Jack Thorne. She found the idea of putting herself through the mill for a pal far easier than she ever would for her own sake. She’d handle Thorne’s leering, and tonight maybe a little bit more, because she knew she was doing it for Cass. Had this been her own slice of revenge, she’d have ripped his pig-balls off with her teeth by now and spat the pips down the pan. She was keen to keep any preamble to a minimum and knew she had to be careful. Cass had made it clear that the guy was no fool; he’d got away with enough over the years to prove that much. He was a slippery fat bastard with eyes in the back of his head, but like every man he had his weaknesses and you’d have to travel a long way to find a guy who wasn’t susceptible to flattery and easy sex.

  The atmosphere in the pub was stifling; London was in the clutches of a heavy moist heat, the city outside like a giant boil fit to explode at any time. Storms were on the way, the sooner the better as far as Marcella was concerned. When the sky burst she’d stand in the street naked and let the water wash her down, the way the flash-flood rain did in Jamaica when she was a kid. She missed that, but then sitting in a prison cell for two years made you miss the damnedest things. Time was moving on; she knew Thorne would be arriving soon. Marcella closed her eyes, felt the rainwater of her dreams wash down her face and waited for the inevitable.

  When Cass rolled up at The Alley Cat at just after 7.30pm, the DJ was lining up a selection of seventies and eighties hard rock. She made a beeline for the black staircase with the office at the top; Henson must have seen her coming. Before she had a chance to knock, the door was opened by a grinning Eric. Henson was behind his desk, this time in a black velvet suit and the kind of frilly shirt a romantic poet might have worn a couple of centuries ago.

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ said Cass, acknowledging the suit, taking the same seat as earlier. Eric left the room and closed the door.

  ‘Oh I always bother, Sylvana,’ replied Henson. ‘There’s a major dichotomy in the world you know. There are those who bother and those who don’t. The concomitant division in their relative success is really quite telling. Now you’re a young lady who certainly bothers. It’s why I find you interesting.’

  ‘You ought to be careful Cal,’ she replied. ‘A vocabulary that rich is sure to give you indigestion. Now can we talk business?’

  Henson clapped his hands and laughed.

  ‘Your entrepreneurial directness is one of your more compelling features Sylvana. It intrigued me from the minute you brutalised that little tart on Wednesday night, just so you could take over her podium.’

  ‘Do you still think you can deliver Barry Leonard?’

  The look of frivolity on Henson’s face disappeared.

  ‘The wheels are already in motion,’ he said. ‘Leonard thinks he’s on the verge of intercepting a shipment of Moroccan juveniles. I think he intends to “try before you buy”, if you get my drift.’

  ‘Dandy,’ sighed Cass. ‘And he didn’t suspect anything?’

  ‘The little shit would do anything to impress the likes of me,’ replied Henson. ‘He also seems to think a deal like this may curry favour with the Albanians and improve his status in Soho.’

  ‘What a wonderful world,’ said Cass. ‘If you can get him to this address at this time tomorrow, we’ll still have a deal.’

  She handed Henson a small piece of paper.

  ‘Consider it done,’ he replied, tucking the paper in his top pocket. ‘Now Sylvana, there’s the small matter of repayment…’

  22

  Jack Thorne rolled into the Fitzroy Tavern alone at just after 7.30pm. He had a glint in his eye and a spring in his step. As luck would have it, a mug punter was trying to sleaze in on Marcella at the time, a white-collared, fast-talker who liked a challenge nearly as much as he liked the sound of his own patter. The guy gave Thorne the chance to flex his police muscles. Marcella knew he’d like that.

  ‘Excuse me sunshine, are you bothering this lady?’ he started off with. ‘I think you are. Now move along sonny. What a lady like this needs is a real man, a man like me in fact, so fuck off and stay fucked off or I’ll cuff you and stuff your head down the fucking toilet for an encore.’

  ‘Thank god you’re here,’ she said, as the punter made a swift and undignified exit. ‘He’s the fifth guy tonight I’ve had to scrape off my shoe.’

  ‘And what makes me so special?’ he asked, nodding to the barman for his usual and pointing at her bottle for a refill. He had a point. Why would a knockout like Marcella go for an old slob like Thorne?

  ‘Who said you were special?’ she replied. ‘Maybe you remind me of my dad.’

  He eyed her suspiciously for a moment. She gave him the beginnings of a smile.

  ‘Cheeky cow,’ he replied.

/>   ‘I’m joking,’ she stepped in with. ‘Maybe a wicked uncle. You’re certainly more interesting than the competition.’ They chinked glass. ‘You’re in better shape too.’

  The last part wasn’t even vaguely true, but she thought she’d feed him the line anyway. After all, for every three sassy insults she had to serve up at least one slice of cheesy bullshit pie.

  ‘So Sylvana,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘Where do we go from here?’ Marcella felt her fists clench with hatred. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  Not many things could rattle Cass Hall, but when she left Henson’s office she felt like she’d been bolted in the chest by a cattle prod. She paused outside the door to compose herself before returning to the dance floor. Once downstairs she made a detour to the bar and put away two double brandies, before heading to her podium to kick up a storm. Cal Henson had delivered Barry Leonard and now she had to pay. His price was the life of Liam Kenny.

  Cass danced like crazy all evening. The club was fuller than at any other time that week, the crowd keen to kick the lights out of a Friday night and leave it dead in the gutter. She pumped and stomped the podium like she was a woman possessed, which wasn’t far from the truth. She glanced across at the bar just once the whole time. A shiver ran through her when she saw the leather jacket of Liam Kenny shining under a spotlight. The look he gave her slowed her down some. When he turned to face her, AC/DC were singing about being on a highway to hell. He returned to his drink a second later, like a man who had already found his own hell. He didn’t turn back again.

  At the end of the night Cass took a cab back to the hotel, leaving the club quickly to avoid any unwanted confrontations. The thought of killing Liam was like a knife in the guts to her. She’d never been a sentimentalist, especially not with virtual strangers, but Liam had a strong element of decent human being about him. That made him something of a novelty, in her world at least. Then there were the practicalities to consider; not many guys could lay you across bare floorboards in a decrepit flat and send your body rocketing to the stars and back. Killing Liam would be a damn waste.

  Earls Court was the usual mix of drunks, crack-whores, junkies and cheerful backpackers in sandy-coloured shorts. Even the flotsam and jetsam of the Sun Hotel seemed to have been subdued by the summer heat. Peace had temporarily broken out among the residents, who were reduced to sitting idly around on the pavement, swapping beer cans, bad hash and bullshit. The hotel room was musty and dark. Cass bumped into last night’s dead tequila bottles as she fumbled for the light. Marcella should have been back by this time, but there was no sign of her. She checked her mobile; it was still turned off. In her hurry to get away from the club, she’d forgotten to switch it back on. Four missed calls flashed up. She went through to voicemail and what she heard sent another shockwave through her veins. It was Marcella; she had been arrested.

  23

  ‘I’m here about Marcella Gray,’ she told the desk sergeant at Earls Court police station. Cass tried to make herself heard, which wasn’t easy given the noise; the place was alive with late Friday night mayhem. While she waited, a procession of drunks with bloodied faces were hauled in, taken through the induction procedures and dragged away to the cells at the back. Fat women in ludicrous fishnets tore strips off each other, while mouthy teenagers in hoods and saggy jeans shouted the usual twenty-first century crap about knowing their rights.

  Cass had dressed herself down like never before. She couldn’t have been any less “Sylvana” in her leggings, cardigan and fraying beanie hat. Inconspicuousness didn’t come easy to her, but this was one occasion were she’d do her damnedest not to be noticed. The desk sergeant broke away from her enquiry to remonstrate with a crackhead, who was shouting about how much he loved the station and never wanted to leave.

  ‘She’s here alright,’ he eventually replied, glancing down at his clipboard. ‘I had to help drag her in.’

  He was a young copper, but already had a world-weary look about him. There were lines on his face that shouldn’t really have been there yet. ‘What are you to her Miss?’

  Cass took a deep breath. She knew the gentle approach was about the only option here, if Marcella was to have any chance of getting out.

  ‘I’m her cousin officer. She’s had such a bad day.’

  ‘She’s only been out of prison two days.’

  ‘I know. What exactly has she done?’

  Cass braced herself for the worst.

  ‘Miss Gray was involved in a drunken altercation at the Cornerhouse pub down the road a couple of hours ago,’ he replied. ‘She broke a doorman’s nose and damaged some furniture.’

  Cass breathed a sigh of relief when the name of Jack Thorne wasn’t mentioned. Since she heard about the arrest, she assumed Marcella had gone off script and done Thorne some damage. She couldn’t really have held it against her if she had.

  ‘Is the poor man okay?’ she asked.

  The sergeant gave her a rye look.

  ‘Apart from a split nose, yes,’ he replied. ‘Luckily for her, he doesn’t seem interested in pressing charges.’

  ‘Well that’s a blessing,’ she said. The news came as no surprise to Cass. She figured not many bouncers would want to make a song and dance about being floored by a woman.

  ‘She’s not out of the woods yet,’ he carried on. ‘We haven’t decided whether or not we’re going to take any action. The doctor’s just arrived to assess her. You’ll have to wait until he’s done.’

  Another forty minutes passed before Marcella appeared from the passage that led to the cells. A short, grey haired guy of about sixty followed her out. He had a doctor’s bag and was wearing a bow tie. He wasn’t a happy man, having left a night of Albert Hall proms to deal with Marcella, but she’d somehow managed to convince him she wasn’t crazy.

  Her luck didn’t stop there. The cops decided not to press charges; being Friday night they really needed the cells and were happy to see the back of her. Cass watched her friend collect and sign for her belongings, still a little worse for wear but calm enough. Fortunately Marcella hadn’t been carrying her knife, or she’d have been back inside on remand within twenty-four hours. She listened to her official warning and was given the okay to leave. Cass hugged her and hurried her to the door.

  ‘We’re so sorry to have bothered you,’ said Cass to the cops in the foyer, blowing them each a kiss. ‘You’re all doing such a wonderful job.’

  ‘Make sure she takes her medication,’ shouted the doctor.

  ‘You don’t have to talk about this honey,’ said Cass, handing Marcella a bottle of cold beer. They were back at the hotel, sitting on their bed. Marcella looked a little rough around the eyes, but was otherwise okay.

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about babe.’

  ‘When I heard you’d been collared, I thought you’d done for Thorne.’

  Marcella let out one of her crazy laughs.

  ‘Jack Thorne’s all lined up for tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘He’ll be at the squat at eleven just as we planned. It’s just that, I thought I’d best give him a little something on account to keep him sweet. It didn’t feel too good babe. Afterwards I just had to let off some steam.’

  When Marcella left the Fitzroy Tavern earlier that night, Thorne had groped her in an alleyway. She played along just enough to keep it looking real, eventually giving him the slip, along with the address and time for tomorrow night. He’d be there for sure, he said; he was on a promise.

  She was left feeling kind of dirty after that exchange, so when she arrived back at Earls Court station she thought she’d sink a few cleansing shots of tequila. She’d been in the Cornerhouse pub just five minutes when some chancer, who didn’t understand the word “no”, took offence at her middle-finger salute. He cut up rough, so she despatched him with a well-placed knee and a stool over the head. The pub security got involved, a bouncer manhandled her and she took him out with a flying head-butt. End of story.

  Cass and Marcella drank their
beer and listened to the sounds of Friday night, the shouts, the sirens, the city vixens barking their pain behind the dustbins in the forgotten alleyways. Life had become pretty dirty for them both of late.

  ‘No one ever said revenge came easy honey,’ said Cass, ‘which is why it’s going to feel so good when it happens. Twenty-four hours from now this’ll be over, but first we’ve got to get real mean. These are dangerous bastards we’re dealing with honey. We’re going to have to rage like we’ve never raged, get plain crazy with hate.’

  Marcella gave another one of her laughs. This one was tinged with a little sadness. Cass reckoned she was maybe the only person who could hear the pain in Marcella’s laugh. She turned to Cass and smiled.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that babe,’ she said. ‘It’ll be just like we’re riding a pair of tigers.’

  24

  Saturday Night

  8.20pm: Barry Leonard sauntered down Wardour Street towards St Anne’s Court. His head was buzzing with a little white powder, his pockets brimming with a lot of red fifties. The world around might have been reeling from a recession, but the drug trade was still booming in Soho. Business on the streets had even increased in recent months, as the mug punters looked for new ways to side-step reality. Barry Leonard wasn’t the kind of guy to pass up a chance to step up a level either; if Cal Henson didn’t want a piece of the trafficking trade, he was more than happy to cut himself a profitable slice of the action.

  Leonard was on his way to meet some bitch called “Sylvana”, who had a direct line into North Africa. According to Henson she had two youngsters ready to sell, but no buyers or contacts in the area. She’d approached Henson first, but he’d knocked her back, because he didn’t want to “compromise his business with the Maltese”, or some other such shite. Opportunity was knocking alright. Leonard planned to check out the produce tonight and have a little fun in the process. Afterwards he’d pay the stupid bitch a pittance for the merchandise and sell them on to the Albanians for a dozen times the price. If Henson was losing the nerve for expansion, that was his problem.