Kissing the Dragon - 22. Another Death

Saturday morning at ten-forty-five and I am getting increasingly impatient in Joe’s Java House on Victoria Station waiting for either Roland or Lizzie—or both—to show up. Punctuality is another obsession and being forty-five minutes late is unforgivable. Worst of all, their tardiness means I have time to rerun and analyse my argument with Whitehead.

After he leaves and blowing off Kit, I try watching television but find nothing engaging enough to distract me. Eventually, I run a hot bath, wallow for half an hour, and then retire early. At around three, staring at the ceiling, my mind finally gives in to fitful sleep. Up until then I try to rationalise what happened between us, knowing inherently what a bad match we would make, both idealistically and emotionally, convincing myself there could be no future with him—he said as much himself. But he is right on one thing; sex between us was amazing and, to the rarely heard instinctual part of my being, everything else takes a back seat.

Movement from the cafe doorway catches my eye. Once again, another false hope. A tired mother negotiating the door and her pushchair while trying to enter. One of the staff arranging free magazines and leaflets rushes over to help her.

Since the text message on Thursday morning in the presence of Ben, I have heard nothing more from Roland and Lizzie. Installed in a small cubicle with a clear line of sight of the door, my heads snaps up every time anyone enters or leaves. Having nursed an English breakfast tea now for over an hour and checked my phone repeatedly, even firing off a terse message, I am in two minds whether to throw in the towel.

Bringing out my photocopy of Tony’s diary I wonder if there might be another telephone number for either of them. I photocopied two pages of the diary on each full sheet of paper, so am able to read through quickly and carefully from front to back. About two thirds of the way through I latch onto a scrawled address that contains the name Melbourne Court in Victoria. Could this be the friend’s flat, the one Roland almost let slip? There could be many legitimate reasons for them to be late. Perhaps they have had a change of heart. And even if they are not at the address, maybe someone knows them and can pass on a message. Perhaps they have already moved on but then why text me? Part of me is worried about them. I have given my word not get them involved but I am involved now, and they are a part of this. Also, if the letter Lizzie mentioned proves to be important then I want to see Whitehead’s face when I show him. Using the map application on my phone, I key in the address and find Melbourne Court on Albery Road, little more than a ten minute walk from the station. My resolve made up and finishing up my second tea, I set off.

I had always imagined the properties around the back of Victoria Station to be exclusive and expensive—and maybe some are—but the buildings heading back towards the River Thames, especially those on Albery Road, are ugly concrete blocks, clean enough and uniformly painted, but not attractive in any sense of the word. Perhaps these are former council tenements, properties sold off during the Tories right-to-buy cull back in the seventies. Melbourne Court is indistinguishable from the other blocks and I am not surprised to find an entry system guarding the property. Holding the diary address up in front of me, I am about to key the flat number—32B—into the keypad when I spot a four number code written beneath the address: 1793#. After a quick look around me, I key the number in but nothing happens.

“They changed it, love,” comes the voice of an old woman in a warm apricot overcoat exuding the acrid smell of mothballs. “Last week. Bloody typical, eh? Been the same for the past six months. Nice easy one, too. Now I’ve got to learn a new one all over. Here, don’t worry, I’ve got it in my purse.”

Prodding one digit at a time, slowly and deliberately, the gate lock finally gives a loud clunk. I hold the door open for her, and we both head for the lift chatting amiably about postcodes, PIN codes and the challenges of living by numbers in the modern age. Pressing the button for the third floor I offer to select one for her, and she asks for the seventh, after which we chat while the old metal box ascends. When she asks if I live there, I tell her I am visiting friends and see no reason not to mention the flat number. After bidding her farewell on the third floor, I notice a sign on the wall explaining the layout, flats ending in A to the left, and B to the right. As I turn right, a man’s face pokes out from one of the doors and glares angrily my way, before disappearing back inside. Only as I approach the uniformly navy painted doors and reach 32B, do two things dawn on me: the face had appeared from this particular flat, and had belonged to Ramone, the runner from the club on Monday night. When I scan the glossed doorframe, there is no front doorbell, just an aluminium letter box with a thin knocker in the centre of the door. But as I lift the knocker, the door budges a fraction, so I push on the letterbox frame and let the door swing inwards.

“Hello? Is anyone home?” I call, knocking loudly on the doorframe. When no response comes, I poke my head into the gap, and eventually push the door ajar.

Beneath the smell of old cooked meals, stale cigarettes and neglect is something vaguely unpleasant, something foul smelling. The hallway is plainly decorated with muted cream walls tarnished by the occasional dirty hand or fingerprint. A green and gold mountain bike in pristine condition leans against the wall and a selection of casual shoes—sports trainers, ankle boots and girl’s pumps—are discarded in an untidy pile just inside the front door.

“Roland? Lizzie? Are you here?” I call a little louder, stepping into the flat.

The hall corridor leads to a doorless compact kitchen which is unoccupied but has a window opened wide above a sink full of dishes. Two doors on my right are shut. I rap my knuckle on the nearest and call their names again. When nobody answers, I twist the handle and peer into a darkened room. For a moment, I wonder if this is someone’s bedroom. One thing is for sure, this room is the source of the underlying stench, urine and some other indescribables. Patting the uneven wall to the left with the flat of my hand, I make contact with a light switch and with a flick of my forefinger, bring light flooding into the room.

At first my mind does not comprehend what it is seeing. An almost naked body of a young man hangs immobile from a rope tied to the light fixture. Chinese characters are tattooed vertically down the right thigh. Where the hands meet, tied together with black cable ties, a large patch of yellow stains the designer underpants. The tilt of his head and the fall of light accentuates the large black earring that he is wearing. Roland. As his name crystallises I realise I have been holding my breath and gasp air painfully into my lungs. At the same time, I bring a hand to my mouth to stop overpriced English breakfast tea and cream cheese bagel spilling onto the floor. A chair scrapes across the floor in the apartment upstairs. My eyes dart to the ceiling at which point they fully take in Roland’s purple face, the tongue dark and bloated, the eyes covered by a red blindfold. Somewhere a memory jolts, of the handkerchief design, red cotton with a white paisley pattern. I have one similar. I also wonder about the distant buzzing inside my head like the approach of a swarm of metallic mosquitoes. Dark ravens swoop across my vision and my legs freeze with paralysis, even though my head is telling me to leave.

Distant tyres screeching, car doors slamming and loud barked shouts from outside barely signify. And what seems like moments later, the sound of the front door smashing against the hallway wall does not even elicit a flinch. Only as the clatter of feet from the hallway invades the room, do my legs finally give way from under me.

“In here,” calls a deep male voice as a vicelike grip clamps around my neck. “Okay pal, don’t even think about moving.”

Booted feet tread almost noiselessly ether side of me but I have no idea who they belong to. Squeezing my eyes closed, I drill my fists into the hardwood floor and focus all my attention on trying not to pass out.

“Mr McCann?” comes a familiar female voice, as the strong fingers continue to dig painfully into my neck. “It’s okay Constable. I know this man. Mr McCann, can you hear me? For Christ’s sake, get him outside.”

A strong arm clamps around my upper back and hauls me up. When I raise my head I am staring into the familiar hazel eyes of Ben Whitehead, now drawn in what appears to be a mixture of concern and incredulity. Effortlessly, he turns me around and after dragging me a few steps my legs begin working again. Outside in the cold untainted air, I push away from him just in time to throw up onto the balcony floor. I remain crouching then, one hand clamped to the icy railing, the other held onto my cold clammy forehead, until I can regain my centre of balance. After a few moments, I feel a warm hand placed between my shoulder blades. The simple gesture threatens to unglue me and I gasp a barely audible word of thanks. Too soon the warmth is gone and shortly afterwards somebody holds a mug of water in front of my face. I accept gratefully, gulping hungrily and washing the bile from my throat. When I look up to hand the mug back, Chaudhary is standing there shadowed by Ben.

“We need you to answer a few questions, Mr McCann?”

“Obviously,” I say, my voice a croak.

“And no doubt you’ve already guessed the first one.”

“What the hell am I doing here? I’m asking myself the same question.”

“Let’s go and talk in the bedroom.”

I am reluctant to walk back into the flat but Ben urges me forward with a firm hand planted in the small of my back. In the bedroom, the scene is almost laughable, like the first time we met in Dorothy Humphrey’s office, with Chaudhary and Whitehead opposite me on one of the two single beds, her doing the talking and him sitting quietly. This time though I feel no animosity radiating from him. When prompted by Chaudhary again, I address my first remark to Ben.

“How much have you told Sergeant Chaudhary?” I venture, addressing Ben and not really sure where to begin. He glances briefly across at Chaudhary then, and without turning to him she nods.

“I know about McDonald’s diary, if that’s what you mean?”

I go on to tell them about keeping a copy, about the letter addressed to Denny and the plan to meet with up with Roland again. I also explain how Roland inadvertently mentioned the name of the place he was temporarily staying and about seeing the entry in the diary, the reason for me being there. All the while I am speaking, Ben stares into space. Maybe he thinks I have let him down. Perhaps I have.

“Anything else you can tell us, Mr McCann?”

“Ramone was here when I stepped out of the lift.”

While I am speaking Ben has brought a hand up to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, and gently shakes his head. I go on to explain about the face in the doorway and later remembering him from the club. As soon as I finish, and without looking at me, Ben gets up and goes to the doorway to call over one of the uniforms in the corridor.

“Mr McCann, I have to ask this. DC Whitehead has vouched for your whereabouts last night, but at what time did you get here today?”

For a second, I wonder how much information they share with each other, whether Ben is out to Chaudhary and whether he would have also told her about our argument last night. Doubtful though, knowing what a fierce closet-case he sounded. I have to assume the corroboration she is referring to is simply his visit to collect the diary.

“Not long before you. Around eleven o’clock.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“An elderly woman let me into the block. We rode the lift together. She’s on the seventh floor.”

Chaudhary turns to Ben but he is already passing the message on to the same officer. While he is talking I take in the dreary room. Plain walls and barely large enough to fit two single beds, the only other furniture is a four tier chest of drawers of chipped white paint. On top sits a hairbrush and a purple hair clip shaped like a tarantula.

“Can I ask you a question?” I ask.

“Go ahead.”

“What brought you out here?”

“Anonymous call.”

“Did they call you directly?”

“Yes.”

“A young female voice?”

Her silence confirms my suspicions.

“Probably Roland’s girlfriend.”

“What girlfriend?” ask Ben and Chaudhary simultaneously.

“Roland was straight. His girlfriend’s called Lizzie,” I say, as Ben lets out a heavy sigh and my heart sinks again. “One of those Goth, vampire-looking types. They lived upstairs from Tony. I met both of them on Wednesday in London. I gave her your card in case they had any more trouble.”

“Lizzie what?” asks Chaudhary, urgency and a touch of annoyance in her tone.

“I didn’t get her last name. But they were living here temporarily.”

With his head lowered, Whitehead scrubs his eyes with the heel of each hand. Dismay hollows my chest because I realise I should have told him all of this. When he raises his face again, he and Chaudhary share a silent exchange.

“At least that’s a start. Would you remember her if you saw her again?”

“Definitely.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea where she might be?”

“Sorry, no. I tried texting her but got no answer.”

“Let me have your phone,” says Whitehead, his hand held out. “I think it’s safer with me.”

“We’ll need a full statement. And then we should get you home,” says Chaudhary, before turning to Ben. Although I am nervous about facing his wrath, I would rather get this out of the way now rather than go home and stew. “Ben, can you get Porter to drive Mr McCann back?”

“I can take him.”

“You’re needed here.”

“Jo, I should take him—“

“No. I need you here. I don’t want those apes jumping over what could be vital evidence. Not until we’ve scoured the place.”

Once again, but more hesitantly this time, Ben goes to the door to call over the officer called Porter, the one who had held me in a death grip. This time I get up to follow him. I stand there until he has finished and then begin to follow Porter.

“Ben, I’m sorry,” I mutter, as I am led past him. “I was trying to do the right thing.”

“Yeah, well. Roads paved with good intentions? We all know where they lead.”

*****

Saturday afternoon, Billy leaves a message on my phone to say he is not coming home, heading straight from work to dinner in town with friends followed by a night of clubbing debauchery. His world, at least, is returning to some kind of status quo. After the events of the day—something I have shared with nobody—I know I am still in shock, not hungry even though I have eaten nothing all day except the regurgitated breakfast bagel. I am certainly in no mood to socialise and even consider cancelling the weekend trip to Derek and Hugh’s.

Grabbing a book, I head for the den and try to distract myself while reclining on the large sofa with Mr Waldorf at my feet. At eight-thirty my mobile rings—my own phone, the other having been confiscated—with an unknown number. Strangely enough, though, I know exactly who is on the other end. Since patiently answering PC Porter’s inane and repetitious questions at Croxburgh police station for the best part of four hours, I have not had a chance to speak to Ben and now a wave of anxiousness floods through me. In two minds whether to let the call go to voicemail, I decide I would rather hear his voice—accusations, reprimands and all.

“Hello.”

Silence at the end of the line except for the sound of someone breathing. Actually, not someone. Ben. Even his breathing has become familiar. And the silent treatment is pretty much what I had expected.

“Ben?”

Still nothing.

“If this is a dirty phone call to get me in the mood, you should know it’s not working.”

Even though I am not really feeling the humour right now, I am relieved when the silence is broken by soft nasal laughter.

“I suppose saying sorry again doesn’t help.”

“You betrayed my trust, Colin.”

Whitehead knows how to wound. A knife straight to the left ventricle.

“Why didn’t you mention the letter to me yesterday?”

“Because I didn’t get the chance before you lost your cool and stormed out. And because I thought it might be nothing.”

“That’s not your call to make. I thought we agreed that if you found anything, you would let me know.”

He has me there.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, I should have told you. But going to the flat this morning was a spur of the moment thing.”

“One phone call, Colin. That’s all it would have taken. That’s why I gave you the phone.”

“If I’d told you about the letter what would you have done?”

“At least I would have known. More to the point, if you’d told me where Roland and the girl were staying, I might have been able to save a life.”

That remark floors me. Is he saying that my not mentioning these facts got Roland killed?

“Hold on, Ben. I didn’t figure the address out until minutes before I got there. How long had he been dead?”

“Not the point—“

“Of course it’s the point. Don’t accuse me of diverting the course of justice or whatever it is you call it, when the deed had already been done. I know I’m no expert—“

“You can say that again.”

“But it looked as though Roland had been dead for some time.”

Whitehead falls quiet at the end of the phone, his silence a vindication.

“Do you believe he hanged himself?”

“You were there. You saw as much as the rest of us. Hands tied in front with an industrial cable tie, a red handkerchief used as a blindfold, and hanged from the ceiling. An upturned chair like a suicide. I’ve asked them to check to see if some type of sedative was used. Won’t know for sure until forensics get back to us.”

My free hand comes up to rub my eyes, an involuntary shiver trembling through me.

“Wait a minute. How can it be suicide if he’d been blindfolded.”

“Didn’t you ever tie your own blindfold as a kid?”

“Okay, but you said his hands were tied?”

“In front, with cable tie. It’s a matter of sequence. Slip the noose around your neck, tighten the cable tie with your teeth, pull down the already secured blindfold, kick the chair away. Suicides can be remarkably rational and resourceful.”

“But you think it wasn’t.”

“From what I saw and what you’ve told me, it doesn’t make sense. What does red stand for?”

“Fisting.”

“Oh.”

“You know what that is?”

“I do,” says Whitehead, with what I take to be a disgusted sigh. “This red handkerchief had a white paisley pattern. And I’m not sure if PC Porter informed you, but there’s a monogram in one corner.”

“A monogram? No, he didn’t. What, you think the killer left their initials behind?”

Moreover, I thought I was the only person in the world who still had initials embroidered into some of my hankies. Another of Uncle Dom’s idiosyncrasies passed down a generation. I also shop for paisley patterns. How could this cold blooded killer have such good taste?

“Deadly serious,” he says. “And someone with the initials CADM is going to be pretty easy to track down.”

Ice trickles down my spine. Those are my initials. Colin Adam Dashiel McCann. I stare out into the back garden unable to speak. Could there be another person out there with the same? Possible, but not likely, especially not someone as close to the case as me. How long before the police figure out the same thing? Or does Ben already know? Is he testing me? After everything that has happened today, I should tell him the truth. And face more of his wrath.

“Ben, those are my…” I say, before faltering. “I mean, I think that might be my—“

“It’s okay, Colin,” comes his humoured voice. “We know those are your initials. And in all likelihood that’s your handkerchief, too. But at the estimated time of death, you were busy lecturing me about my aberrant lifestyle.”

“You—“ I mutter, before releasing a relieved breath. “You almost had another death on your hands. And, by the way, I was not—“

“What’s interesting is how they got their hands on it. Did you give a handkerchief to O’Keith?”

“Of course not. Why would I? Maybe someone stole it during my break-in. But then, why? To pin these murders on me?”

“Whoa, there. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. For the record, none of the other handkerchiefs had monograms on them.”

His words bring no comfort. Someone still used one of my possessions on a murder victim. Not only that, but somehow they managed to steal the item from me. Could it be someone I know? Even if not, an anonymous somebody who broke into my house. But then the penny drops and I remember when I last used that particular handkerchief.

“No, hang on. The night Denny died. I gave the red one to him when he vomited in the alleyway. Along with the bottled water. Whoever met him that night must have taken the handkerchief.”

Whitehead goes quiet at the end of the line.

"Are you still there?"

"Colin, if these deaths are linked then there's a strong possibility the killer is someone you know. Someone in your immediate circle of friends. There've been too many incidences for this to be merely a coincidence."

"And I told you. I don't have so much as a semi-circle of friends any more."

"I'm being serious. Could be past or present. Humour me, okay? How well do you know Hogan, your teaching colleague?"

"Martin? Don't be ridiculous. He's the nicest man alive."

Ben's snort of derision is not lost on me.

“Come off it, Ben.“

“He was back in town the night Harrison died. Correct?"

"Not until late afternoon. Back early from a field trip. He wasn't supposed to be here."

"But he was here?"

"Yes, but…”

“And what about the Friday night O'Keith died?"

“No idea. But he would probably have been visiting his mother in Northampton. He'd often spend the weekend there."

"Easy enough to check. So what? He'd drive up Friday night and come straight back Sunday night or Monday morning?"

“Most Friday nights he has drinks with the rest of us teachers. So, as far as I know, he drives up Saturday morning. Sometimes stopping at a service station for a break on the way there or back.”

Ben waits patiently at the end of the line for me to continue. When I do not, he asks.

"Which service station?”

“No idea, but it would have been one of those on the M1 between Northampton and London. But come on, Ben. You met the man. Martin hardly fits the profile of a psycho serial killer. A Colin Ireland or Dennis Nilsen.”

“Whatever crap you’ve been reading, Colin, please stop. Whoever is doing this is calculating, ruthless, but not violent. If Hogan was in town on the Friday night then he could have had the opportunity.”

“Maybe, but what possible motive?”

"Motives aren't always obvious or even decipherable until after the guilty have been found and charged. Evidence, clear and indisputable, is a better decoder. What about the yank?"

"Okay, now you're being paranoid. Kit had drinks and dinner with the teachers on Friday night.”

“How do you know?”

“He texted me.”

I should have anticipated the snort that comes down the phone.

“Okay, but it’s another one that’s easy enough to check, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re saying this could be a serial killer?” I ask, and then pause briefly to take a breath of courage before forging on. “Ben, I need to tell you something else. About Tony. Promise not to kill me.”

“Go on,” he says, his voice a low monotone.

“Apart from his usual occupation, he did some casual work. Fixing computer equipment.”

“Reboot in Braxley Park? Yeah, we know all about that.“

“You do? And did you know they had a break in over Christmas and all the lockers were broken into?”

“Yes. And the two teenaged kids who carried out the robbery were caught and charged. The key question is how did you know ?”

I pause before continuing.

“I’ve had a lot of spare time on my hands…”

“So you went down there. Poked your nose in. What part of ‘you might be in danger’ do you not understand? Somehow or another, you’re involved in this, McCann. The sooner you understand that, the better,”

“It was another spur of the moment thing.”

“Which is getting to sound at lot like famous last words.”

I breath out a deep sigh. Once again he is right. In future, unless invited, I am staying well away from anything related to this case.

“I’m really not helping, am I?”

A long moment of silence passes. At one point I wonder if he has ended the call.

“You are, as it happens. The evidential link between the deaths of Harrison and O’Keith is major. If I had to put money on it, I would not be surprised if there’s also a link between the deaths of the two rent boys. On top of that, McDonald’s diary turned up some high profile client names including a handful of businessmen, lawyers and a judge, a couple of celebrities and a politician. Seems like he was in demand, your buddy McDonald.”

“He was never my—“ I begin but then decide not to rise to the bait. Besides, his mention of a politician leads me to believe he has Hugh’s details. “So what? You have the names of all of these clients?”

“All of them.”

“So what are you going to do next?”

“That’s something I need to discuss with Chaudhary. Once the autopsy on Keith comes back.”

“Lucky you checked into Tony McDonald’s case again.”

“Yeah, okay McCann. How many times do I need to say you were right?”

“On the rare occasion, given the right opportunity, I can be very persuasive.”

He snorts softly and then goes quiet, until I wonder what he wants to ask.

“What are you up to tonight?” he asks.

“Washing my hair. You?”

When he says nothing, my heart sinks a little so I decide to play things cool. I take a deep breath, refusing to let him piss me off again.

“Well, whoever he is Ben, I’m sure you’ll have a good time. Speak to you soon.”

Before he can respond, and for my own sanity, I end the call.

For the rest of the night, the phone remains silent.