The ugly head of police corruption. I didn't suppose the feisty Ms Neilson had endeared herself to the investigating officers with articles like that, but then it wasn't her job to cosy up to them, and in a time when police officers could be unmasked as hitmen, it wasn't such an outlandish accusation either. And unlike anyone else, bar the ones who'd organized it, I knew there was an inside man. Someone who'd passed on the message that Slippery Billy was under suspicion.
There'd been plenty of articles in the nationals about what had happened to Malik and Khan (although none had contained quite the same polemic as Ms Neilson's), but as time passed and other news stories jostled for position, interest had begun to fade, particularly in the absence of any significant new leads. The articles had got shorter; the editorials praising the sacrifices of individual police officers in the face of lawlessness had disappeared; life had moved on.
The police wouldn't give up, of course, but five weeks with no arrests is a long time. And now that the man they'd been on to had disappeared into thin air before they could even question him (there'd been no mention of Billy West anywhere in the media), morale would be dropping fast and resources thinning out as officers were moved to newer and easier cases.
But Emma Neilson was still interested and that was good enough for me. It also helped that she didn't work for one of the bigger papers. It meant she'd be easier to track down and hopefully less suspicious of my motives. I might have had the advantage of knowing who'd organized the murders as well as whose finger had been on the trigger, but I needed to find out some background on the story, and she was the ideal person to start with.
Once upon a time, I could have phoned the North London Echo and spoken to my old mate Roy Shelley, but now he'd gone, and as far as he was concerned, so had I. There was no way we'd ever be renewing our acquaintance, which was a pity, and one of the oft-forgotten disadvantages of running from the law and into exile. All your relationships are killed instantly. Both my parents were dead, but I still had a brother down in Wiltshire who I hadn't spoken to in the whole time I'd been away, and would probably never speak to again either. We'd never been that close, but it still seemed a waste.
I phoned the Echo and asked to speak to Ms Neilson, saying my name was DI Mick Kane of the NCS. The bloke on the other end sounded suitably impressed but told me that she wasn't there. Apparently she wasn't expected in until Monday.
'Lucky her,' I said. 'How come you drew the short straw, having to man the phones on a Saturday afternoon?'
'The management seem to like her,' he answered, with just a hint in his tone that he didn't share their admiration. 'And she's better looking than me.'
'I wouldn't worry about that,' I told him. 'They're all better looking than me.'
We both had a bit of a laugh, and with small talk over and trust established, I asked him if there was a mobile number I could reach Emma on. 'It's important we get hold of her. It's to do with the murder inquiry she's been covering in her articles. I'm part of the investigating team.'
'Er, sure, I suppose so. Hold on a moment.'
I waited while he put me on hold, and a few seconds later he was back on. He reeled out her number, then asked if she was in any trouble. He sounded like he'd be quite pleased if she was, and I wondered what he had against her, and whether it genuinely did have something to do with her looks. If so, she'd definitely be worth meeting. More likely, though, it was down to the fact that she was better than him at her job.
I told him she wasn't in any trouble, thanked him for his help and hung up, immediately dialling the number he'd given me.
Three rings later and a female voice answered. 'Emma,' she announced chirpily against a background of street noise. Her accent was upper middle class and educated, with a faint northeasterly brogue. I guessed she hailed from one of the wealthier areas of Yorkshire or Humberside.
'Hello, Emma. You don't know me but my name's Mick Kane. I'm a private detective.'
'Sorry, I can't hear you. Can you speak up?'
I repeated myself loudly. At the same time, the street noise faded somewhat.
'God, that's better. Sorry, I'm on Regent Street doing a bit of shopping. What can I do for you, then?'
'I've been retained by DCI Asif Malik's uncle to look into the circumstances surrounding his murder, and the murder of Jason Khan. I know that the police are still investigating, but my client's getting concerned about the lack of progress. I understand you've taken an interest in the case yourself, so I was hoping that we could meet up, perhaps on neutral ground, to discuss your take on things.'
'How did you get my number, Mr Kane?' Her tone was firm but not hostile.
'I'm a private detective; it's my job to find out these things.'
'Why don't you talk to the police?'
'You know what it's like talking to them. There's a lot of professional rivalry. They won't tell me anything. Listen, I'm happy to pay for your time.'
She paused for a moment and I could almost hear her thinking down the other end of the phone. 'I'm meeting friends in the West End tonight, but not until nine o'clock. I can meet you round here at eight?'
'Sure. Whatever's convenient for you.'
'There's a pub on Wells Street called the Ben Crouch Tavern. Just off Oxford Street, at the Tottenham Court Road end. I'll meet you there.'
'Sounds good.'
'How will I recognize you?' she asked.
'I'm forty, I've got a suntan, and I look as if I've just been beaten up.'
'Oh. And have you?'
'I have. I'll tell you about it later.'
'Now I'm intrigued. I've got long, curly hair, by the way. Light red. And I'm thirty-one.'
'I'm sure we'll find each other. Thanks for your help, I'll see you later.'
We said our goodbyes and rang off. I looked at my watch. Ten to five. Plenty of time.
13
I walked down to the Marble Arch end of Oxford Street via Edgware Road and went into the first decent-looking menswear shop I saw. Inside, I bought myself a whole new winter wardrobe to add to the coat I'd got earlier, including a leather jacket, a couple of sweaters and a pair of black CAT boots, all from an enthusiastic teenage assistant who took absolutely no notice of my weather- and fist-beaten features and kept telling me that every item I put on suited me perfectly. I wasn't complaining. It's never a chore receiving compliments, even if they are commission-based, and it meant I was only in there about twenty minutes. They also sold Swiss Army knives, and I took one of them too, figuring it would probably come in useful at some point.
Having got rid of the best part of five hundred quid on gear that I was unlikely to use again once I returned to the sun, I made my way back in the direction of the hotel. The streets were busy with late-night shoppers, and there was a festive mood in the chill air which helped to improve my mood and made me yearn a little for a return to life in the big city. Even the beating I'd received earlier felt like a nostalgic throwback to a long-ago past when I'd worn the uniform of the forces of law and order and had spent my working days fending off abuse from the public I was paid to protect. In the end, though, I knew it was all bollocks. The reality was that London was a dark, overcrowded and increasingly foreboding place – at least for those without the wealth, the penthouses and the fashionable parties – a place of street robbers, and drugs, and seething sink estates; of police officers who no longer had the resources or the motivation to police; of politicians who talked up the statistics but ignored the fact that the problems were multiplying like bacteria; and where those who did stand up and place themselves in the firing line – men like Malik – ended up getting shot down.