Hung Out to Die Page 6

  “I know. It’s just that I’ve been so busy...” He trailed off as he saw the gently quizzical look on the other man’s face. “Oh, alright, I admit it, I’ve been putting it off.”

  The other man nodded. He didn’t blame him, but Desmond knew that he had to make contact, for his own sake. Certainly not for that of the sour-faced woman, who, in Desmond’s view, though her son adored her, abused the term ‘mother’.

  “You’re right. I will phone her tomorrow,” said Gwilym eventually.

  Desmond nodded and moved on to discussing some business issues that needed their combined input to resolve.

  “Freddie Boyton phoned just before the pub shut,” said Gwilym later as they finished the last of the paperwork.

  “Who? Oh, yes! Hell, that’s a blast from the past! It must be ten years since we last saw him! What did he want, anyway? Come to think of it, how did he know how to contact you?”

  “Yes, that’s what I wondered when I heard his voice, with us losing contact with him before we moved, and him not having this address. Mind you, him being a reporter made finding us easy, I would think!”

  “A reporter! He’s a journalist, if you please!” laughed Desmond, recalling their friend’s insistence years before that he had moved beyond ‘mere reporting’, on to ‘proper writing’ or journalism. “So, what did he want anyway? He must want something, we never used to hear from him unless he did.” He laughed again, having few illusions about their old friend.

  “According to him, it’s the police who want to contact him.”

  “Which police?”

  “Our lot; Calderwood and Bulmer. He reckons he has some information that they may find useful and had left them a message a day or two ago.”

  “Really? I hope you asked him what it was!” responded Desmond, his sleuthing hat firmly on his head. “Did he know Debra Addison, then? He didn’t work at The Voice, did he?”

  “Not then, no, but apparently he’d done a brief stint there a few years previously. He got to know her quite well, apparently.”

  “So, how can he help?”

  “Apparently, he was spending a fair bit of time with her in the months before she left, and he knew of some specific threats she’d received.”

  “Really? That is interesting!” said Desmond, increasingly impatient to hear the details. “Anything that could link up with her death, do you think?”

  “Freddie seemed to think so. As we suspected, she was a lady who’d pissed a lot of people off, and some of the birds were coming home to roost in the weeks before she did a bunk; actually a whole flock of ‘em, according to Freddie.”

  “I wish you’d get a bloody move on!” exclaimed an increasingly exasperated Desmond.

  “Now, now, have a little patience. I’m setting the scene – you should know the importance of that!” Gwilym retorted, laughing.

  “Gwil!”

  “Alright, alright! Apparently, there were about a dozen or so threats to her in the weeks immediately before she left. Quite,” he added, in response to Desmond’s raised eyebrows. “Going some, even for her, I gather. Of those, four, or possibly five, were viewed as serious.”

  “Serious?”

  “Yes, as in genuinely meant as opposed to someone just letting off hot air.”

  “Did Freddie know any details?”

  “Some, but not many. There were a couple of altercations in the office, apparently: people she’d offended actually getting into the building and having a go at her. One was a guy she’d upset by mentioning he was keeping a mistress somewhere in Surrey.”

  “That would piss off the wife!”

  “Actually, from what Freddie said, it pissed off his other mistress more!” laughed Gwilym. “Then there was some woman who actually attacked her. Apparently, the lovely Ms. Addison had run a story about the woman’s father having it off with one of his parishioners or something. Then there were two sisters who threatened her, again quite explicitly. Apparently, they’d been operating some sort of marriage scam for illegal immigrants. They’d also started a sideline of each having a baby every year-which they then sold off to whoever would pay the most – regardless of what they wanted the infant for.”

  “Dear God!”

  “Yes, the police could never prove it, but they were virtually certain that there were at least two of them that were sold on for use in some sort of African magic ritual.”

  “Did the police follow up on them at the time? They certainly sound vicious enough to kill anyone who got in their way.”

  “Yes, they did; but got nowhere. Shortly after the threats, one of the sisters was found murdered and the other – probably wisely – disappeared from sight. The big ones of course, which hung over everything, were the Jack Rizzio threats. Freddie knew a fair bit about them. From what he said, they were very explicit, and very vicious, even by Rizzio’s standards.”

  “Jesus, they must have been bad, then!”

  “Oh yes, they were. He apparently let it be known that he’d get her for what she’d done. And, when he did, he’d...” Gwilym stopped, and Desmond could see it wasn’t for effect, or to wind him up.

  “What did he say?” he asked quietly.

  “That, when he did get to her, he would personally skin her alive; literally, not metaphorically, he made that very clear. Then he would have her skin made into a rug for his toilet so he could walk over her every day; though the word he used wasn’t ‘walk’,” replied Gwilym equally quietly.

  Chapter 8

  “Do you think he’s our man?” Bulmer asked, as he drove, peering constantly ahead to see through the driving rain lashing across the car’s windscreen.

  “He fits the profile, certainly. He specifically threatened her at the time of his first trial, and certainly has the motive for it. It was her initial investigation into council back-handers, the beatings up and knife attacks against anyone not ‘onside’ with the crooked tendering and so on, that kick-started all the major investigations, and which were eventually traced right back to our friend. Then, the vicious, gang-related stuff, slashings, amputations, and worse, got uncovered. Allied to that, he certainly still has the means. Most of his money was never found, and we know he controls a lot of what goes on in here.” Calderwood nodded as they pulled up in the car park of one of the toughest prisons in the UK.

  “And he’s murdered before, of course; either by a contract or directly,” the DS remarked.

  The younger man nodded, his face showing the long-held frustrated anger he felt towards the brutal gangster. “Oh yes. The six we know about, but could never prove, and at least another four we suspect, but also can’t prove.”

  Pulling their jackets close against the rain, which, sleeting heavily across the car park, made the dull grey of the day even darker, they hurried towards the gateway of the grim looking building with the even grimmer reputation. Fifteen minutes later, as they passed through the last of the security gates, both men felt that the chill greyness outside came nowhere near to competing with the bleak atmosphere now wrapping itself around them as they were escorted along yet another drab, narrow corridor to one of the interviewing rooms.

  Neither man expected much from the visit which, with travelling time, was taking most of a day away from the investigation that they could ill-afford. That it had to be done, they knew. They also knew that, whether Rizzio was the one who’d arranged Debra Addison’s death or not, they were unlikely to get him to admit it. Men like him never admitted anything to the police, ever.

  When they’d sat down behind the grey table bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, the door opened, and Rizzio was brought in. Because of his reputation for extreme violence, he was handcuffed, and was escorted by three warders.

  Calderwood, who had come across the criminal frequently during his time with the Met, could see that the years in prison had scarcely altered the man. Only of medium height, with the very dark skin which was part, though only part, of the reason for his secondary nickname of ‘Black Jack’,
he was exceptionally powerfully built, giving him an impression of greater stature. The build, along with the sheer viciousness of the look which always radiated from his hard, black eyes, made him a man few dared cross – and none ever did a second time.

  Both the policemen said nothing until he was seated opposite.

  “Mr. Rizzio, I’m...”

  “I know who you are, sonny, and why you’re here,” broke in the older man. “And the answer’s ‘no’.”

  “‘No’, you had nothing to do with Debra Addison’s death, or ‘no’, you won’t answer our questions?” asked Calderwood, the calm of his voice masking his itch to thump the thug sitting opposite.

  “You choose, lad. Either way, you’ve had a wasted journey.”

  “Why did you agree to see us, then?”

  “Well, son, it gets a bit boring in here, and I thought it’d help pass the time.”

  Because procedure required it, they asked him all the questions they needed to. As expected, they got no answer, and, after two wasted hours, they let the thug be taken back to his cell. As they well knew, they had no leverage with the man. Even if they did find out he’d arranged the killing, and thus was as much legally responsible for her death as the person who actually did the murder, it would make little difference. His long sentence meant that, with his age, he was effectively imprisoned until he died anyway. They were bitterly aware, also, that any finding of his involvement would only increase the fear and respect he already had in the prison.

  *

  “Well…what do you reckon?” asked Calderwood as they drove away, having got precisely nothing but the expected wasted day out of the ex-gang leader.

  Bulmer shrugged in exasperation. “Who knows,” he said honestly. “But the powers that be could decide that he did do it, and you know what that’d mean,” he added morosely.

  Calderwood nodded grimly. He did indeed. Although no word would be said, and, officially, the investigation would still be continuing, the case, at some point, would, to all intents and purposes, be closed, as far as any further meaningful investigation went, at least. Increasingly scarce resources would be allocated to the next serious incident to hit the county.

  They were right. On their return from the prison, Calderwood got called to County HQ. The outcome of the ‘discussion’ was that although the case was not regarded as in any sense closed, unless any other promising lead turned up in the next two weeks or so, additional other work would be assigned to the two detectives. At that point, everyone would know, but nobody would actually say, that the Riminton murder investigation had been solved, at least to the satisfaction of a cash-strapped police force.

  Chapter 9

  Desmond and Gwilym met two more of their ‘London List’ for lunch at the Rose and Sceptre. Marcus Denham and William Russell were a gay couple who the two had known vaguely when they all lived in London. Now in a civil partnership, and with the joint surname of Denham-Russell, the pair had moved to Beldon Magna a few years previously, though still maintaining extensive business interests in the capital. Their friends thought they’d settled down to a quiet existence after their very wild lifestyle in the city – a lifestyle that the couple could never understand had no appeal to the theatrical duo.

  Gwilym, knowing the flamboyant pair of old, had arranged the use of one of the two small, private dining rooms that the old hostelry boasted. These were a remnant of its days as a coaching inn, and stopover of choice for the London-bound aristocratic elite. As the lunch progressed, he was heartily glad that he’d done so.

  Both were born raconteurs, and they kept Gwilym and Desmond in stitches at the start of the long lunch. Inevitably, though, talk soon turned to the death of Debra Addison who, it turned out, they knew.

  “Did you?” asked Gwilym in surprise, glad the lunch might be quite productive as well as fun. “It must have been a shock meeting you two, after changing her name and leaving London.”

  “She didn’t seem concerned at all, said she wanted a change and what better way than a new home and a new name,” said Marcus, shrugging. “We left it there, though it did seem a little extreme!” he added.

  “We only knew her slightly, of course, and only saw her once, briefly, since she moved here,” smiled William, pre-empting his partner’s attempt to claim greater friendship.

  “I didn’t realise you mixed with the old Fleet Street crowd?”

  “Oh, we didn’t,” responded Marcus, slightly nettled over William’s remark. “We knew her through some friends in the sisterhood.”

  “Sisterhood? You mean she was gay?” asked Desmond in surprise.

  “Bi, actually, I think,” Marcus replied casually. “We met her at a couple of parties thrown by Ella and her crowd,” he added.

  “Ella’s crowd? She must have had money, then,” replied Gwilym, knowing both Ella, and the crowd she ran with.

  “Or was with someone who had,” remarked William. “It was years ago, but both times we saw her she was with Lucinda.”

  “Lucinda Barrington?” asked Desmond, even more surprised. He knew the socialite well enough to know that she was notoriously tight with her money, despite having a great deal of it. He couldn’t, therefore, imagine her being ‘with’ anyone who didn’t have even more than her.

  “Yes, we were surprised, too,” agreed William. “Obviously, the not-very-delectable Ms. Addison had skills that we can only imagine – should we ever wish to do so!” which none of them did.

  “Do the police know you knew her?” asked Gwilym, wrongly assuming he knew the answer.

  “Er... no,” responded William after a moment’s uncomfortable silence.

  “No! Why the bloody hell not?” exclaimed Desmond.

  “Because, Desmond, we do not like the police, end of,” replied Marcus coldly.

  “You can’t piss around with them like that! And things are different now,” he added.

  “Are they indeed?” asked Marcus, still coldly. “I’m sorry, but we are talking here of the bastards that beat up me and two friends for being ‘queer.’ Do you remember? If you have forgotten that one, maybe you recall the time three of them deliberately spat at us when we passed their car – unmarked incidentally, as they were hoping to catch us at it? Or do you recall the heroes who, when I was drunk – harmless, but drunk – locked me up, then pissed over me and said I’d done it myself? I’m sorry, but I don’t believe they have changed – but, even if they have, they forfeited the right to my help when nothing was ever done when we complained about each and every one of those and similar incidents.”

  Desmond and Gwilym, were silenced for a moment, well aware both of the incidents he referred to, and that they were far from aberrations but actions performed almost routinely by violently homophobic sections of the Metropolitan police service.

  “Anyway, we have an alibi, don’t we, William?” responded Marcus after a moment.

  “Vouching for each other won’t amount to much,” responded Gwilym, probing gently.

  “Oh, we know that. No – this is much better,” replied Marcus with a little smile.

  “Marcus! You can’t tell them!”

  “Getting prudish, dear?” mocked Marcus. “With what these two know about us, it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it!”

  William shook his head wearily, well aware that his partner could scarcely spell the word ‘discretion’, let alone behave with anything like it, certainly not when the story was as good as this, which, he admitted grudgingly, it certainly was.

  “We were having a foursome!” announced Marcus proudly. Nothing new there then, Gwilym and Desmond thought briefly, until Marcus, with all the faultless timing of a born storyteller, delivered his punchline. “With Maisie and Duncan Asbury.”

  Desmond choked on a mouthful of food and was almost blue in the face when heavy thumps on the back cleared his airway.

  “Marcus! You might have warned me that was coming!” he gasped, reaching for a glass of water.

  “Serves you right for telling m
e what to do about the police,” responded Marcus, with humour, but also with just the slightest touch of his famous malice.

  “However embarrassing – you have to tell the police; it’s murder we’re talking about,” interjected Gwilym.

  “Embarrassed? Why would we be embarrassed?” asked Marcus, his surprise genuine. “I’ve told you why I won’t tell those bastards anything. Anyway, we can’t,” he added flatly. “Maisie’s already told them that she and Duncan went home together, watched some TV and then had an early night.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake, did she do that? Couldn’t she have just said that you went back together and had a friendly coffee!”

  “She panicked, apparently,” responded Marcus.

  “I suppose it’s understandable if she’s new to that scene,” replied Gwilym neutrally.

  “Well, not entirely new,” murmured Marcus irrepressibly.

  “Marcus! Stop it!” responded William, being unusually assertive. “I agree with you, Gwilym, she should have – particularly as it would have been the truth, or part of it anyway,” he added, his own mischief sparkling briefly in his eyes. “Well, you don’t think I was going to touch either of them, do you?” he asked in mock outrage, responding to their enquiring looks. “I just served them tea and coffee while they were at it. Oh, and some nice biscuits we’d got from Harrods; and some cake,” he added for complete accuracy. “Of course. That’s our rule – we only ‘play’ together.£

  “Dear heaven – serving a bloody buffet is taking it a bit literally, isn’t it!”

  “Not when the alternative is being pawed by either of that flabby-gutted pair. Believe me, if necessary, I’d have prepared a three course meal!” sniffed William.

  Desmond and Gwilym laughed and said no more, partly because the said images of the podgy Asburys lumbering around naked made them wish they’d heard the story before lunch. Their silence, though, was even more to do with the fact that they knew that, despite his casual air, William had never really liked the threesome, foursomes or moresomes that were very much part of the deal when living with Marcus. Still less, they knew, had he ever got used to his partner’s bi-sexuality; in his mind, it just doubled the risks of him straying.