Dead Men's s Boots

‘Like I’ll have to look the disc over for myself and get back to you. It’s way past time we named that price, Castor.’

‘So name it.’

‘Five hundred. Plus I get to keep what’s in the box.’

‘Jesus!’ I did my best to sound appalled. ‘You just told me one item in there is worth three grand, Nicky. Why the hell should I let you pocket the whole lot?’

He threw his arms in the air. ‘Because it’s no skin off you,’ he said.

‘The five hundred is. I’m not going to clear that myself. Carla isn’t paying me, and the Myriam Kale thing is pretty much on spec.’

‘Okay, say two hundred,’ he conceded magnanimously. ‘And the stuff in the box.’

‘Two hundred is fine. You sell off the stuff in the box and split the proceeds fifty-fifty with Carla Gittings.’

‘Agreed.’

‘But everything stays here until I tell you it’s okay to sell it. I still don’t know where we’re going with this. I’d hate to come back here looking for something in particular and find you’d already hocked it on eBay.’

‘Fair enough,’ Nicky said. ‘Better than fair. I’m on the case, Castor, in spite of the shit you just pulled. And just as a token of good faith, just so you know I’m on the level, I’ll tell you something for free.’

‘Yeah?’ I asked. ‘What’s that, Nicky?’

‘You were stiffed. There should be at least thirty or forty other things in the box.’

I blinked. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Am I sure? I can give you the fucking inventory, if you want me to. It’s a lot of the choicest stuff that’s missing, too – lots of Kray memorabilia. Including a pair of high-heeled shoes that used to belong to Barbara Windsor which I bought from a priest in Flitwick, Bedfordshire. Long, surreal story. And that’s just the items I got for John: there’s a lot more that he bought through other people or picked up for himself.’

Son of a bitch. So that was why Vince Chesney had caved in so fast: he’d given me the bargain-basement stuff and kept the top-drawer items for himself.

‘I’ll get you the rest, too,’ I promised. ‘In the meantime, work through whatever the fuck is on that disc and give me a précis. Anything at all that you think looks interesting. I’m completely in the dark on this, Nicky. A single candle might be all I need.’

‘Sure, sure.’ He herded me towards the door, anxious to be rid of me now that the deal was sealed. But when I was halfway down the stairs he called out to me. I stopped and he came down to meet me, fishing in the pocket of his jeans.

‘Here,’ he said. He handed me the key, which I’d forgotten I’d given to him. ‘I almost forgot. Left-luggage lockers, Victoria station.’

A hundred yards from where John Gittings and Vince Chesney had had their meets. Yeah, it figured. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘You’re welcome. I await your lavish apology.’

‘It’s coming,’ I said. ‘Sooner or later. This makes it sooner.’ I tucked the key away in one of the many hidden pockets of my coat. ‘What’s your first screening going to be, Nicky?’

‘That Friedkin movie.’ He snapped his fingers, pretending to consult his memory. ‘The one where the exorcist gets thrown through the window and bleeds out on the pavement. I’ll do it as a double bill with Day of the Dead. You know me. I love a happy ending.’

‘Call me,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘A single candle. Sure. Just don’t leave the gas on, Castor. Naked flames are dangerous things to have around. Hey, is your mobile turned off?’

‘No,’ I said, automatically, without checking. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’m turning into your fucking answering service. That cop friend of yours called to say he might have something juicy for you in a day or so. And I do not appreciate you giving him my number.’

‘And?’

‘And Pen Bruckner rang three times since I got back from seeing you this morning. Wants to know where you are. She said you were due in court or something.’

From Walthamstow to Barnet isn’t that far as the crow flies. As the taxi crawls along the North Circular Road, though, it’s a fair way. Out of sheer desperation I offered the driver an extra twenty if he could cut some corners, and he peeled off onto some back streets where we seemed to go faster but cover less ground.

I was right about the phone: it was still turned on. But the battery, which is old and needs replacing, had run out of power, so the point was moot. Sometimes I can coax a minute or two longer out of it by ejecting it and then sliding it back into place, but not this time: it was definitively dead.

By the time I got to the courthouse it must have been almost four o’clock. I was hoping that the case might have started late, but as soon as I saw Pen sitting on the courtroom steps I knew it was beside the point to hurry now. I also knew from her face how the hearing had gone.

I sat down next to her. She didn’t look around, or seem to notice.

‘What happened?’ I demanded. She didn’t answer, so I asked again. ‘Pen, what happened?’

‘He said he’d looked at the composition of the panel,’ said Pen slowly, sounding almost as though she was reading the words from a badly printed sheet. ‘And it wasn’t right. They were supposed to make sure the panel were completely independent – no conflicts of interest or anything – and they hadn’t. So any decision the panel made wasn’t valid.’

I blinked. That sounded like good news as far as it went. ‘Then we’re—’

‘But he also said he’d thought about the power-of-attorney thing, and he’d changed his mind about it not being in his jurisdiction.’ She looked at me, her face strained and pale. ‘He said someone had to look out for Rafi, and it had to be someone who could be trusted to make decisions in his best interests. Someone who understood the medical background and knew what was at stake, and wasn’t going to act out of emotion or prejudice. Someone with an independent mind, and an expert grasp of the issues.’

I saw the punchline coming, but common sense rebelled at it. So did my stomach. ‘You’re not fucking telling me-?’ I protested.

Pen nodded.

‘He gave it to Jenna-Jane Mulbridge. She’s got power of attorney, now, and she’s already signed the consent forms. She brought them with her, Fix. She knew this was going down. Then Runcie let them convene the hearing right there because all the panel were present, and it was one, two, three, you’re done.’ She blinked away tears. ‘I thought he was trying to do what was right for Rafi, but he’s just railroaded us. That cow is going to take Rafi away to the MOU tomorrow and then she can do what she likes to him.’

‘Over my dead body,’ I promised.

But that was the kind of knee-jerk response you have to be wary of. It only took a few moments of sober reflection before I thought better of it.

‘Better yet,’ I amended, ‘over hers.’

13

I was staring down the barrel of another long night, and I knew it. I had the ultimate ordeal of dinner with Juliet and the lovely Mrs Juliet to look forward to. But first I was going to get some errands run.

I got to the Paragon at about six, which according to the desk clerk, Merrill, was when Joseph Onugeta’s shift began. Merrill was sitting at the desk reading the Evening Standard when I walked in. He gestured with his thumb, backwards over his shoulder. ‘He’s in the cupboard,’ he said, and went back to his paper.

The cupboard turned out to be a room on the ground floor, the same size as the bedrooms or at least the same size as the one I’d seen, lined with shelves and stacked with boxes of cleaning materials. Joseph Onugeta was changing into his work overalls when I knocked and entered. I was seeing Onugeta as an East African name, but his skin was the rich, near-violet black of the Orissa Dalits. He had a frizz of ash-grey hair, so tightly curled that it almost looked sheer, which came down to a widow’s peak above intense, brown-black eyes with heavy lids. His