Blood Line (21 page)

Anna swivelled from side to side in the desk chair. She took off the hood from the computer. She knew it would have to be examined and hoped it would give more insight into Alan Rawlins. So far, all she had basically gained were details of the income from the sale of the cars, the gay pornographic magazines and DVDs. She was certain that their possible victim led a separate life from Tina. Anna had no indication that Tina was aware of it, but neither had she as yet discovered a motive for Alan’s murder, unless his girlfriend had found out that he led a double life. The question was obvious: was that sufficient motive to kill?

E
rrol Dante was enormous, at least six foot four, with dreadlocks down to his waist. He also had the most pungent body odour that permeated the prison’s small interview room. Errol had three gold teeth, and a gap between two of them that made him have a lisp. With his strong Jamaican accent it was very difficult to understand what he was saying.

Although it was not easy, Paul and Helen had established that he had lived in Cornwall for a period. He first denied ever being there or knowing Sammy Marsh, but when told that they knew he had shared a flat with Marsh, he did a swinging head move.

‘Oh yeah, fink it was ’im dat I know. I rented a caravan from ’im.’

‘Did you also know Alan Rawlins?’

‘No man, dunno ’im. I gotta work in da kitchen. I don’t need dis hassle. I’m helpin’ cook de grub here.’

The thought of this man cooking in the kitchen with the heat and his body odour was sickening to even contemplate.

Paul first showed him the photograph of Alan Rawlins. Errol kissed his teeth. ‘Na, I dunno him.’

They next showed him the photograph of the surfers, which led to a long ramble about when he worked at the Hotel Jolly in Antigua and he ran the water-skiing on the beach.

‘This was taken in Cornwall, Mr Dante.’

‘Look a lickle like Antigua to me, man.’

‘So are you saying you never met any of these men?’

‘I dunno. If dey was in Antigua maybe. I meet a lotta guys from da Carlisle Hotel; dey don’t have water-skiing or ski-boats der.’

‘You admit that you knew Sammy Marsh.’

‘I dunno ’im, man.’

‘You lived in his flat. We know you shared his flat in Cornwall – he was a photographer.’

‘Ohhh I dunno. I crash out maybe on his floor. He’s not a good guy, lemme tell you he’s not a good guy. I rented this shithole of a caravan.’

‘Why?’

‘ ’Cos I’m just tellin’ how it is. Stitch you up, man – know what I mean?’

‘We know he dealt drugs.’

Errol swung his dreadlocks again and shrugged his shoulders.

‘We know you were arrested on a drug-related incident, Mr Dante.’

He blew out his cheeks. ‘He informer, man. I was just smalltime, bit of hash here, lickle weed der. Him disrespeck me, man. Fockitup. Me no know ’im, right?’

Paul was immensely frustrated. He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. Then leaning forward, he shook his finger.

‘We know that you
do
know him – and let me tell you, Errol, we’re not here for a drug-related incident. We are here because we are investigating a murder.’

‘If he dead, man, I wanna shake de killer’s hand.’

‘It’s not Sammy Marsh who is the victim – it’s someone else.’

‘Me no know. Lot of people want dat man out of der hair. He was an informer, you hear me? I get picked up and I done nuthin. Fuckin’ stitched me up, man.’

Helen tapped Paul’s knee beneath the table. He was becoming so agitated and she wanted to have a try.

‘Errol, we are here asking for your help. We are not connected to any Drug Squad. We are just trying to trace this man.’ She pushed Alan’s photograph forward again. ‘We believe that he is a murder victim and we are simply asking if you knew him.’

She then moved the group shot of the surfers across the table. ‘We also need to identify these men with our victim. We know that Sammy took this photograph because his studio stamp is on the back of it.’

Errol kissed his gold-capped teeth again.

‘Him long gone, lady.’

‘Yes, we know that, but could you give us any other contact from Cornwall who might know who these people are?’

‘He was a piece of shit. He hadda finger me. They come to my woman’s place in Brixton. Cornwall is a shit-’ole, stinking rain every day.’

‘Well, maybe you should try and help us get Sammy back – pay day, and if you help us we can talk to the Governor here . . .’

‘I dunno where he is, lady.’

‘But you know people in Cornwall that knew him – right?’

He nodded and sucked his teeth again.

‘Me no inform on ’im, even though ’im a pussy-’ole.’

Paul gave an exasperated sigh. He was so tense he wanted to reach across the table and punch Errol. Helen gave him a look, warning him to stay calm, but he took no notice.

‘If you say he tipped off the cops about you, what’s it to you?’ he snapped.

‘A lot, brother, a fuckin’ lot. That’s all I’m sayin’. He’s a batty man like a mean prancin’ lickle shite.’

‘He’s a what?’ Helen asked, incredulous.

‘Let’s just say he’d not screw
you
, woman.’

‘So you are not going to help us even though we’re saying that if you do we can help you?’ Helen battled on.

‘G’way! Yuh no pull ma strings.’

Tight-lipped, Paul picked up the photographs. ‘Well, then we’ll just encourage the powers-that-be to send you back to Kingston, Errol. It’s on the cards – you know that. You’ve got no right to even be in this country.’

‘I’m gettin’ married so you can’t diss me, brother.’

‘Who to – the mother of your fifteen kids?’

Errol gave a wide grin and laughed. ‘Na, but she ain’t no juvie either. I’m gonna have a legit reason to be in this country so I am not helpin’ nobody to come out and slit me throat.’ He jabbed the air with a thick filthy finger. ‘You git outta ma face. I not talkin’ no more.’

That was it. Paul stood up and replaced the photographs in the file. He looked to Helen and then crossed to knock on the interview door for the guard to open it. Errol turned and grinned.

Helen hurried to join Paul. The interview was over, but they still had to speak to the Governor, who informed them that Errol had requested permission to marry whilst he served his sentence, as his girlfriend was pregnant. The Governor at first refused to give any details, claiming it was against regulations, but he brought out Errol’s prison files, then left the office, giving the excuse that he needed a moment to speak to someone. Paul grabbed the opportunity to have a look at the request for a marriage licence. Helen was stunned to see him act very fast, jotting down the name and address of Errol’s intended. He was back in his seat by the time the Governor returned.

‘Everything all right, Detective Simms?’

‘Yes. Thank you for your time and for arranging our interview with Mr Dante.’ They shook hands.

As they drove out of the prison gates Paul started to relax.

‘Her name is Sandra-Dee Fallow; address in Brixton.’

‘That was a bit naughty,’ Helen observed.

‘Yeah well, that bastard wouldn’t give it up. The Governor, thank God, was more cooperative. Let’s go and see her now.’

Anna waited as Brian Stanley removed the computer from the Rawlinses’ house along with the magazines. Rose had glanced over the list of items Anna had written down for her to sign and show Mr Rawlins on his return home. Anna also asked if she knew if anyone had taken anything from Alan’s bedroom and office, but the carer said that she had never even been up the stairs.

‘Has something bad happened?’

Anna watched her sign the release form.

‘Their son is still missing.’

‘I know that, but I mean since?’

Anna looked surprised. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s not my business, but Mr Rawlins has asked me to talk to the social services to find a home for Kathleen. He wants her to go in as soon as possible. It’ll affect her badly. At least here she sort of knows where she is, and to change her environment will make her very distressed.’

‘I didn’t know. It will obviously be a very private matter between them.’

‘Yes, of course. It’s sad though, isn’t it? Yesterday she was certain that Alan had come home.’

‘Why?’

‘She could hear him, she said, moving across the ceiling. He used to stay in the rooms above hers. She said he was back home.’

‘Did Mr Rawlins go up there?’

‘I don’t know. He was at home so maybe he did. I didn’t hear anything, though.’

Anna was about to walk out when she paused. ‘Have the rubbish bins been collected at all?’

‘I don’t know when the binmen come.’

‘Are the bins out by the kitchen?’

‘Yes, just beside the back door. There’s three wheelies, but we really only ever use one.’

‘Thank you.’

Anna hurried into the kitchen, opening the back door to find that the bins were lined up as Rose had said. She opened one, which smelled of urine and stale food. She shut the lid and tried the second. She looked inside to see a black bin liner tied very tightly. There was no rotting food stench so she lifted the bag out. Untying the knot she looked inside and saw it was filled with magazines and more DVDs similar to the ones found in Alan’s room. She retied the knot and carried it back into the house.

‘We’re taking this as well, Brian. Are we all set to leave?’

‘Yep. I’ll get the computer over to Tech Support and see what they get from it. What’s in the bag?’

‘You’ll enjoy sifting through it all back at the station.’

‘What is it?’

‘Wait and see.’

Heading towards her car, Anna was unsure how she felt about the nursing home for Kathleen and the fact that Mr Rawlins must have opened up the drawer to remove the pornographic magazines and DVDs. He obviously was unable to get access to the drawer that had taken her so much time to open. She sighed. Poor man. His beloved son goes missing, then he finds out he wasn’t his biological child, and then he uncovers further details about his blue-eyed boy that he probably would have preferred not to have known. But did he also remove evidence? She knew she would have to question him again, but the next time she wouldn’t be quite so accommodating.

Paul and Helen were at a highrise council estate in Brixton where flat number thirty-four looked in disrepair. The side window by the front door was boarded up, the letter box had a plank of wood nailed across it and the door itself looked as if it had been kicked in numerous times. They rang the bell, but it didn’t work, and then Paul hammered with his fist. Eventually the door was inched open with the chain still attached. A bleached-blonde woman peered out asking what they wanted. Paul showed his ID and asked if he could talk to Sandra-Dee Fallow.

‘Whatcha want to see her for?’

‘Are you Sandra-Dee Fallow? We’ve been to see Errol and he gave us your address.’

The safety chain was removed and the door opened wider.

‘First off, it’s just Sandra, so lay off the Dee bit, I fucking hate it! Mother gave me the name after that stupid song in the film
Grease
. . . “Look at me, I’m Sandra bloody Dee”, she said in a mocking childlike voice.

‘We need to talk to you, Sandra, it won’t take long,’ Helen said, smiling.

Sandra opened the door further and glared at them. ‘What you want to talk to me about?’

‘Could we please come in, Sandra?’ Helen said pleasantly.

The woman stepped back, allowing them to walk in. Helen went in first with Paul following.

‘I was lying down. I’ve been ever so sick.’

Sandra was also very pregnant. She was wearing a short nightdress with a sweater pulled over it, and her belly stuck out.

‘I think it was some curry I had last night – got terrible heartburn.’

She led them along a filthy hallway to an equally dirty room with no carpet and broken furniture. There were also a number of toys and a pushchair.

‘You have children?’ Helen asked.

‘Yeah.’Cos I was so sick they’re wiv me neighbour. She’s ever so good.’ She had an inch of dark growth in her bleached hair and was around thirty, but she was still a very pretty woman with a round face and full lips. Her eyes were dark with thick lashes that looked as if she just continued to apply black mascara on a daily basis without ever removing any, making it seem as if she had panda eyes.

‘How many children do you have?’ Helen continued.

‘Two, boy and a girl. If it wasn’t for the social services helping me out they’d be in foster homes. Their dad’s not around. Dunno where he is and I hope he rots in hell.’

‘So you’re married?’ Paul asked.

‘Nah. You want to sit down?’

They sat on a bow-legged sofa amongst Barbie dolls and tractors, and Sandra sat in a sagging armchair.

‘You are engaged to marry Errol Dante, aren’t you?’ Paul took a plastic truck out of his back.

‘Yeah. This one is his.’ She rubbed her stomach.

‘How long have you known him?’

‘About a year or so. What’s this about?’

‘We are investigating a missing person and we have some photographs we wanted to show you from when Errol was in Cornwall.’ Helen kept her voice very quiet and relaxed.

‘Yeah, that’s where I met him. I used to work as a waitress. In fact, I wish I’d never left to end up in this dump. I had a nice rented caravan there.’

‘So when Errol left Cornwall you came with him?’

‘Well, not exactly. He came to London before me and then I packed up everythin’ to be with him.’

‘How many months gone are you?’ Helen asked.

‘Seven. Feels like a year, I’m tellin’ you. I wasn’t like this with me others.’ She puffed out her cheeks.

‘Would you mind looking at some photographs to see if you recognise anyone on them?’ Paul opened his briefcase.

‘Yeah. Is this to do with that little bastard Sammy Marsh?’

Paul glanced at Helen.

‘It is actually, because we know he took the photograph . . . this one.’ Paul passed over the photograph with the surfers.

Sandra peered at it and then pulled a face. ‘Nah, dunno them.’ She turned it over in her hand to look at the studio watermark print.