Goodnight Lady (73 page)

‘You realise that you’re going down for a long time, don’t you, Boysie? A long, long time. Murder is a serious charge. Now I won’t beat about the bush, I’ll be straight with you. I know your brother is a very strange individual. I know more about you two than you think. Now your uncle is getting on a bit, he won’t do the stretch as easily as you two. More’n likely he’ll die inside, in some prison hospital, without his family around him.’ He paused to let this sink in.

‘I think that between us we could come to some arrangement. Your cousin Delia has been sporting bruises, so has her nipper. Oh, I can find out anything if I want to. I can make it look like you and Danny boy went round there to see him friendly like and it just got out of hand. But I need your signature on a piece of paper to do that. You could save yourself, your uncle and a lot of people grief by keeping your head down, putting your hand up and carrying the can. What do you say, Boysie?’

Boysie looked at the man opposite him with a cold glare. He uncrossed his arms slowly. His voice low and even, he said, ‘Why don’t you get me a nice cup of tea, Mr Limmington, and then why don’t you piss off? You’re getting on my nerves now. Me and my brother and my uncle were nowhere near that flat and you know it. You’re trying to fit us up. Well, you picked on the wrong people this time.’

Limmington opened his eyes wide as he said nastily, ‘You trying to threaten me, Boysie?’

He looked around the empty room, his face showing an expression Limmington had not seen before. It was almost feral.

‘What do you think? You don’t scare me, mate, you don’t even enter my thoughts. You’re nothing, a tiny speck on the arsehole of the world. Don’t sit there with your poxy newspaper advert suit and your good brown brogues and try and get one over on me or mine. You’re just an Old Bill. You’re dirt on the bottom of my shoes. You’re nothing. Get that? Nothing. I could see you off the face of this earth if the fancy took me, so don’t push me, mate. Just don’t push me. Now call in your little friend and let’s forget this conversation ever took place.’

Despite himself Limmington felt afraid. Boysie Cavanagh had just told him in no uncertain terms that his life could be in danger. That he was ready to extinguish him as he would a cockroach or a beetle. Harry Limmington saw for a brief second his wife Violet mourning him as she had her only son.

It was only then, in the small interview room, face to face with the least fearsome of the Cavanagh twins, that he realised, really understood, just what he had taken on.

 

PC Dillinger was a rather skinny man with large, obtrusive ears. He was thirty-six years old, unmarried, and had been a policeman for over ten years, never aspiring to be anything more than plain PC. He was at this moment in possession of the blood-stained pickaxe handle that was the main evidence against the Cavanaghs. It had been removed from the locked cupboard in the evidence lab by another policeman, a DC called Rushton, and had been given to him in the car park of The Oaks in Ilford half an hour earlier. He was now sitting in his black Zephyr on the London Road at The Chequers, Dagenham, waiting for someone to pick it up and dispose of it. He would be five hundred pounds better off afterwards and he had already planned exactly how he was going to spend the money.

His first stop would be Berwick Manor, where he would pick up a nice girl and play roulette. Then he would put a bit aside for his mother, and fifty pounds towards his sister’s wedding.

He was startled out of his reverie by a tap on the window of the car. He got out, passed over the parcel, took the envelope with the money in and, getting back in his car, pulled away immediately. No words were exchanged.

Smiling to himself, PC Dillinger turned left and made his way towards Rainham, Berwick Manor and the good life.

Briony burnt the pickaxe handle herself, watching it until all that was left were a few cinders. Then she smiled tightly at the man in Ford’s furnace room, slipped him a monkey, and walked back to her car where Jimmy Nailer drove her silently back to Manor Park and Bernadette.

Delia had not emerged from the bedroom, had neither eaten nor spoken to anyone. Bernadette had left her there, frightened of what she would do to her daughter if she spoke to her for any length of time. When Briony returned, Bernadette ran out to the hallway, beating a white-faced Cissy to the front door.

‘Is everything all right, Bri?’

Briony smiled. Her first real smile of the day. ‘It’s OK now. Everything done. We should have them back in the morning.’

She pulled off her light coat and slung it over the banister.

‘Cissy love, stop staring and make a cuppa, strong and sweet. Where’s Delia, Bernie?’

Cissy rushed off to make the tea, her nervousness apparent to anyone. Bernadette followed Briony into the drawing room and stammered, ‘She ain’t been down. I can’t go up to her, Bri, I’ll muller her. I’ve never been so frightened or so annoyed in all me life.’

Briony nodded, understanding.

‘Where’s Faithey?’

‘She’s asleep, bless her heart. I put her down about an hour ago.’

‘I’ll go up to Delia. She has to know what to say. The Old Bill could be here again any time with a warrant for her arrest. They’ll want to question her about the fight with Jimmy. I want her word perfect when they see her.’

Briony practically ran up Bernadette’s shining staircase and burst into Delia’s bedroom.

She jumped with fright as she saw her aunt at the bottom of her bed like an avenging angel.

‘You’ve caused some trouble, my girl, but I’m pleased to say I have sorted it all out.’ Briony’s voice was low and hard, nothing like the usual tone she used with her niece, and Delia felt the prickle of fear getting bigger until it enveloped her whole body.

‘Oh, Auntie Bri ...’

Briony cut her off with a wave of her hand and sat on the bed heavily.

‘Shut up, Delia, I ain’t interested in explanations, not yet anyway. I want you to listen to me carefully, very carefully. The police have already been here looking for you.’ She saw Delia’s eyes open wide. ‘Your mother sent them away with a flea in their ears, but they’ll be back. She told them you was sedated with shock. They believed her, but as I say, they’ll be back. Now you tell them that you had a fight with Jimmy, right. But afterwards you left the flat and you were here, with your cousins and father, all day and all night. Me, you and your mother will be the alibi. Cissy’s staying here as well. She will say she served dinner here. If we all stick to the same story, they can’t do a thing, get it?’

Delia nodded, her eyes wide open.

‘Now listen to me, Delia, this is serious, very serious, and if the boys go down and your father too, there’ll be hell to pay. Do you understand what I’m telling you? You caused all this and it’s up to you to help salvage as much as we can from it.’

Delia nodded, her eyes wide and frightened. Briony knew, looking at her, that she would be the one they had to watch. She could be the fly in the otherwise perfect ointment. The evidence was gone, disposed of. That would cause a stir, but all the same, without it the police had nothing. The boys’ fingerprints would be in their cousin’s flat, that was only natural. So that evidence was negligible. Jimmy Sellars was a known drug dealer, anyone with a grudge could have killed him, anyone he owed money to or supplied. If they all stuck together, the three men would be home in the morning. Ruby was already working on a writ accusing the police of harassment; this would be served if they tried to carry on their investigation in the wake of the loss of evidence. Everything pertaining to the pickaxe handle was now in Ruby’s possession. All the files had been lifted, everything. Tommy had seen to that. Briony herself would dispose of them when the time came.

Other than Delia, the cause of all the aggravation, it was all well under control.

She poked a slim finger at her niece.

‘I know for a fact it was you who hammered Faithey, not Jimmy. That boy died because you’re a trouble maker. I never thought I’d say this to you, Delia, never, but in future you give me a wide berth. You keep a distance between us because I don’t know yet what I’m capable of where you’re concerned. Do you understand me? The twins will be told the truth of what you done, that’s only fair. You used them, and you don’t ever use family. Think on that.

‘You were the instigator of your own child’s father’s death. You was also the cause of your father and your cousins being locked up and charged with murder. I for one won’t forgive that fact lightly. Neither will your mother or your father, or indeed your cousins. So take my advice, girl, get your act together, and soon. Think on what I said, and tell the police exactly what I told you. Act dumb, in shock. Tell them that Jimmy was a dealer with many enemies. He was always tucking people up. Only you can get your father out of the shit you dropped him in. Only you. Right
^?
’

Delia nodded, her eyes fearful and full of tears.

Briony felt no compassion for her whatsoever. In fact, it wouldn’t have taken much for her to give Delia a blow that would leave her ears ringing for days after.

She didn’t trust her niece. That fact, on top of everything else, saddened her more than anything.

 

‘What do you mean, the evidence has gone walkabout?’ Limmington’s voice was high with disbelief.

‘What I say, Mr Limmington sir. The pickaxe handle is gone. The back of the Rolls-Royce has been scrubbed clean as a nun’s tits, and that’s that.’

‘What do you mean, that’s that?’

Limmington was beginning to wonder if the young man in front of him had lost a few marbles.

The young detective sighed. He had not wanted this job, knew he would have to take the flak, and it annoyed him.

‘You know the pickaxe handle, sir? The one used by the Cavanaghs to murder Jimmy Sellars?’

Limmington nodded.

‘Well, at some time between late last night and early this morning, it disappeared from the evidence cupboard. Along with all the records and files. It’s as if it never, ever existed. We have no pickaxe, no records, we have nothing on the Cavanaghs whatsoever. Or Mr Dowling for that matter.’

‘But I personally put that pickaxe into evidence myself. I ain’t having this. I’m going to see the Super!’

The PC nodded imperceptibly as if expecting this. ‘He’s waiting for you, sir.’

Harry Limmington stormed through the building, his whole body tense with shock and disbelief. He walked into the Super’s office without knocking, something he had never done in his life.

‘Ah, Limmington, in you come.’ Chief Superintendent Christopher Whiteside’s voice was friendly and calm. ‘Sit yourself down, man. Bad business this. A very bad business. I’m looking into it personally, you can be assured of that.’

Harry Limmington felt his heart sink down to somewhere in the region of his clean nylon socks.

‘I placed that pickaxe into evidence myself, sir. I signed for it. I feel we can still charge the Cavanaghs with murder. I am quite willing to take the stand myself and explain their skulduggery to whoever happens to want to listen.’

Christopher Whiteside knew this was a veiled threat and grinned. The grin was similar to Boysie Cavanagh’s and Limmington felt the same fear. Only this time it was tinged with disgust.

‘I have in my possession a writ, a copy of a writ actually, which is to be served on yourself as a matter of fact. It states that on sixteen different occasions you have harassed the Cavanagh twins, the culmination being a charge of murder that could not be corroborated.

‘Now let’s look at this rationally, shall we? We have no evidence at all, we have a writ with sixteen different times you have allegedly harassed the Cavanaghs. The papers would have a field day! I have it on good authority that the
News of the World
are very interested in it already. You’re a good policeman, Limmington, one of the best in fact. But if you pursue this, you’re heading for a fall from a great height, in fact. Leave it. Let’s just keep our eye on them and wait our chance.’

Limmington felt his body sag. It had all been for nothing. He felt physically sick.

‘So you’re letting them go then?’ His voice was low, barely audible.

Whiteside smiled, a ‘we’re all boys together’ smile.

‘They were discharged from custody two hours ago.’

Harry turned and left the room.

He walked back to his office like a man already beaten. He picked up the telephone and dialled a number. The Home Secretary was unavailable to take his call, he was told.

Harry had a feeling he would be unavailable for a long while yet.

 

Boysie had gone straight to Suzannah’s house, to reassure her everything was all right. Marcus and Daniel went home to Manor Park.

Bernadette and Briony were so pleased to see them the two men were overwhelmed with kisses and hugs. Cissy, bursting into tears, began to cook them a breakfast the likes of which they would never see again in their lives.

Drinking a cup of tea, they listened with troubled faces as Bernadette and Briony explained the truth about Sellars. Marcus was devastated. Daniel on the other hand was so angry Briony thought he was going to walk up the stairs and commit another murder there and then.

‘She what?’

‘It’s true, Danny Boy.’ Bernie’s voice was ashamed. ‘Jimmy never touched the child. He hit Delia because of her treatment of Faithey. Delia told us the whole of it last night. She wanted Jimmy taught a lesson. He’d been batting away from home, told her to get lost. She was getting her own back.’

‘So you’re telling me I spent the night in an Old Bill shop because that little mare wanted to get even with her bloke? I nearly had a murder charge hanging round me neck, and The Aunt’s been running round like a blue-arsed fly sorting it all out, and it was all because that little slut wanted Jimmy Sellars to get a good hiding. Jesus wept! We could all be doing a ten stretch now, and all because that fucking drug head wanted her boyfriend given a slap! I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Where is she?’