Crime After Crime Read online

  www.rosethornpress.co.uk

  Perilous Truths

  Jane Isaac

  “Death is always personal, even when it’s business,” Kenny said. He leant back against an old crate and dug his hands into his pockets.

  Rip, whose wide, frantic eyes were fixed on Kenny, started to shudder uncontrollably, as if the organs inside his body were individually jumping about in terror. His head darted from side to side. The shrieking yelps from beneath the duct tape that covered his mouth sounded more like a deserted puppy.

  Mitch turned away, struggling to calm his quivering limbs, and took a deep breath. Don’t look at him. Stay composed. The metallic stench of blood proved overwhelming. Fighting every one of his body’s natural reactions, he exhaled slowly, and watched the puffs of white air disperse into the cool atmosphere as he strode over to the factory entrance.

  Hauling a Jerry can to his side, he crossed back over the concrete floor, stepping over broken bits of wood, scraps of metal, broken shards of glass, his gaze still averted. He forced his mind to wonder, speculating what this disused factory unit had been used for, before it closed down. What had they made here?

  The sound of Kenny gnashing his teeth, followed by a loud sigh, broke his abstraction. “Need a hand with that lad?”

  “No.” Mitch was taking too long, he knew that, delaying the inevitable.

  He clenched his teeth and looked up defiantly, his hard eyes taking in Kenny’s bulbous head, piercing, blue-grey eyes and tight mouth. There was no doubt he had worked out in his younger years, his number one hair cut and long black coat wouldn’t be out of place on the ‘doors’ on a Saturday night. But lately the approach of middle age had covered the muscle with an expanding, soft layer of fat. Despite this, he was still a damn sight stronger than Mitch who, at eighteen years of age, was still developing the muscle that would make him a man.

  Mitch walked up to the back of the chair where Rip was secured, hands tied behind his back, feet tied to each leg of the chair just above his ankles. The plastic garden ties were fixed one notch too tight, just enough to slowly sever the skin on Rip’s small frame and make his fingers go white.

  Mitch pushed his tousled brown hair out of his face as he bent down and undid the can, then started to pour. An overpowering stench of kerosene instantly filled the building. Rip’s whole frame shook. A trickle of fluid ran down his trouser leg, puddling beneath his feet. Facing away from Kenny and fixing his wide eyes on a piece of broken metal on the floor, Mitch continued to douse Rip with the remaining oil, then stepped backwards. He pulled the box out of his pocket, struck the stalk of wood and flicked the match at the chair.

  Mitch stood still, mesmerized for a split second by the sound of roaring flames and the muffled screams of his victim.

  “Out!” shouted Kenny from the doorway. Mitch ran to the door feeling the unbearable heat eating into his skin.

  It wasn’t until he was out of the building that he noticed the flame on his arm. Kenny walloped his hefty hands against the flames, extinguishing them in an instant. Then the pain kicked in…

  * * *

  Twenty years later, Mitch looked at the burn mark on his forearm as he pulled the sun visor down to shield his eyes from the hot, summer sun. Over the years the arms had thickened, faint wrinkles appearing around his wrists, but the scar remained, like a map of Australia on his forearm – a constant reminder of a memory that had haunted him every day of his life since.

  He pulled off the motorway at junction 16, the journey from North London barely taking him an hour, and slowed into a lay-by to text Annette. She would be busy getting their children ready for school, dropping them off around nine before she headed to the gym. Poor Annette. She had no idea. She thought he had gone to work in the city, just like any other day.

  He pulled back his sleeve and checked the time. It read 8.30 am. Better give it a bit longer to make sure the area was completely deserted. He leant back and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to wander back…

  * * *

  Cal had offered Mitch the job when he was sixteen years of age. He guessed if there had been a mum around she would have flatly refused, seeing straight through the deception. But there was no mum, only him and his dad, and over the years he had seen how it all worked. Initially his dad was set against him joining the ‘firm’. “You’ve got brains son. You need to get a proper job. Make a good life for yourself.” But Mitch had managed to wear him down, convincing him that it was only a temporary move to enable him to earn some cash, maybe get a motorbike – just to get him through college. Anyway, he would only be valeting cars. What harm could come of that?

  Mitch had known Cal, the head man, since he was a toddler. Cal owned the Ruby Casino where his dad worked and had an air of wisdom about him, something usually enjoyed by men far senior to his years, and a brain for business. Self made, at forty he owned a string of properties, a car valet business, a launderette and two nail bars. But the drugs money Cal laundered was the real earner. The problem was that Cal recognised Mitch’s abilities and intended to make the most of them, so much so that in a very short time, he was far more involved than he had ever intended to be – the lure of the money, its own brand of narcotic to fund his young, party lifestyle.

  The day Mitch got his offer to study Media at University College London his dad had been so excited. Until they walked into the rear entrance of the Casino and saw Cal…

  “Somebody looks like a cat with two tails. What lit your torch?” Cal said.

  “Mitchell’s had some fantastic news!” shouted his dad, slinging an arm around his son’s shoulder, pride oozing from his pores.

  “Well, let’s have it?”

  “He’s going to University College London to do Media Studies.” The atmosphere frosted over immediately.

  “Ted,” Cal frowned as he spoke, then held him arms out wide, “and leave all this. Why would he want to do that?”

  “Come on, give the boy a chance,” Ted said, his face tightening. “He’s a clever lad.”

  “You know the rules, Ted. Nobody leaves.” A mean smile spread across his face.

  “He’s only cleaning cars. And you agreed it was only ever temporary. Come on, this is his real chance. You know he wants to produce music.”

  Cal shot Mitch a beguiling glance. “And I want to make a living. I’m sorry, Ted. We’ve been together a long time and you mean a lot to me, but the boy’s really shown his worth over the past two years. He’s too valuable. He knows too much.” He nodded his head towards Mitch. “I’ll make sure he earns a good living here.”

  Mitch watched his dad’s face cloud over as if he were watching his dreams of a better life for his son slipping through his fingers. “Can we talk about this? Alone?”

  Cal’s expression hardened. “Sure.” They marched into Cal’s office together.

  When they emerged, over half an hour later, Ted’s face was ghostlike. “We’re going home,” he said to his son, a conciliatory note to his voice.

  “What about Uni?”

  “We’ll talk at home.” They had walked back home in silence that evening. His dad opened two cans of Guinness and they sat at the table as he gave him the news. He could go to university, but he had to do Cal a favour first. A favour so special, that it would show Cal how committed he was to the ‘firm’, and how determined he was to keep his mouth shut. Then he could have out. For now…

  * * *

  The sound of a car door slamming shut jolted Mitch’s eyes open. As he watched the driver of the car parked in front move to the rear of his vehicle, open his boot, and rummage through the contents, he sighed. How could this come back to haunt him now, after twenty years? The dashboard clock read 9.00 am. Time to go. He shuffled forward and started the engine.

  Mitch reached his destination, an area named Durton, in less than ten minutes. He bit his lip as he pulled into St Clifford Park, which was built close enough to the town’s station to encourage the influx of London overspill to the Midlands, lured
by country living and a one hour commute. It was the kind of modern housing estate which was as quiet as a graveyard during the day and became alive after dark, as if it were inhabited by a community of vampires.

  He parked his car on the edge of the estate and glanced around nervously, pulling the hood of his sweat top up, before walking for 10 minutes past numerous houses of similar design, shoe horned into position with postage stamp gardens. When he finally reached his destination, he snuck around the back, slipping in through an unlocked gate. Forcing the back door proved easier than he thought and he dropped his holdall down on the kitchen floor and looked around.

  The sink in the small fitted kitchen was full of dirty dishes, cutlery and used coffee mugs. A strong smell of stale tomato ketchup hung in the air. The room led directly into a lounge which housed an oversized old sofa at one end under the window, and a dining room table at the other. He followed through the door that led out into the hallway and checked upstairs to make sure it was empty before he got to work; then sat down on the sofa, and waited.

  He reached into a pocket and adjusted the position of the letter; the same letter that had arrived seven days previously. Strangely, it wasn’t really a surprise, almost a relief after looking over his shoulder for so many years. But still, it had shaken him. And he couldn’t help wondering: why now?

  He remembered how he had flown out to Spain the very next day to see his dad, who had retired out there when Cal passed away almost two years before. His dad had read the letter aloud, astounded.

  “I have evidence to link you to the Rip Bane Murder. You know what I’m talking about. If you don’t transfer £25,000 to the bank account below within the next 14 days, I will send my evidence to the police. The camera never lies…”

  Ted was silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then he narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together. “Kenny…”

  “No. It couldn’t possibly be!” Mitch had replied. “He was there with me that night. He has just as much to lose.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘exactly’? And why now? Why not ten years ago, or fifteen?”

  “Think about it. You’re established in your career, at the top of your game. You’re comfortable financially, with a wife, kids, good lifestyle.”

  They had sat in silence for some time before Ted continued, “I’m surprised at him, he was always so loyal. But now that Cal’s gone, the threat of any repercussion is limited. He’s thought this one through; the timing’s so dangerous, it’s clever.”

  Mitch drained the whisky from his glass. “So, what do I do?”

  “Maybe, he’s bluffing,” Ted said finally, shaking his head as if he was still churning it all over.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “What on earth could he have? You were both supplied with concrete alibis by Hartel’s for Rip Bane’s murder, and the jeweller that gave you that alibi died a year ago. Kenny certainly couldn’t have anything that could only expose you.”

  “The camera never lies,” Mitch read. “Is that supposed to be some sort of clue?”

  Ted was quiet for a moment, mulling it over. “Camera footage, maybe? There couldn’t be any at the factory unit, it was burnt out. No, he’s bluffing,” he repeated, nodding his head now with an air of certainty.

  “Well, bluffing or not. I’m going to have to deal with it before it gets out of hand.” Mitch shuddered at the sound of his own words.

  “True enough, son. But deal with it yourself. Make sure no one else is involved. We don’t want this escalating.”

  Mitch heard the hum of a car engine outside. He shifted away from the window and made his way out into the hallway, pulling the knife from its sheath in his pocket, and stood behind the door.

  The key was inserted, the door clicked open. Mitch’s heart was pounding so fast he had to grit his teeth to control his breathing. Adrenaline soared through his veins. He pounced, throwing the pillowcase over Kenny’s head, tightening it around his jugular and kicking the legs from beneath. It was easier than he imagined. He reached into his pocket for the plastic garden ties and strapped Kenny’s wrists together, tightening them until his body flinched with pain.

  “Walk slowly into the lounge,” Mitch said once he’d finished.

  He followed, keeping a firm hold on the material around Kenny’s neck, until they reached the wooden dining room chair placed in the middle of the floor. Mitch shoved Kenny onto a chair and quickly fixed two more garden ties, tying each leg, just above the ankle, to the front legs of the chair. Finally, satisfied with his work, he stood back and removed the pillowcase.

  Kenny’s appearance had changed dramatically in the twenty years they had been apart: he was an old man now, thin strands of grey hair swept back over his balding head, his face was blotched with age spots, his cheeks sunken, lips thin. Any muscle was now soft and hanging from his frame. Only his steely reserve appeared to remain intact.

  “You came.” He managed a weak smile.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Kenny,” Mitch replied, panting slightly. Surprised at his own breathlessness he raised his head slightly, tilting it to one side. “If you were expecting me, then you didn’t prepare well.”

  “I didn’t think you got your hands dirty these days.” What did he mean these days? He had only done it once, and once was more than enough. “Look at you,” Kenny continued mockingly, “shaking like a leaf after rolling over an old man. You were never cut out for this work, were you?”

  Mitch looked down, suddenly noticing the nervous tick in his left leg shaking violently from the surge of adrenalin. He took a deep, angry breath. “What is the meaning of this letter?” he said through clenched teeth. As he spoke he pulled the envelope out of his pocket and flicked it across the room. Kenny shrugged, then flinched as the paper clipped the side of his head.

  “Is that it? No explanation?” Kenny shrugged again and Mitch couldn’t resist the urge to kick him in the shin, hard. He jumped violently, but made no sound.

  “Why now?”

  Kenny looked up at him, his teeth clenched, nostrils flared. “Why do you think? You have it all you smarmy git.”

  “So you thought you’d blackmail me, get your hands on some of my hard earned money?” He snorted. “What have you got that is so damning?”

  “Camera footage,” Kenny replied with hard, resentful eyes.

  “The warehouse burnt down. How can you have footage?” Mitch laughed out loud and turned to look out of the window at the willow tree across the road, its young branches shifting in the summer breeze, feeling a mixture of relief and incredulity. This was ridiculous.

  “Footage that refutes your alibi.”

  He snapped back. “What do you mean?”

  “You surely haven’t forgotten the alibi Cal fixed for us? We were collecting his watch from Hartel Jewellers in Kelling that evening, a private arrangement. He chose it especially, being thirty miles from the warehouse. The shop manager even pulled us out of a line up to identify us.”

  “So?”

  “There was a hidden camera. The jeweller kept it as insurance. It records date and time, and shows that two men did call around at 8 pm that evening, but those two men weren’t us. Nobody knew about it – not Cal, not the police, not anyone.”

  “So, why now?”

  “He came to me eighteen months ago, just after Cal died. He wanted some cash and offered to sell it to me. I figured it’s only fair you should pay your share.”

  Mitch again laughed out loud, but his eyes were hard. “You can’t tell me you paid £25,000 for it!” he replied scornfully. Kenny stared at him and said nothing. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “And what good is it anyway?” Mitch asked. “Even if it does refute our alibi, they’ll need more evidence than that to pot us for murder.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Kenny asked, his gruff voice grating. Mitch didn’t reply, just stared at him. “DNA?”

  Mitch frowned at him. “They didn’t have DNA evidence in th
ose days.”

  “No, but they do now. And he bloodied your nose in the struggle, didn’t he? You bled all over him.”

  “So?”

  “So. You hung his jacket up outside. Your blood will be on that jacket. Your DNA. All the police need is a suspicion of a phoney alibi and they’ll take a DNA sample and you’ll be banged to rights.” Mitch turned away and shut his eyes. That part was true. This was a drugs killing to warn off a rival gang and Cal had demanded that they leave a trophy – Rip’s infamous jacket hanging nearby, so there could be no doubt. And he had bled in the tussle. But would there still be his DNA on the jacket now?

  He eyes switched back to Kenny. “And so will you.”

  “I don’t think so.” Kenny looked away, his voice smug now. “You forget. I’ve done several stretches over the years. I’ve given my DNA sample. It automatically goes into a police computer where it compares you to unsolved cases, but they haven’t linked me to anything.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you like. The only reason the cold case review team haven’t been knocking on your door is because you don’t have a criminal record, which means they’ve never taken your DNA.”

  Mitch shook his head. “So, where is the tape?”

  Kenny’s eyes widened. “You think I’m gonna tell you that?” He watched as Mitchell scanned the room. “It’s not here. I’m not that stupid.”

  “How do I know that you’re telling the truth?”

  “You don’t. You’ll just have to wait and find out.”

  Mitch stared back at him. He really wanted to wipe that mean smile off Kenny’s face. He had never liked him. But now he hated him more than he had ever hated anything in his life. He looked away and took a deep breath, remembering his dad’s words. “Don’t lose your temper son. Kenny was in the game for a long time. If he does have anything, he may well have made provisions if anything suddenly happens to him; an insurance policy…”