High society (29 page)

FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER

B
y about ten I were getting desperate. I’d wandered for hours. I was tired and cold and thirsty. I’d also begun to realize that I had a big problem. Nobody believed I was who I said I was. Not cops, not a bloke at a cab rank I tried to persuade to drive me to London. I even did a verse or two of ‘Heaven’ for him under a dripping bus shelter, but he just laughed. I were wet an’ filthy an’ lookin’ less an’ less like a multi-millionaire wi’ every minute that passed.

‘Think about it. For four years I’d had my people. Every second of every day I’d had people to do everything. Get everything. Arrange everything and make everything that I’d fooked up all right. Now I was on my own. I knew that I wouldn’t be missed till Monday, because when I’d gone off wi’ Gemma after the gig the previous night I’d told Tone to wait till I called him. Yeah, at the time I was getting all gushy and romantic, remember, and had been indulging in fantasies o’ spending the whole of Sunday wi’ that bird, shaggin’ an’ eatin’ in our room. The hotel wouldn’t chase my office to pay for the trashed room till the next week, so as far as my people were concerned I was ‘having hotel Sunday brunch wi’ a lovely bird and was not to be disturbed. That was one o’ my rules, when Tommy’s ‘having it large, keep your distance till called. To be honest, I were terrified. The first chance I reckoned I’d have to make contact with anyone who’d know my voice an’ who I could convince would be the following morning. I knew the name of my management company, so the minute offices opened I could beg twenty pence, get the number from directory enquiries and call the office reverse charges. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened and I knew they’d accept it. Then they could send a big fook-off limo full o’ food an’ booze and I’d be off back to London. But that was Monday morning, nine a.m. Fook, I think my office opened at ten, in fact, rock ‘n’ roll time…Ten a.m. It was only Sunday morning. I had twenty-three hours to get through without money or influence. Without a fookin’ coat! And there was literally nothing I could do about it.’

DEAN STREET, SOHO

T
he art of not being noticed is confidence,’ Commander Leman explained to Sylvie Thompson as they walked together along Dean Street. ‘We’ll be entering the third doorway ahead of us on the left. Just follow me in, quietly and confidently. Don’t hesitate, don’t look around, go in as if it were your own front doorway.’

What few stragglers there were on that late-night street paid no attention to the two people who entered the open doorway with its red light and its little illuminated bell with the word ‘Model’ written above it. If they’d thought about it they might have imagined that the bearded man had picked up a rather unprovocatively dressed streetwalker and was returning with her to her room.

Commander Leman’s investigations had given him a fairly intimate knowledge of Detective Sergeant Sharp’s habits and so he was aware that the sergeant tended to round off his evening’s work with a visit to the particular ‘model’ who had put the sign above the bell. An illegal Ukrainian girl.

Sharp was a person of regular habits and always arrived for his tryst at around four a.m. Leman had timed his and Sylvie’s arrival for ten past. If Sharp was not there, then vengeance would have to wait for another day. If he were, then Leman’s family and the Thompsons might hope to move further towards some vague hope of closure.

Once inside the building, they mounted the dirty stairs, passing a number of doorways until arriving at the one Leman was seeking. A sign on the door indicated that the room was occupied. Leman handed Sylvie Thompson a mask and donned one himself.

‘Don’t worry when I speak. The girl he’s with speaks no English,’ Leman whispered in Sylvie’s ear.

She had begun to shake. Leman could see that her courage was waning. ‘Anyone who can organize what was done to Jo Jo,’ he said gently, ‘simply in order to warn off a third party, is too dangerous to live.’

Sylvie Thompson nodded. ‘I know,’ she whispered.

‘Do you want to do it or was once enough?’

‘I don’t want to do it again.’

‘Good. I understand. Do you want to see him die?’

‘Yes. If it was really him, I do.’

Without another word Leman opened the door. Inside the room Detective Sergeant Sharp was having sex with the Ukrainian prostitute, whom he had tied to the bed using thin wire. The girl was paying a high price for her police ‘protection’.

‘Detective Sergeant Sharp,’ Leman said, without a hint of emotion in his voice.

Sharp spun round.

‘Be very careful how you answer my question, because I’ll ask it only once. What’s more, I already know the answer, so if you lie to me I’ll kill you instantly.’ Leman levelled his silenced gun at Sharp.

‘Did you organize the Rohypnol-induced abduction and rape that resulted in this photograph?’ Leman waved a picture at Sharp. He knew that Sharp would recognize his voice — the voice of a man who kept his word. Sharp would not risk a lie. He’d tell the truth, if only to buy time.

‘Yes, but…’

‘But’ was the last word Detective Sergeant Sharp said before Leman shot him between the eyes. The dead man fell from the bed to the floor.

FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER

W
ell, here’s where it begins, then. Here’s where my life starts.

‘How many people can put their finger on the exact point at which their life changed for ever? St Paul, obviously. Epiphany. He wrote the groundrules, didn’t he? I know all about it, I were a choirboy. He saw the light on the road to Damascus. Just came to him, bang, somewhere along the dusty road. He thought to himself, ‘Hang on, I’m a fook-up, me. I have got it so wrong it in’t funny. I’d best get things sorted before it all goes very pear shaped.’ Like I say. Epiphany. Well, I saw the light in Birmingham city centre in the doorway of a locked-up Burger King on a rainy Sunday morning. I’d been just walking and walking. No better plan than to kill time till the following morning. Try to get warm, try not to get beaten up, common thoughts for a vagrant, I imagine.

‘I’d managed to wash the blood off my face, anyway. That were essential if I wasn’t going to cop another beating sharpish. Yeah, true. The funny thing about being a victim is that it’s a virulent condition. The more you are one the more you become one. What I’m trying to say is that abuse breeds abuse and pain breeds pain. It’s like wi’ money. The more you got, the more you get. Well, the same’s true wi’ poverty and deprivation. Particularly deprivation. I saw this documentary once, it were called ‘The Wet House’, about the irredeemable winos at the very bottom o’ the heap, people for whom recovery was not an option, people with literally rotting limbs, and semi-shut-down bodies whose only fully functioning part of their system was their ability to swallow alcohol. Well, do you want to know what the greatest danger these people faced was? These bits of disabled and incapable human wreckage? Other people, that’s what. Pissed-up yobs setting ‘em on fire for a laugh. True, that’s what they faced. The more utterly debased you are the more chance there is of some drunk bastard casually killin’ you as he passes by. I don’t know why, maybe he’s tryin’ to kill his fears. The fears of what he thinks he might become. Or maybe people are just complete and utter conts. Like I say, I don’t know. But I do know that all that caked blood on me face and shirt, the swollen eye and busted lip were drawing a lot of very angry and aggressive looks from the gangs of late-night straggling lads coming down off their speed and Es, and I knew that unless I became less conspicuous very quickly, one gang o’ blokes or other were going to take it into their ‘eads to finish me off while they waited for the bus.

‘Cleaning up in’t easy when you’re homeless. Most o’ the public bogs have been locked up to stop people using them as shooting galleries an’ sole-trader knocking-shops. Brilliant, that, eh? You can imagine the council meeting…‘Now then, Mr Mayor, people are jacking up an’ givin’ blowjobs in the municipal facilities. What are we to do about it?’ ‘Well, in’t it obvious? Lock the fookin’ bogs.’ No. All it means is you can’t get a wash or have a piss any more unless you own property. An interesting by-product of which is that every fookin’ shop doorway now reeks o’ piss. Even the bloody station bog wanted twenty pee, which I didn’t have, an’ the twenty-four-hour fast-food joints got wise to people trying to pinch a piss without buying a burger years ago.

‘In the end I washed in a puddle. It was a nice clean-looking one on that big new piazza sort o’ place outside the Symphony Hall. All lovely flagstones and sculptures. Most inspiring. So anyway, I cleaned up as best I could, which was not very well, an’ o’ course made me colder, but it had to be done and then I wandered off towards my epiphany, which were the last thing I expected. Well, let’s face it. Epiphanies are by definition the last thing you’d expect. Well, you can’t plan for ‘em, can you?

‘So what did I see?

‘The light, of course, like I say. Same as St Paul. He saw God, didn’t he? Or maybe it were Jesus, but they’re the same thing anyway, aren’t they? Them an’ the Holy Ghost, whatever that’s about. He saw God, an’ God is love, right? Of course he is. Well, then, that’s what I saw. I saw God. Because God is love. If you believe nothing else in life you ‘ave to believe that. Don’t you?

‘I swear to you I thought it were just a coat. A big coat in a doorway. I’m thinking. Result! Oh yes. That is for me. See how quick it all changes in life? Your priorities. A man who’s well and fed can have all sorts of dreams and desires, but a man who’s hungry and cold just wants a meal and a coat. The previous night I wanted so much out o’ life I couldn’t begin to say it all. I wanted to be understood, appreciated, meet real people who weren’t fooked-up like me. I wanted more and better drugs, bigger and more profitable gigs, I wanted to get off drugs, I wanted to do a small anonymous acoustic tour of pubs. I wanted a bigger swimming pool at my place in LA, and I wanted it completely full o’ naked women. I wanted a simple peasant life with one beautiful girl to cook me Tuscan stew an’ home-made gnocchi. To quote the mighty Queen, I wanted it all and I wanted it now.

‘Following morning, all I wanted were that coat. Same quote applies, though, because on that wet Sunday that coat was it all. So I reached into that doorway and grabbed the coat.

Took me, there were a bird in it! A bird wi’ a knife. I’m tellin’ you now, I am staring down the blade of a ten-inch bayonet. It ain’t more’n another inch from my nose an’ behind that there’s a pale thin arm and above it a snarling mouth and two flashing jet black eyes. Honest, I thought I were goin’ to die right there an’ then.’

BIRMINGHAM CITY CENTRE

F
uck off, shithead. I’ll fucking kill ye if ye fuckin’ touch me or ma fuckin’ coat ever again, ya fucking cunt!’

‘Sorry!’

‘Ah said, fuck off! Did ye hear me, cunt! Fuck off or I’ll stick it in your eye!’

FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER

W
hy didn’t I run? I don’t know. I can’t answer that. I hadn’t had my epiphany yet. I know that, how could I have? All I could see was a snarl and a knife…All right, maybe I’d already clocked those flashing eyes, but honest, all I could really see were the knife. So why didn’t I run? Maybe I wasn’t capable. Or maybe something deep in me macho psyche meant that I don’t run away from birds. Well, whatever, I didn’t.’

BIRMINGHAM CITY CENTRE

I
’m sorry! I didn’t know, I thought it were just a coat…Honest, I’m cold, that’s all. I thought someone had chucked it out. Please…I’m new to all this. The street an’ all…It’s my first day. Sorry. I’ll fook off, shall I?’

‘What do ye mean, first day on the streets? It isn’t a job, ye know. Fuck off home, idiot, and get your ma tae make your breakfast.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Hen. You’ve had a rough night, I can see that, but you are not homeless. Fuck off.’

‘How do you know I’m not homeless?’

‘Because ye don’t look homeless. Ye look like you’ve been mugged.’

‘I have.’

‘Well, just because you’ve been robbed does not give ye the right tae steal ma coat.’

‘I’ve told you, I didn’t mean to steal your coat. I didn’t know you were under it. I’m cold, that’s all.’

‘Where did ye spend last night?’

‘In a hotel.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘What d’you mean, oh, I see.’

‘I know why wee boys like you spend nights in hotels, hun. Was it him that beat ye up?’

‘I in’t a fookin’ rent boy, if that’s what you think.’

‘OK, so you’re not. D’ye have a home at all? I mean an old one?’

‘I’ve got lots of homes. But I live in London and I’ve lost all my money and my ID.’

‘So phone your ma and reverse the charges.’

‘I can’t remember her number.’

‘Phone somebody else.’

‘I can’t remember anybody’s number.’

‘Well, phone directory enquiries, give ‘em your ma’s name and address and they’ll put you through.’

‘I don’t know my mum’s address. I’ve just bought her a new house and I don’t know where it is apart from it’s in Jersey. I’ve been there, but my people arranged a helicopter.’

She smiled. ‘It makes it easier, doesn’t it?’

‘What does?’

‘Living in another world. Ah mean tae the one ye actually occupy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where did ye get those nice boots an’ trousers?’

‘They’re mine.’

‘Mebbe now. Did ye steal ‘em off your trick?’

‘I’ve told you, I in’t a fookin’ bumboy.’

‘So who paid for this hotel you wuz in, then?’

‘My people, or at least they will when they get the bill. I got chucked out.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I trashed the room.’

‘You are a rent boy, aren’t ye, darlin’?’

‘No.’

‘Ye shagged some yuppie in a nice hotel last night, nicked his trousers and then security chased ye off.’

‘No.’

‘OK, what are ye?’

‘I’m a rock star.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘I’m Tommy Hanson.’

‘Good for you. If you’re gonna live in someone else’s world make it a biggie, eh? Ah mean, ye could a’ been some one-hit wonder, or an ex-member o’ Boyzone. But you’re Tommy Hanson. Actually, you look a bit like him too, if ye weren’t bald. Ye could use that, ye know. Specialist whoring is very profitable if you can get intae a decent house.’

‘I’ve told you, I’m not a prostitute. I’m Tommy Hanson.’

‘And like I say, good on ye. I love Tommy Hanson, or Ah did once, before he went all Radio Two. Great songs, great looks, bit of a wanker, Ah imagine, but Ah quite like that in a man.’