Die of Shame Read online

  ‘Yeah, of course. I would have been writing up my notes on the session.’

  ‘Was anyone else here?’

  ‘Well, my daughter was almost certainly out. She usually is.’

  ‘What about your wife? Was she at home?’

  ‘Probably, I can’t remember. I’ll ask her to check her diary.’ The therapist thought for a few seconds, then threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know… I must have just missed the call.’

  Tanner closed her notebook. Said, ‘Shame.’ She sat back, the frantic blur of the squirrels busy at the edge of her vision.

  ‘Right.’ De Silva stood up. ‘I really need to get ready for my session.’

  Tanner and Chall stood up too. Tanner said, ‘It would be a big help if you could give me the names of the other people in that group.’

  De Silva was already walking back towards the kitchen. ‘No, I don’t think I can do that. I was willing to confirm that Chris was a client because you’ve already got his prints and you clearly believe that his criminal history might be of interest. If you want to ask him about others in the group, I can’t stop you, but I’ve gone about as far as my code of conduct allows, I think.’

  ‘We guessed you’d probably say that,’ Chall said.

  ‘Obviously if there’s evidence that something or somebody in the group is directly connected to a serious crime, then that changes things. Otherwise, client confidentiality is paramount. I’m sure you appreciate that.’ At the front door, De Silva said, ‘Are you allowed to tell me how she died?’

  ‘I’d rather hold on to that information for the time being,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Is that your code of ethics?’ De Silva asked. ‘Or just because you don’t feel like it?’

  ‘She didn’t relapse,’ Tanner said. ‘If that helps at all. Aside from the medication she was taking for the depression, she was drug free when she was killed.’

  De Silva nodded. As he pushed the door shut, he said, ‘At least I’m doing something right.’

  … THEN

  She pulls the first sheet of paper across and takes out her felt-tips, an old magazine underneath so she won’t mark the table. She lines them up, the colours in the same order as always. Black, brown, blue, green, red.

  She still can’t quite get her head around how expensive cards are. Two and a half quid a pop, some of them. Such a rip-off for a cheesy rhyme and a stupid picture with an even stupider joke. There are only five people to invite, but still, there’s no way she’s going to waste a tenner or more on that. That’s money she won’t be able to spend on food or drink and she quite fancies tarting the place up a bit if she has enough left. A few balloons or something.

  Five people to invite, though she’s only expecting four to come. Four at the most.

  Not exactly a party like the ones she used to have, though they’re all a bit of a blur these days. They just tended to happen anyway. A few people told a few more and they all pitched up knowing there would be plenty of gear around, enough cheap cider to float a battleship. Parties were never for anything.

  You asked a hundred junkies when their birthday was, she wouldn’t have expected a great many to know. Even fewer to care.

  So, she might have been making the cards because of the money, but she thinks that hand-drawn invitations mean that bit more anyway. She likes drawing, always has. Only thing she ever really liked at school, and even when she was using she would try and find time for it. For a while, she thought about trying to be a graffiti artist, like Banksy or something, but the paints and the guns were pricey and it was just one more thing to risk getting nicked for, so in the end she didn’t bother. That’s what she told herself at the time, anyway. Truth is, just like every other junkie she’s ever known, she’d made all sorts of plans and every one of them went straight out of the window the second she got high. The second she needed to get high.

  She takes a black felt-tip to start on the borders. Neater that way, she reckons.

  Not that she’s got that many plans now she’s clean, mind you.

  She wants to get a cat.

  She wants to get off benefits. She lost the last decent job she’d had after a stupid bit of nicking, then a couple of casual ones after that. She’s sure it’s because someone found out about her past, but she could never prove it.

  She wants to meet a decent bloke, maybe have a kid.

  Four friends. If you can even call them friends. Closest thing she’s got though, beggars and choosers and all that. It seems like she had loads before she got clean, but back then the truth was she only really hung out with other people who were using.

  They’d all had to go; that was how it worked. You said goodbye to the drug, which was far and away the major relationship in your life, and goodbye to anyone associated with it. She’s pretty sure that a few of those ex-friends have gone for good by now, gone as in dead, and she knows bloody well that’s probably how she would have ended up. She’s thankful every day for that moment when she finally knew she had to make a choice.

  The borders done, she picks out a red pen to start the decoration.

  As she draws a star in the top left hand corner she thinks about her conversation with the new girl, Caroline. In the pub a week before, telling her the story of the junkie and the dead mum’s jewellery.

  She hadn’t told Caroline that junkie was her.

  She draws more stars and plenty of smiley faces, because they’re her favourite. The invitations will all be basically the same, but they’re hand-drawn, with each person’s name on their own card, so she hopes they all recognise the work she’s put in, when she hands them out at the next session.

  She thinks about what else to draw.

  She’s about to do a nice shiny box, decorated with a bow, but she stops, thinking that they might take it as a hint to buy her a present. That would be nice, but she doesn’t want it to look like she’s angling for it. In the end she settles for a big bottle of champagne with a popping cork, but on the label it says, NOËT & SHAMDON. STRICTLY NON-ALCOHOLIC.

  When she’s finished decorating them, she puts a name at the top in capitals and then writes the message. In big, swirly letters, like she sees on the side of tube trains sometimes, a different colour for each invitation.

  ANOTHER YEAR OLDER,

  AND DEFINITELY A DAMN SIGHT WISER!

  COME AND HELP ME CELEBRATE!

  DRESS TO IMPRESS…

  HEATHER xxxxx

  PART TWO

  KING OF THE WORLD, PIECE OF SHIT

  THE VISITOR

  THE FIRST VISIT

  He’s been sitting there waiting for several minutes when his visitor arrives. He watches as one of the guards points him out among the crowd of other prisoners already deep in hushed conversations at tables with wives, mothers, children. He sits up straight, adjusts the green tabard he is wearing over the prison-issue sweatshirt.

  The visitor sits, takes out a notebook and pen. Says, ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘So, let’s hear about this “project”, then?’ The prisoner holds up the letter his visitor had sent two weeks earlier. ‘Sounds like crap to me.’

  The visitor smiles. ‘I’m writing a thesis on dubious convictions.’

  ‘What’s dubious about it?’

  ‘Well, in this case I suppose I’m more concerned with the crime itself. The circumstances.’

  He studies the person opposite him. ‘Bit old for university, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mature student. Final year of my law degree.’

  He grunts and takes out a scarred tobacco tin. He opens it and begins preparing a roll-up.

  ‘So… I’ve read the court transcript and the evidence seems fairly straightforward. Plenty of witnesses, murder weapon recovered at the scene and you seemed perfectly happy to plead guilty.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘You never disputed that you’d done it.’

  ‘No point, was there? Like you said, plenty of witnesses.’

  His visitor writes something. ‘You had
an argument with the victim in the pub.’

  He nods, licks at the cigarette paper.

  ‘What was that about? It doesn’t say anywhere.’

  ‘I couldn’t remember. Still can’t.’

  Now, his visitor studies him. ‘You were being accused of murdering someone after an argument and you couldn’t remember what caused it?’

  ‘It was a red mist type of thing, that’s all.’ He looks away, sees a prisoner from the landing next to his reaching to take a young woman’s hand across an adjacent table. ‘I’ve got a temper, all right?’

  His visitor nods. ‘Well, that’s what really got me interested to begin with, I suppose. Your defence barrister kept talking about how out of character it was, the violence, losing your temper the way you did. That was virtually your whole defence. He repeatedly claimed that you’d never been involved in anything like this before. He made out like you wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’ A pause. ‘That’s what your friends and family say too.’

  ‘Who you been speaking to?’

  ‘Just some background research, that’s all. A couple of phone calls.’

  He looks down at the letter again, reads, mouthing the words. ‘You a journalist or something?’

  ‘I’m not a journalist.’ A nod towards the letter. ‘It’s a personal project, I swear.’

  He puts the completed roll-up back in the tin and closes the lid. ‘We had an argument and I hit him. That’s it.’

  ‘Had you ever met him before?’

  ‘No.’ Quick and simple, because he’s telling the truth.

  ‘Had you heard his name mentioned before?’

  He blinks, tucks the tobacco tin away beneath his tabard.

  ‘I know the police asked you this, so sorry for going over it again, but if you’d just gone to the pub for a quiet drink and you didn’t know the man you got into the argument with, why were you carrying an iron bar in your coat pocket?’

  He shakes his head and looks up at the clock.

  ‘You’ll be out in what… a couple of months? I mean, you would have been up for parole a lot sooner if you’d ever shown the slightest bit of remorse, but that’s up to you. All I’m saying is, what harm can it do to talk about it now?’

  He smiles, for the first time. ‘Maybe I’m not sorry.’ He leans across the table, hisses it. ‘Maybe that bastard deserved everything he got, all right?’

  His visitor tenses and tightens the grip on the pen; smiles back.

  … NOW

  They came in numbers from behind burned-out cars and around corners, yelling and brandishing weapons. They were dressed in black, some with their faces hidden and others heavily bearded; as close to being Central Casting Islamic terrorists as their creators could get without being overtly racist. Chris Clemence made short work of them, putting the last one down in a noisy hail of rapid machine gun fire, with a satisfying eruption of blood and brain matter.

  Mission completed.

  Clemence casually entered his initials in the list of high scorers then climbed out of the seat and bumped fists with several of the boys who had been gathered around the machine to watch and shout encouragement. There were four or five of them; white, black and Asian kids. The logos varied, but the basic uniform of jeans, trainers and hoodies was the same as Clemence was wearing, though he was probably ten years older.

  He turned and looked at the couple watching from near the entrance to the arcade. He waved, waggling fingers. There was a short, whispered exchange with some of the kids, a little more fist bumping, then he ambled over.

  ‘Very impressive,’ Chall said.

  ‘Not really,’ Clemence said.

  Tanner raised her warrant card, but Clemence did not need to see it.

  ‘Yeah, Tony called.’ He looked around, as though eager to see who might be watching him having this conversation. ‘He said you’d probably want a word.’

  Tanner waited until she had his full attention. ‘I want it somewhere a bit quieter, if at all possible.’

  ‘There’s a Starbucks over the road.’ Clemence pointed. ‘Only if you’re buying, though.’

  ‘I think we can stretch to that,’ Tanner said.

  They walked across Wardour Street into the coffee shop; a buffer between the blacked-out windows of an adult entertainment store and a high-end seafood restaurant.

  ‘Can I get a cake as well?’ Clemence asked.

  Chall said, ‘Now you’re taking the piss.’

  They carried their drinks to a table in the corner that gave them a view back across the street towards the arcade. A few of the boys Clemence had been talking to were still loitering on the pavement outside.

  ‘This a normal Saturday morning for you, is it, Chris?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘I come a fair bit, yeah.’

  ‘Nice to have a fan club.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m like the Pied Piper, me.’

  ‘Bit young, aren’t they?’ Chall said.

  ‘Bit young for what?’

  Chall nodded across the street. ‘Younger than you, I mean.’

  ‘So? They’re gamers, same as a lot of kids that age. Would you be happier if they were out nicking cars or mugging people?’

  ‘Still at school, I reckon, most of them.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying.’

  ‘Sergeant Chall wasn’t implying anything,’ Tanner said. ‘Were you?’

  ‘Making conversation,’ Chall said.

  Clemence scooped the froth from his coffee with a plastic spoon and licked it off. ‘I just like playing games.’

  Tanner watched him tear into three sachets of white sugar then slowly pour one after the other into his cup. She said, ‘More than like, by the sound of it. The woman we spoke to at the night shelter knew exactly where you’d be.’

  ‘Creature of habit.’ Clemence grinned. ‘And as you very well know, I’ve had habits a lot worse than this one.’

  ‘Still expensive,’ Tanner said. ‘What was that game, a couple of quid a time?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m good. Well, you saw. So I get twenty minutes or half an hour for that.’

  ‘Eating into your benefits a bit though, I would have thought,’ Chall said.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be a lot cheaper to play at home?’ Tanner could see that one of the boys from the arcade had crossed the road and was pulling faces at Clemence through the window. She looked at Chall, who stood up and waved the boy away.

  ‘Would be if I had one,’ Clemence said. ‘Anyway, sometimes you need to get out and see people, don’t you? It’s all about making connections, right?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Having a life, moving on. Something Tony’s always banging on about.’ He turned his head to watch the boy go back to his mates. ‘Trust me, there are things I prefer doing on my own.’ He looked back to Tanner with a grin that was short-lived. ‘But people like me aren’t always particularly fond of our own company.’

  ‘People like Heather, too?’

  He shrugged, then nodded. ‘So, what happened to her?’

  ‘You know what happened, if you’ve spoken to Mr De Silva.’

  ‘I know someone killed her.’

  ‘Which is all you need to know for now.’

  ‘Stabbed, was she? Strangled?’ He waited, saw that Tanner wasn’t going to bite. ‘Don’t suppose it matters, does it? Dead’s dead.’

  ‘Tell us about her.’

  Clemence swirled coffee around in his mouth, swallowed it noisily. ‘She was… nice. A bit nutty sometimes, neurotic about things. Always doing things exactly the same way, you know?’

  ‘Like OCD, you mean?’ Chall asked.

  ‘Kind of. Everything always had to be in order.’

  Tanner looked down at her notebook.

  ‘Don’t know what else to say, really. I got on better with her than some of the others in the group. We took the piss out of each other, helped each other out.’

  ‘Helped how?’ Tanner asked.

 
; ‘You know, if she was having a bad day or whatever, she might call and I’d try and snap her out of it. We’d go and have a cup of tea or something, talk bollocks. She did the same for me a few times. Just normal stuff.’

  ‘Talk bollocks about what?’

  ‘Anything. Telly or sport, something in the news. Things you never get to talk about in the group.’

  Tanner looked up from her notebook. ‘Anything you think we should know? Anything you think might be important, bearing in mind what happened to her?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘Nobody she was involved with? Who she might have been worried about or frightened of?’

  ‘Not now.’ Clemence saw Tanner’s reaction, shook his head. ‘By which I mean, yeah, there would have been, but we’ve all had dealings with some nasty bastards over the years.’ He smiled. ‘One or two of them even had warrant cards.’

  Tanner did not rise to it. ‘Did Heather ever mention any names?’

  ‘If she did I can’t remember any, but she would have come across a few people you wouldn’t want to mess with. Ex-junkies don’t have too many saints in their address books.’

  Tanner shifted her chair to allow a young woman to sit down at the next table. The woman immediately pulled a laptop from her bag and logged on. She caught Tanner’s eye and smiled. Tanner looked back to Clemence. He had remarkably good skin, considering his history, she thought. Pale, but more or less flawless around the carefully groomed stubble. He had styled his hair every bit as carefully; blond streaked into the black, teased into spikes on top and squaddie short at the sides. His teeth were better than she might have expected too and he showed them off a good deal, well aware of his winning smile. Tanner could easily understand why other men might find him attractive. Women too, unaware that they were barking up the wrong tree, or simply wanting to mother him.

  ‘Tell us what goes on in one of your sessions,’ she said.

  ‘In the group, you mean?’

  ‘It would be helpful,’ Chall said.

  Clemence sat back and folded his arms. He appeared to think about it for a few seconds, but then shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think I can. That’s the one rule, you know.’