Fear No Evil

‘Oooh!’ he said, raising his plucked-to-oblivion eyebrows. Shaped brows, mascara and five o’clock shadow. It just doesn’t work.

‘Depends what’s in it for me, doesn’t it?’ he said, giving me a coquettish wink and a nudge so hard I almost fell off my stool. I was about to tell him where to stick his sequins when Mum butted in.

‘That’s enough of that, mucky pup. You help Jayne, I’ll give you one of those sexy skeleton dresses for nothing. I saved one for you in case you came by. I must be a mind reader.’

He eyed up one of the frocks hanging on the rail, glowing in the fading light.

‘It’s a deal. I’ll be irresistible to man, woman and beast wearing that thing. So, Jaynie-Waynie, sit on Mystic Melissa’s lap and tell me all about it.’

He’d propped himself on the trestles, which groaned under his psychic power – that or the extra six stone he was carrying – and slapped his knees. I ignored the suggested seating arrangements, but did tell him about the case. I needed all the help I could get.

As I drew to a close, I noticed an expression I’d never seen on Mystic Melissa’s face before – concern. Jesus, I was being taken seriously by a clairvoyant trannie. I really needed to get a new line of work.

He pursed his big fat lips together. Like a pair of mating slugs, they were, with bright red gloss sluicing off into the tiny wrinkles around his smoker’s mouth. He blew out a breath and shook his head, ginger fringe waggling from side to side.

‘You need to talk to Dodgy Bobby,’ he said finally.

‘Who’s Dodgy Bobby? And why do I need to talk to him? And how dodgy is he?’

‘Nothing nasty, love – you wouldn’t have encountered him when you were working for Her Majesty, if that’s what you’re worried about. But he’s psychic, is Bobby. The real deal. So he’s used it the best way possible – dodging gainful employment for the whole of his life. At least the kind you pay taxes on. He does a bit of this, bit of that, all the time he’s on the sick. Claiming a fortune in benefits due to his bad back. It’s all a crock of shit, he’s fit as a whippet, but he never gets caught – always knows when those benefit types have their beady eyes on him. Always packs in whatever he’s doing, and starts wandering around with crutches and a neck brace. They know there’s something going on but they can’t catch him – nearly did once when he was doing some fork-lifting at the scrap yard, but he whipped on the collar just in time, made out he was visiting his uncle.’

‘Sounds like a very noble way to use his gift,’ I replied, narrowing my eyes at Clive. ‘And what do you mean, he’s psychic? What about you, Melissa?’

‘Don’t give me that face, love. I’m about as psychic as a horse’s arse and we both know it. My punters know it as well – they come for the drama, the giggle, the glamour. I camp it up and tell ’em they’ll meet a tall, dark stranger in the bogs at the Pan Am bar and they go off happy. Worth every penny, I am. But Bobby? He’s different.’

‘Okay, let’s say for argument’s sake I’m believing any of this – why should I go and talk to him?’

It was a valid question. When had my life turned into something where I was considering taking advice from a man called Mystic Melissa about another one called Dodgy Bobby?

‘He’ll give you the details, Jayne, but a few years ago he got taken on by Eugene Casey. Well, taken on is too kind a way to phrase it – he got told he was going to help out.’

Now he really had my attention. The Caseys were one of the biggest crime families in Liverpool. They’d been at it for generations – stolen goods, organised car theft, drugs, prostitution – and by now, they were getting really quite good at it. You were nothing on the Force if you hadn’t felt a Casey collar. But you were really something if you made it stick – witnesses had a strange way of becoming amnesiacs as trial dates drew closer, inevitably gaining a freshly sprayed motor to help them recover. If they were lucky. Some just ended up with a broken kneecap. The Caseys also had enough poke to employ one of the cleverest, nastiest lawyers around, a rat-faced little charmer called Simon Solitaire. Not his real name, we suspected.

‘What did Eugene want with him?’ I asked. Eugene was the Big Daddy of the lot – clan leader and self-appointed elder statesman of the city’s underworld. He wore sharp suits and ties, slicked his hair back like a 1950s wide boy, and talked a lot of pseudo-Krays crap about honour amongst thieves and the way the Caseys helped keep the streets clean. Yeah, absolutely spotless – if you ignored the crack whores and no-go zones and babies born addicted to methadone.

‘Did you know he had a granddaughter? Has two actually, but this was Sean’s girl. Eugene doted on her, decided she was going to be the exception to the rule and not go into the family business, like. So she was sent off to a posh private school, taught to speak proper and everything. Skiing holidays with her friends and their families, all dentists and doctors and barristers, not knowing where she came from. She ended up at the Institute, studying law – which is ironic isn’t it? Maybe she’d have ended up in the family business one way or another.’

Yeah. She’d have saved them a fortune in legal bills if she’d qualified. Somehow I suspected this wasn’t going to end with photos of a smiling girl in a cap and gown, though.

‘Anyway, long story short, she’s dead. Accident. Just after she’d done her finals, and was due to graduate. Tripped down the stairs and broke her neck. They say it was quick, but who gives a fuck really? Still dead. Sean went ga-ga. His missus did a runner. Eugene did what comes natural – set out to slice someone’s bollocks off. That’s where Dodgy Bobby comes in.’

‘What? He sliced his bollocks off? And him, just a poor old cripple?’

‘Nah, Bobby’s bollocks are safe and sound. Not that I’ve seen them up close, I hasten to add – despite appearances, my sweet, I’m 100 per cent red-blooded male.’ He cupped his groin and gave it a little heft up for me. Ugh. I moved my hands in a wind-it-on gesture. Mum was so engrossed she’d stopped counting, but I wanted to get to the crux of the matter.

‘Turns out the girl – Geneva, would you believe? – had confided in her cousin, Theresa, that she’d been having a few problems with unwanted attention. Music to Eugene’s ears – someone he could beat the crap out of and send to that butcher’s shop in Kenny to have ground up and fed to the pigs. But then things got a bit weird – ’cause Geneva had told Theresa that her stalker was a frigging ghost. Now, Eugene knew about Dodgy Bobby’s rep, so he got him brought in. Combination of a kick up the arse from the heavies and the promise of mucho casho if he could get to the bottom of it. And Bobby really will have to tell you the rest – because he’s never spoken about it ever again. In fact, he’s barely been seen again. He’s lying low, and Casey still has a bloody big itch to scratch.’

Quite a story. If any of it was true. And definitely something I was going to have to check out. At least dealing with the scum of the earth would be more familiar territory for me.

‘So how do I get to Bobby?’ I asked.

‘I’ll text you his details later, love.’

‘No you won’t, because you don’t have my mobile number, and I have no intention of giving it to you. Just write it down on a bit of paper and bugger off with your new frock.’

He pouted at me, but took the carbon copy receipt pad Mum handed to him. He scribbled and passed it back. I glanced at the address, making sure he hadn’t just drawn a picture of two ferrets making love or scrawled down his own vital statistics.

‘Now listen, love – not many people know where he is, and that’s the way he wants it. So keep it under your knickers, will you?’

I nodded. It’d definitely be safe there.

I looked down at the address. Great. Dodgy Bobby lived in one of the dodgiest parts of town – on what looked like the top floor of the tower block from hell. What were the odds the lifts weren’t working?

Chapter 8 (#ulink_48da52f7-27ea-5e97-bf40-013881d63f58)

Before I tackled Dodgy Bobby, I decided to go home and do some research.

I needed to find out more about the history of the building Joy lived in, and I needed to bully one of my former police colleagues into handing over the background information on the case. Plus, I now had to find out more about the sad demise of Geneva Casey, and why I hadn’t heard about it before. It should have been big news, a Casey popping her clogs. Or probably her Jimmy Choos, given the amount of dosh the Caseys had hidden under their collective mattress.

I started with the straightforward approach – the Institute website, flicking through the halls of residence until I found Hart House, Joy’s last known abode. Once I saw the photo I knew exactly where it was – on the southern edge of town, set in a scrap of grass that had probably once been sumptuous parkland before the city caught up with it. It more than likely had a deer park or something, back in the day, but land values now were too steep to indulge in such frivolities. It was described on the page as being ‘historic’ – which in my mind now meant ‘ghost-infested’, thanks to Father Dan. I was practising calling him Father in my mind so I could stop fancying him – my mum was right, really, I should knock it on the head, especially as I was going to be working with him.

We’d arranged that I’d come back to Liverpool to start off the investigation, while he tied up a few loose ends at home in the Lake District. I don’t know what he meant by loose ends – maybe he had a possessed sheep to exorcise.

He wouldn’t like the look of Hart House, that’s for sure. I wasn’t sure I liked the look of it either, and it definitely wasn’t a Hall I remembered from my time at the Institute. Then again I was there for less than a year and spent much of that time in an alcoholic stupor, so I’m probably not the world’s best witness.

The website didn’t give much detail about exactly how historic its history was, and instead focused on its intercom security device, 24-hour concierge and its forty-six en-suite rooms, all with individual spyholes in the doors. To put the mind of the worried parent at rest, I suppose.

The building probably belonged to the Institute, bequeathed by some rich merchant family from days of yore. But it was worth a double check, so I logged on to the Land Registry site and typed in the details – for a few quid you can download all kinds of juicy information about absolutely any property in the country. Amazing, isn’t it? Annoyingly, though, I’d forgotten that even in the electronic age, it was closed to inquiries on Sundays. And I couldn’t harangue anyone from the Institute itself for the same reason – bloody lightweights.

I called Corky Corcoran to start my illegal harassment of the police service, but got put straight through to voicemail. I left a threatening message instructing him to call me back straight away or say goodbye to his chances of fathering any more children. Although as he already has four under the age of six, I’m not sure if that wasn’t less of a threat and more of a promise. I also fired off an e-mail to Mr and Mrs Middlemas, informing them that I was progressing my research. Not how, or who with, but enough to reassure them I hadn’t banked the cheque then gone on a week-long booze cruise to the Balearics. Which was actually looking more enticing by the moment.

Bugger, I thought, slouching back onto the couch. There really was nothing else left to try for the time being. Eagle-eyed private eyes and market traders seemed to be the only people working.

I stood up, and grabbed my jacket. I might as well visit Dodgy Bobby – in my experience, minor league crims and wasters had little respect for the Lord’s Day. Or anybody else’s, as a matter of fact.

By the time I’d parked up by Thelwall Towers, fitted the wheel lock and clicked on the car alarm – none of which would do any good at all if someone took a shine to it – it was lashing it down. None of that ‘fine drizzle that gets you really wet’ rubbish – a complete deluge that gets you even wetter.

I ran for the entrance to the tower block. There was an old intercom system next to the front door, where visitors could press the buzzers next to buttons. Only insane people ever left their buzzers on in places like this, or they’d get the local youth passing on their regards 24/7. Anyway, I could tell it wasn’t working from the fact there were wires hanging out of it, and the heavy metal and glass door into the building was propped open with an empty Strongbow can.

I pulled it open, striding in out of the rain as confidently as I could. A couple of feral kids were loitering in the lobby, and I could smell spray can in the air. On a school night as well. I eyeballed them with my best bobby look. They flicked me the Vs, showing me how terrified they were, and went back to vandalising the raw brick wall.

I didn’t want to touch the lift call button, it was so disgustingly coated in greasy smears of God knows what. I pulled a face and poked it with the tip of my nail. I was going to have to start carrying bacterial spray in my pocket.

‘’S not werkin’,’ one of them piped up in his best can’t-talk-right accent, ‘someone fucked it up.’ Yeah, and I wonder who? They looked too smug for it to have been anybody else. Oh well. It would have been fragrant with eau de piss anyway, and I didn’t have much need for a used needle. I took the long way.

The downside was twelve floors of litter-strewn stairs, stone silent apart from the disjointed buzz of flickering neon lighting. Not a sign of another human being. A bit spooky, truth be told. And disgusting – there was crap in one of the corners as I turned up the eighth storey. I hoped it came from a dog.

The upside was nobody followed me, mugged me, or tagged me with a spray can to turn me into a live art installation. And I was pretty much dried out by the time I got to the twelfth, and found the number Clive had given me.