…
‘And was it?’
‘Sorry?’ Charlotte was now tantalising in a leather basque straight from Mary’s collection.
‘Was it helpful?’
‘It might be. I’m … we’re having dinner together.’
Andy beamed, his eyes glinting. ‘You sly bastard! Always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for, eh? Oh, well, bang goes
my idea for the night’s entertainment. I thought we could go on the pull, but if you’re sorted I’ll have to make other arrangements.
That bird at the hotel was giving me the eye—’
To change the subject Larkin said, ‘What did
you
find out?’
Andy jumped straight in, head-on. ‘Got the name of that guy who killed Edgell. Gary Fenwick. Know him?’
Larkin ran it through his memory. ‘I think Char – the lawyer mentioned it. Keep going.’
‘Apparently, from what I could gather, Fenwick walked up to Edgell and just knifed him. Witnesses, the lot. It was about two
in the mornin’, just down an alley from a taxi rank outside a nightclub. In Grimley.’ He paused and thought. ‘Christ, I’m
surprised they’ve
got
a nightclub in a shithole like that.’
‘How did you learn all this?’
‘Went to the library. They keep newspapers. Didn’t you think of doing that, Mr Reporter? Anyway, I went out to Grimley.’ He
shuddered. ‘Never seen a place more aptly named. I can see now what’s made you such a sullen bastard.’
From the murderous look in Larkin’s eyes, Andy realised he had said the wrong thing.
‘Sorry. It was just a joke.’ Larkin nodded almost imperceptibly; Andy took that as a cue to continue. ‘Put it this way – it’s
a bit depressing. And that nightclub, it looks risky enough in the daytime – I bet it’s fuckin’ dangerous at night.’ He paused
and took a drink. Larkin knew the place. He held it a matter of personal pride that he had never set foot in it.
‘Anyway, they closed it down after the stabbing. Lookslike something they should have done years ago. Took some snaps, though.’
He delved into the leather file he had brought with him. Larkin looked through the photos; they brought it all back. There
were shots of the high street – in reality the
only
street. It looked deserted, even on a Saturday afternoon. The shops were more or less the same; maybe a few more video stores,
another Chinese takeaway, the innovation of a kebab shop. It all looked much starker in black and white. Then the nightclub,
an old Victorian Gothic building more suited to an asylum than a dance hall. The windows had been blacked out, the brickwork
was stained and discoloured, and the gaudy neon sign announcing the legend CONNEXIONS had more than a few letters missing.
The taxi rank was outside the main entrance and there was a maze of alleyways around the building, dark even in daylight.
Larkin handed the photos back to Andy. They had made him even less keen to go back.
‘Where’s Fenwick now?’ asked Larkin, trying to take his mind off the bleak images.
‘On remand waiting for his trial. Open-and-shut case, apparently.’
‘What about Edgell? Anything on him?’
‘Yeah. Lived in London for a few years. Must have gone south to make his fortune.’
‘Lot of it about,’ said Larkin. ‘Doesn’t always work out, though.’
‘Too right, mate. Streets of London aren’t paved with gold.’
‘No. They’re paved with
Big Issue
sellers.’
Andy looked at Larkin. ‘Yeah … Well, anyway, after a few years he came back up here, moved into his old man’s flat in Grimley.
His parents are divorced – mother went down under with some Australian, so to speak. Looks like our boy was setting things
up for a big London firm to move in. Funny that. I’d have thought they’d be here already.’
‘They are. But you know Northerners, how insular they are. Even their drugs dealers have to be local.’
‘You want to watch yourself, mate. You’re nearly developing a sense of humour.’ Andy smiled; Larkin smiled; happy times.
‘And was it?’
‘Sorry?’ Charlotte was now tantalising in a leather basque straight from Mary’s collection.
‘Was it helpful?’
‘It might be. I’m … we’re having dinner together.’
Andy beamed, his eyes glinting. ‘You sly bastard! Always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for, eh? Oh, well, bang goes
my idea for the night’s entertainment. I thought we could go on the pull, but if you’re sorted I’ll have to make other arrangements.
That bird at the hotel was giving me the eye—’
To change the subject Larkin said, ‘What did
you
find out?’
Andy jumped straight in, head-on. ‘Got the name of that guy who killed Edgell. Gary Fenwick. Know him?’
Larkin ran it through his memory. ‘I think Char – the lawyer mentioned it. Keep going.’
‘Apparently, from what I could gather, Fenwick walked up to Edgell and just knifed him. Witnesses, the lot. It was about two
in the mornin’, just down an alley from a taxi rank outside a nightclub. In Grimley.’ He paused and thought. ‘Christ, I’m
surprised they’ve
got
a nightclub in a shithole like that.’
‘How did you learn all this?’
‘Went to the library. They keep newspapers. Didn’t you think of doing that, Mr Reporter? Anyway, I went out to Grimley.’ He
shuddered. ‘Never seen a place more aptly named. I can see now what’s made you such a sullen bastard.’
From the murderous look in Larkin’s eyes, Andy realised he had said the wrong thing.
‘Sorry. It was just a joke.’ Larkin nodded almost imperceptibly; Andy took that as a cue to continue. ‘Put it this way – it’s
a bit depressing. And that nightclub, it looks risky enough in the daytime – I bet it’s fuckin’ dangerous at night.’ He paused
and took a drink. Larkin knew the place. He held it a matter of personal pride that he had never set foot in it.
‘Anyway, they closed it down after the stabbing. Lookslike something they should have done years ago. Took some snaps, though.’
He delved into the leather file he had brought with him. Larkin looked through the photos; they brought it all back. There
were shots of the high street – in reality the
only
street. It looked deserted, even on a Saturday afternoon. The shops were more or less the same; maybe a few more video stores,
another Chinese takeaway, the innovation of a kebab shop. It all looked much starker in black and white. Then the nightclub,
an old Victorian Gothic building more suited to an asylum than a dance hall. The windows had been blacked out, the brickwork
was stained and discoloured, and the gaudy neon sign announcing the legend CONNEXIONS had more than a few letters missing.
The taxi rank was outside the main entrance and there was a maze of alleyways around the building, dark even in daylight.
Larkin handed the photos back to Andy. They had made him even less keen to go back.
‘Where’s Fenwick now?’ asked Larkin, trying to take his mind off the bleak images.
‘On remand waiting for his trial. Open-and-shut case, apparently.’
‘What about Edgell? Anything on him?’
‘Yeah. Lived in London for a few years. Must have gone south to make his fortune.’
‘Lot of it about,’ said Larkin. ‘Doesn’t always work out, though.’
‘Too right, mate. Streets of London aren’t paved with gold.’
‘No. They’re paved with
Big Issue
sellers.’
Andy looked at Larkin. ‘Yeah … Well, anyway, after a few years he came back up here, moved into his old man’s flat in Grimley.
His parents are divorced – mother went down under with some Australian, so to speak. Looks like our boy was setting things
up for a big London firm to move in. Funny that. I’d have thought they’d be here already.’
‘They are. But you know Northerners, how insular they are. Even their drugs dealers have to be local.’
‘You want to watch yourself, mate. You’re nearly developing a sense of humour.’ Andy smiled; Larkin smiled; happy times.
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