Post Mortem, Gary Bell [best fiction novels .txt] 📗

‘You need to report this,’ Zara said.

‘What I need is bail! They’ll kill me in here. I was there in custody with them, don’t you get it? I heard it all. I know too much about them.’

‘Them?’ I grimaced and looked to Zara. Her expression grimaced straight back. ‘Who?’

‘The ones who were sitting in the pub that night!’ he whispered impatiently. ‘Don’t you hear what I’ve been saying? Call themselves the “E10 Cutthroats”. They’re the ones that done this to my face. They’re the ones running things in here now. Drugs, blades, you name it. That raid, it wasn’t no win for the police. It was played, man.’

‘Cutthroats? Who on earth are –’

‘Not now. You get me bail, then maybe we’ll talk. I can tell you stories, straight up. I can tell you about the one that got away. The one nobody’s seen since. Way I hear it, he’s gone ghost. On the run or something. Maybe dead.’

‘Another dealer?’ Zara asked. ‘I didn’t think any of them got away.’

‘One did,’ he said. ‘He was the only one I recognised in the bar that night. He never needed to make bail cos he was never arrested. Feds parted like water for Moses and let him walk.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘Obvious, innit?’ he said. ‘Got to be a snitch, on their books or something. Word is he’s been playing both sides. One of them double agents you hear about. KGB shit.’

‘Interesting,’ I muttered. ‘You’re saying that the Met have got themselves a Kim Philby?’

He shrugged. ‘Don’t know who that is.’

‘This dealer,’ Zara said, ‘does he have a name?’

Andre nodded. ‘Wouldn’t be much of a person without one.’

‘But you won’t give it to us?’

He glanced up to the camera again, chewing his lip, so I interjected once more.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘if this lad really was carrying drugs that night, and you truly weren’t, then one could argue that you’re sitting here in his place. So, have the last two months been so enjoyable that you don’t mind serving a few more years on his behalf?’

Before he even opened his mouth, I knew from the strain on his face that we had him.

‘Omar Pickett. That’s who I recognised. The one that walked away. Omar Pickett.’

‘Where is he now?’ Zara asked.

‘On his toes or dead. These Cutthroats aren’t into prisoners.’

I nodded. ‘It’s a dangerous world you live in, Mr Israel. No doubt more dangerous since you landed in here, especially with inmates dropping like they did back in January.’

‘January?’ Zara frowned, glancing between us, missing something. ‘What happened in January?’

A brief silence. Andre sniffed, weighing me up. ‘You think you know about that? You don’t know nothing.’

I managed a dry smile. ‘Thirteen deaths. Misadventure. Bad drugs, right?’

‘Wrong, Mr Rook. Dead wrong. Thirteen bodies. Not one of them was accidental.’

5

‘I thought you were quitting,’ Zara said as I lowered my window and blew smoke out of the moving car. We were over the Westway, returning east along the elevated dual carriageway.

‘I did for a couple of days. They say stopping smoking is good for your health, so why deprive your body of the benefit by never smoking in the first place?’

‘Must be hard.’ She was scrolling through her phone. Instagram, I guessed from an absent glance. The usual. Next thing I knew she seemed to be staring straight through me. I followed her gaze to the right and saw the gutted ruins of Grenfell Tower standing like a charred monolith over the west of the city. Seventy-two people had lost their lives in the enormous block of flats the previous summer. ‘Do you think that would’ve been allowed to happen if …’

‘If what?’

‘If the residents had been on the other side of the poverty line, maybe. It’s the same for most of the inmates back there. People like Andre.’

‘You think social hierarchy would’ve made a difference in that fire?’

‘No. I don’t know. Maybe. I can see what you’re thinking, by the way.’

‘What am I thinking?’

At her lap, she locked the screen and pocketed her phone. ‘You think I’m fond of him or something. Andre. Like I’m taking a shine to him because of what happened to my family. That’s not the case.’

I didn’t answer immediately. I didn’t want to lie, so what I told her was the truth. ‘I trust your intelligence. I know your head is in the right place … but it’s common for barristers in the early stages of their careers to want to throw everything they have into their first big cases. Not because it is the correct thing to do, which it is, but because they truly wish to see their client freed. You believe him, don’t you?’

She hesitated, seemingly considering the ramifications of admitting this aloud. ‘Yes.’

I smoked, changed lanes and twice knocked ash out of my window. I wanted to tell her how dangerous that could be, but I had to remind myself of my own recent doings, which took most of the wind out of my desire to tell her off. ‘The more of yourself that you invest into a case, the more you’re opening yourself up for potential disappointment. I just want you to be cautious, that’s all.’

‘You think he’s lying, then?’

‘I think he’s full of excuses. Then again, he really might just be the unluckiest young man in London. It’s whether the jury believes him or not. Have you asked your solicitor to speak to the staff of this pub? You might be able to fish some witnesses out of there.’

‘Tried and failed. The bar staff don’t want anything to do with this. In fact, I think the woman who was working that night has actually quit just to distance herself from it all. The solicitor requested copies of their CCTV, which should have at least shown evidence of Andre’s separate arrival, but all the footage covered was the bar and the till. Nothing useful. We’ve tried getting images from the surrounding roads as well. All they show is fog.’

‘He might well be telling