Dead Men's s Boots

You don’t get to be as old as she is by letting your attention wander.

When Nicky put the glass down I shot him an expectant look. By way of answer he sat back in his chair and made himself comfortable.

‘The stuff in the box,’ I prompted.

‘Sure.’ He was still in no hurry. ‘I notice Johnny boy’s little gofer is dead.’

‘Meaning Vince Chesney?’ I frowned. ‘Yeah, he is. How’d you know?’

Nicky looked smug. ‘Two and two, Castor,’ he said. ‘The little baggies that Gittings’s souvenirs were packed in had a name label printed on them – some animal-pathology outfit called Nexus. And this morning Nexus is all over the news on account of having lost one of its employees last night in an inexplicable bloodbath at their premises in Victoria. Some security guard got to join the choir invisible, too. No witnesses, no leads, at least when I hacked the PNC at four a.m. Juliet tells me you were there.’

‘Yeah. I was there.’ I glanced at Juliet, who shrugged. I hadn’t told her it was a big secret, but I’d still have liked the right of veto on telling Nicky about it.

‘It was a loup-garou, right?’

‘Right. Nicky, have you got something for me or not? Because twenty questions was never my game.’

He gave me a languid grin, stubbornly determined not to pick up the pace. ‘I know your game, Castor. It’s blind man’s bluff.’ I opened my mouth to curse him out and he raised a hand, forestalling me. ‘Okay, don’t start on me. I’m just in an expansive mood, that’s all. I like days when I throw out the questions and the answers bounce right back.’

‘So you’re saying –?’

‘I went through the stuff on the disc and I cross-checked it myself in a couple of places. It was mostly bullshit – your man measured everything he could touch a ruler to, whether it mattered or not – but if you want a smoking pistol then I think you got one.’

‘Go on.’ I could tell by the lingering smile that Nicky had a bombshell to drop, or thought he did. He reached into his pocket and handed me one of the small evidence bags. I remembered the object inside the bag pretty well, because it stood out from the mostly innocuous stuff in Chesney’s little treasure chest like a dildo in a nun’s boot-locker.

‘The bullet,’ I said, resigning myself to the role of straight man.

‘Bullet casing, actually. It’s from a 10mm auto round, and according to your now deceased doggy pathologist it was fired from a Smith & Wesson 1076. Got a lovely clear print on it, too – Les Lathwell’s. You know, the East End gangster? The one they called t›e t Smhe Krays’ heir apparent?’

‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘I’m a little hazy on social history. I know the name, but—’

‘Kind of an entrepreneur in the violence and intimidation line. He went to America to learn from the greats: came home and built his own little mafia on the Mile End Road. You should read about this stuff: it’s inspirational. Anyway, I went online and did some rooting around – that’s why I hacked the Police National Computer – and the print checks out A1 at Lloyds. I’m no expert, but I think the ballistics do, too. And that’s where things get interesting.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Lathwell died in 1979. The 10mm round didn’t even get introduced until 1983 – in a Swedish hand-pistol that kicked like an unlimbered cannon and broke people’s arms if they weren’t expecting it. It didn’t get popular – and I use that word in heavy quotes – until the FBI picked it up in 1988. In other words, Lathwell couldn’t have fired that round, or loaded it into a gun, because he died before the gun ever came off the assembly line. So there’s your Rod Serling moment. Enjoy.’

Nicky indulged in another deep snort of the wine breath, drawing it out for maximum dramatic impact. He got the timing just about right, because I was struggling to fit that spiky fact into what I already knew – which was only possible at all because I knew jack shit. Looked at from one angle, though, it made a queasy kind of sense.

‘You think Lathwell rose in the flesh, then?’ Juliet asked, voicing my thoughts. ‘As a zombie?’

Nicky put his glass down, basking in our undivided attention. ‘Could be. Or maybe someone just flayed his fingertips and wore them for a joke. There are a couple of other titbits like that in the notes on the disc. Anachronisms, I mean. My favourite is a letter from Tony Lambrianou to his brother Chris. You know the hearse that carried Lambrianou’s body had a message from Chris, in the middle of a wreath the size of Canary Wharf? It said “See you on the other side.” Well, this letter is dated about six months later, and it’s exactly three words long: “I made it.” Sick joke or mystical revelation? You decide.’

He leaned forward, suddenly more animated.