Kings of the Night Read online

  Chapter 9.

  The piece of paper in my hand only has four lines on it.

  Name: John A. Paris

  Born: 25th February XXXX

  Deceased: 13th April XXXX 13:41

  Cause of Death: Coma A3

  The records office is, fittingly, at the end of a dim corridor, and the overhead lights start flickering as I approach. They must do this on purpose. There’s an old dusty door and a tiny window, with a sign outside saying “Please ring the belt (sic) for assistance”. Of course nothing happens when I do, and tentatively I try the door. It creaks (of course) but swings open and I enter the dank, dusty room. The lights are dim but I can make out corridors full of, well, records. What happened to the computer age? I thought these days they just typed it all into a machine and pressed some buttons and then that was it. Maybe this was some kind of museum, maybe they charged patients to come round and look at it and Oooh and Aaah and while they were doing that they forgot about how ill they were and felt better, then the hospital could get them out and free up hospital beds. What a great idea. I’ll mention that to Jane.

  “Can I help you?”

  I don’t know how he’s appeared but there’s this young guy standing in front of me, the shadows cast over him give him a kind of eerie, ghostly look but when I look more closely I realize, he just looks dull. Grey trousers, grey shirt, with a grey tie, grey hair and grey glasses. His skin would be grey if they made it in that colour. His glasses dull his grey eyes. I think they must make a special category of people to work in records offices, or libraries (maybe that’s a bit harsh), and they probably go to record office school and shop in record office shops and all go to record office parties and dinners and stuff. I wonder what they talk about.

  “What do you talk about at parties?” I ask him.

  “Excuse me?” he says, looking a little bemused.

  I shrug. “Never mind” and hand him the piece of paper. “I need to, erm, do the, you know….”

  Record Man takes the paper and peers at it intently through his grey glasses. “Ah” he says, knowledgeably. “You need the records of poor Mr. Paris, and then you need to follow procedure W43. I take it you know the procedure, you don’t need a checklist?”

  “Erm…” I start. He sighs. “I’ll get you a checklist. Please wait for a while. Have a seat while I find these records.” And he disappears into the maze of corridors.

  There doesn’t seem to be anywhere to sit so I try and lean back on the desk whilst I wait. It’s not that comfortable and I start to get an idea, but just when it starts to go somewhere there’s a cough in my ear and Record Man is standing next to me, kind of close, and I move back, knocking something off the desk. I can see this thing falling, both of us can and we both watch as it hits the ground and explodes. A bottle of ink, I didn’t even realize those things still existed, I’m thinking as the black ink flies through the air and stains my crumpled jeans. It hits Record Man’s trousers too, but their greyness just seems to envelop it, absorb it, and it disappears as if it’s been eaten by the greyness inside him. How strange I think, and I look at him, and smile and shrug.

  “Sorry about that” I manage. His sullen look just becomes even more sullen and silently he hands a folder to me, together with a small bag. “You can go through that. Please return it to me when you’ve finished” he says in his grey monotone, then he pulls the chair out and sits at his desk, starting to ponder whatever’s on there, gently pushing me out of the way and back to the door. Oh well, I think, this could be interesting as I find myself out in the lonely corridor again.

  There’s no one in the café, except for a fat guy, wearing greasy clothes, standing in front of a huge vat of something steaming, brown smoke escaping ominously. I think it must be some kind of stew.

  “Can I have a coffee please” I venture

  “Black or white?” he says, at least that’s what I think he says. “Black” I try.

  He looks around, finds a dirty mug and rubs it inside and out with his apron. Then he puts a huge ladle into the vat and pours it in, handing over to me.

  I look dubiously into the brown liquid. “Er, thanks. How much?”

  “Nothing” he says, “it’s complete shit.” Then he grabs what looks like a pot of salt, throws it into the vat and begins stirring.

  There don’t seem to be any no smoking signs, so I light up and sit at a table and open the file. The coffee’s surprisingly good.

  The first sheet in front of me reads “Police Report – GBH” in big, bold, black letters and underneath it says:

  Name of subject: John A Paris

  Date of report: 30/03/XXXX

  Officer: DC James Mulligan Ash

  Subject found in alleyway between Mercer Street and Goodenough Road, after report called in through Emergency Services. Unable to initially identify identity of caller, later found to be aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

  20:05, wet and dark and I was right annoyed about having to come out. Dogshit on my boots, dogshit all over the place. I hate that stuff, it stinks, can’t get rid of it for days. Found the subject - unconscious when found, severe bleeding from the base of his skull. Weapon used appeared to large metal bar left by the side of his body, later verified through testing and a fair amount of intelligence. Got out of there as quick as I could, on my own, nothing for a murder scene. I phoned through but they didn’t want to send anyone, who knows why but who cares, way past my pay grade anyway. Did the right stuff like I was taught, got everything into plastic bags, avoiding the dogshit. Eventually an ambulance turned up. Had to wait there over half an hour, getting soaked. Even my cigs were soaked, too windy to light up then when I did the bastard kept going out. Only thing that was keeping us warm out there. Ambulance guys were angry too, brought a stretcher through, kept getting it caught in the weeds and everything. Had to help get the body on the stretcher, heavy bastard. They took one look at him and decided he was a goner. Said they would take him over to the hospital, must have been Southtown, only one round here. Stayed and did my bit, went through, looked for evidence, nothing there except for the bar and a discarded packet of fags. Bagged it just in case, not sure why I bothered. Got everything soaked, no chance of fingerprints on anything, no way but I’d get it run anyway. Drove straight home that night, could do the paperwork in the morning. Got the bar sent over first thing, check to see it was the murder weapon, check to see any fingerprints. Took ages as usual but something came back, unidentified they said. But there was a name crossed out. Redacted. Phoned to ask but no one would say nothing. Dozy cow I spoke to, didn’t even know what I was talking about when I started but eventually it seemed to seep through. Nothing, no lead there, except it was deffo the weapon.

  Asked the sarge what to do next, he checked out the victim. Told me not to waste my time too much, would probably be a goner and not worth wasting too much time on. Do a few house to house he said, just do enough, check it out and then close it down. More important things to worry about, he said. Got big Al on it with me, he was just back from six months out with stress and wanted something easy to do. Thought we would do a few houses in the morning, stop for a couple of pints and then finish up in the afternoon. No one wanted to say much, not round there, no surprise. Just got a few people who knew him, weren’t surprised, when we asked why they all said he was a “sad, pathetic loner” or a “bit of a weirdo”. Most seemed to hope that he didn’t recover, or at least moved very far away if he did. No one wanted to give any names, not theirs, not nobody. The pub was all right, did decent beer and we had a few bags of crisps to keep the blues away. Tried a few more houses in the afternoon but it was all the same story. Thought there was one lass who wanted to say a bit more, but then suddenly her fella turns up and it’s all, oh no, don’t remember, sorry love, come back some other time. She seemed real nervous after that. Shame cos she was all right and since the missus left I ain’t had so much luck. Big Al was thinking the same, you could tell, but he’s an ugly bastard, old to boot, he’d have
never got nowhere with her. Anyway just in case anything turns up later, Sarah Cliff, that was her name, flat 4 the heights. If I ever get another chance maybe I’ll give it another try.

  Gave up, drove home, then followed up in the morning. Victim had been transferred to Southtown General hospital just like I’d thought. Had nowt to do that day so took a trip down there. Doctors told me I was welcome to stay but he was in a coma and seriously unlikely to recover. Sat there for a few minutes but there was nothing to do there, no grapes, not even a telly, so I scarpered and stopped in the pub on the way back to the station. May follow up in a few days to see if he’s still around. Then close the case and move on.

  I turn the sheet over. Well, clearly James Mulligan Ash wasn’t a very good policeman, seems to have got his facts all wrong. Before carrying on, I go back to get another cup of coffee.

  Fat Chef looks at me like I’m mad. “You want another one?” he asks. When I nod, he just points at the cigarette in my hand.

  “Oh, erm, yeah, sorry, I thought it was OK” I mutter.

  “Gissa one” he snarls. I shake a cigarette from the packet and hand it over.

  “You want a light?” I ask, but he ignores me, and crushes it in his huge hand, then throws it into the vat. I shrug as he ladles me another cup of coffee.

  “You want one to smoke?” I ask but he’s ignoring me, concentrating on the liquid circling the vat.

  The next sheet of paper in my file gives a few personal details about John Paris, well, that is, me. Like where I live (Flat 3, 64A Clydescross Drive, like that means anything), how old I am (43), and details of my next of kin. Mother and father (not worth talking about), brother (last seen in Warsaw four years ago), wife and kids (none).

  There’s another few sheets which look really dull, so I ignore them, drink my coffee in a couple of gulps (not as good as the first mug, a bit too salty) and head to the car park, nodding at Fat Chef as I go.