Chapter 17
Monday September 2nd, 2024
The Castle Inn, Crockenhill, London
Kit drives up to The Castle Inn at 9:45am. He finds he gets about much quicker in Angel's vehicles, but he can't yet bring himself to pop the glovebox for fear of what bloodied apparatus he might find.
Still, it's easier to put a brave face on driving around behind the wheel of a classic Mercedes.
White lights are on behind drawn curtains in the pub downstairs, and Kit feels more relaxed knowing he doesn't have to terrorise anyone in the dark. He also much prefers the traditional, cosy-tavern-style nature of this place; it's surprisingly less intimidating than The Ditch, despite being designed by Josie, the most unhospitable sibling.
Bill officially gifted The Castle Inn to Angel some years ago as his first project business, however Josie's relationship with the bar is, and always has been, much more personal.
Aside from being the interior designer, Josie spends the majority of her free time - outside her smirking hours - helping herself to free pints of Guiness and having sleepovers here with some of the bar staff; one, more so than the others.
Kit assumes that Josie and Ellie enjoy each other's company much more than they let on publicly and has caught himself wondering whether it really takes two people to spend twenty minutes fetching the crisps up from the cellar, or if that's an excuse to spend time alone together. The O'Hare's are famously known to give you a good fucking, or a good fucking up.
He checks the time on his phone and sees his usual morning message from Maura. It simply reads 'love you today' – a shortened lyric from the song 'l Love You Today', by Chip Taylor. The song was their mother's favourite, and Maura insists on sending it to him every morning to remind him of where his home is, and who his heart truly belongs to.
But right now, it's Angel's – Kit's entire body, mind and soul is Angel's – and he has a job to do for him.
He pulls a black cap down over his eyes and turns the collar up on his Sergio Tracchini jacket – Angel's, Sergio Tracchini jacket, complete with unloaded handgun in pocket. Today is a cold September morning which calls for gloves – not unusual for a British "Summer" - and Kit counts to five before opening the door to the chill outside.
He slams the car door as hard as he can, hoping to make his early presence known – Angel moves as silent as the grave on the job, but Kit likes to give people a fair chance before threatening to burn their beloved family pets or hack off their big toe.
He waits for a few moments and then walks up to the door.
Kit: Do us both a favour Tony, please.
Although Angel has a 'knock-once' rule, Kit knocks eight times, gradually increasing in force.
When no one answers, he fumbles in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and pulls out a wad of keys – he doesn't know what half of them opens, and he isn't sure he wants to, but he knows the longest one fits the lock for the backdoor of The Castle.
He walks around the back of the building and knocks on the rear door, hoping that Tony responds, not just for her physical wellbeing, but for his mental wellbeing, too.
Kit: Fuck sake Tony.
He unzips his pocket and rearranges the Ruger LCP so that the handle is visible. Kit has never pulled a gun on anyone other than Nico, and he would like to think that simply baring the weapon sends the same message as using it.
Turning the key in the lock, he takes a deep breath.
Kit: Forgive us our trespasses.
Before he has even opened the door, the smell of rotting meat makes Kit gag.
It's a pungent, spicy scent which sits in his nose and behind his eyes, a truly offensive aroma. Walking firstly into the kitchen, he finds three empty Domino's pizza boxes full of Quality Street wrappers and a half-empty garlic and herb big dip, spread out across the table – but no rancid meat, as his nose suggests.
Kit: Tony?
Speaking makes him wretch as the gnarly odour fills his mouth and gorges on his tastebuds. He covers his nose with the inside of his forearm, desperately trying to find the more pleasant traces of Chanel Bleu on Angel's jacket and moves towards the bar.
He's barely able to breath through the stench and he comes very close to heaving then leaving, convincing himself that even Angel would cut his losses, until he pokes his head around the bar and see's the two of them slumped over a round table in the centre of the room.
He knows instantly that they're dead. And judging by the smell, they've been dead for days.
Ellie is lying, wide-eyed, across the table with her head lain against her right arm. Her nose is covered with a blood-red crust and a powdery pink dust, which, on closer inspection, Kit can see is sprinkled all over the table in front of her.
Tony is facedown, in a puddle of watery brown vomit, and it's an easy assumption to make that the pinkish hue on her fingertips is not sherbet. For a split-second, the severity of the circumstance almost becomes stronger than its smell.
It's the first time Kit has seen a dead body which isn't in a horror movie, and he doesn't quite know what part of this he should be processing. He feels cheated that, as a young boy, he wasn't given the choice to visit his mother in the chapel of rest, but now here he stands, rubbing shoulders with two dead strangers. He feels oddly numb to the carnage – like this is still just part of a movie.
He takes out his phone and searches for the contact number Angel reluctantly installed some weeks back.
Angel: I've just parked up at Swanley Train station, Kit. What do you want?
Kit's reply echoes in monotone, like he is in a trance, and he speaks slowly from behind his hand cupped against his dry mouth - it sounds like he's talking through a nineties walkie-talkie.
Kit: Tony didn't answer.
Angel sighs and clicks his tongue.
Angel: Let yourself in, Darth Vader, and take whatever's in the till. I'll send you her mobile number - if she doesn't answer, put a bullet in her cat. I need to drive to Rainham once I've taken Josie home.
Kit: Think you could call in on your way past?
Angel scoffs and tells Kit he's fucking useless.
Kit: Maybe. But it's in your best interests to stop by. Trust me.
Angel keeps the curtains drawn but opens the windows, desperately needing air which isn't contaminated with the compounds of his decaying bar staff. He sits on the bottom of the stairs outside the kitchen door and rubs his hands together, feeling defeated. It's all he can do not to imagine one of his girls lying in a pool of their own putrefying bodily secretions – he accepts begrudgingly that visiting Wembley may have made matters worse.
Otis: I came as soon as I could. Had to drop the kids off at their mum's.
Using his gloved hand, Otis wipes his brow underneath a peaked grey cap and scans the hallway. Other than pizza box number three, there doesn't appear to be any evidence of a third party or even a struggle, and he feels a horrible resemblance to Fish' spotless flat - maybe the mystery maid might have given The Castle Inn the once over too...
He steps into the bar area, holding his handkerchief to his nose. Angel appears behind him and grunts in frustration.
Angel: If you play with feathers Otis... you get your arse tickled. Haven't your lot closed in on anything solid yet?
Otis: They stopped looking. They aren't wasting valuable resources on a dead, scruffy junkie kid with a pending rape charge.
He doesn't remind Angel that it's probably been for the best – who knows what else in this town the force might unearth if they look close enough.
Otis: Anything on the cameras?
Angel takes a seat at the table to the left of the bodies, throwing a velvet blue cushion on the floor, and shakes his head. He tells Otis that Tony liked to dabble, recreationally, so used to turn the cameras off when she wanted to get high.
Otis: I'm going to have to call this one in Angel - no way around it. Do you know the families?
Angel's head drops as he recalls the friendship between Ellie and Josie. Why was it that by trying to protect his family, he seemed to be only hurting them more?
Angel: Josie might. Tony didn't have anyone.
Kit scoops up a slightly purple sphynx cat who is circling his feet.
Kit: Not true.
Otis and Angel look at one and other.
Otis: No way. I'm allergic.
Angel: To what? It's got no fucking hair.
Otis waves a hand as he walks away, wondering how in the hell he's going to call this in without exposing the O'Hare's, and himself, to an abundance of police questioning.
Kit leans against the bar, still holding Floss, the cat. He shudders at the thought of a guilt-stricken Maura learning that her baby brother found the bodies; as if Angel has read his mind, he interrupts Kit's thoughts, staring blankly at Ellie's greying face.
Angel: Get out of here. If Maura asks, you play dumb. Drive by Lal's on your way home but leave Flake to me – I want to talk to him. I want to know the names of every dealer within a fifty mile radius of this town. And every time one of them goes for a shit.
Kit nods his head, understanding that by 'home', Angel is referring to The Ditch now. He drops the cat and turns to leave.
As Kit begins to walk away, Angel, still staring at Ellie, knocks on the table. Kit stops to listen to the rhythm more carefully than any prayer or instruction he's heard before.
Knock. Pause. Knock knock. Pause. Knock.
YOU ARE READING
Trestle
Mystery / Thriller**SMUT warning** Following the death of his racketeer father, Angel is left to manage the O'Hare family's rugged affairs. He vows to worship his girls and protect them from the threat of poverty, sin, and dangerous men like himself. But when debts c...
