Family

by Owen Mullen

  He smiled a cool smile and waited patiently for the hugging to stop. I’d listened to Mandy’s side of why the marriage broke down. No doubt, he’d have a different tale to tell. Right and wrong didn’t necessarily come into it. All too obviously, he’d rather the reunion wasn’t happening and was struggling to keep it to himself. He glanced past his daughter and his ex-wife to me. I acknowledged him with a nod and got nothing in return – the guy didn’t want to be here and it showed. The adults had a brief exchange I wasn’t able to catch with him doing most of the talking. He kissed the little girl and walked away. Maybe I was misjudging him. Maybe this was hard. But he didn’t look back.

  Mandy introduced me to Amy. ‘I want you to meet Luke. Say hello.’

  Amy’s question gave us a taste of what we could expect in the next seven days, cutting through whatever fiction we’d planned to tell her.

  ‘Are you my mummy’s boyfriend?’

  Her mother laughed uncomfortably and tossed her hair over her shoulder.

  I didn’t hesitate. I’d made that mistake before. ‘Yes, I’m her boyfriend. Is that all right with you?’

  The answer confirmed her suspicions. She held out her hand. I took it in mine.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Luke.’

  On the way to the Northern Line I bought three ice creams, my opening bid for Amy’s affections. Behind her back, her mother blew me a kiss.

  The holiday had officially begun.

  Amy was great: bright, funny and – as I’d found out – alarmingly frank. It was going to be an interesting week. Buying the ice cream was a genius move. Sleeping with her mother in the room next door wouldn’t be. I left at nine-thirty and got a taxi to my flat. It was early and there were lights in most of the windows.

  I still couldn’t place the guy at Euston Station. The only thing to do was sleep on it and hope it would come to me.

  I kicked my shoes off and poured a large whisky – the first of the day. Setting good examples came at a cost. Before the week was over, I’d be a secret drinker.

  I put my head back on the couch and was almost asleep when the mobile vibrated in my pocket. My mystery caller checking in. Except he wasn’t such a mystery any more. I’d seen him. Three hours later I woke up again, cold and irritable. The phone lay silently on the floor at my feet; it had become my enemy. I was gripped by the certainty it was going to ring.

  And I wasn’t wrong.

  My voice was hoarse and angry. ‘Tell your boss I’m ready any time he likes.’

  As usual, I was talking to myself. Where I’d seen the guy at Euston suddenly came to me – the smooth operator from the pub on the Broadway. Anderson had had eyes on me from Day One.

  ‘Listen, you bastard. I know what you look like. Soon, I’ll know where you live.’

  I was tired though there was no point in trying to sleep. Adrenaline pumping through my veins had me on my feet. The street was very different from how it had been; every house was closed down for the night. But behind one of the windows, Anderson could be watching, weighing up whether he’d turned the psychological screw as far as it would go, or was there something to be gained by turning it a little bit more. In his eyes, seven years was light for what I’d done to his old man. I was his reason to live. Part of a plan a long time in the making. Between me and my brother, he’d lost everything.

  All that remained was the reckoning.

  Number one on his shit-list was me.

  I brought the gun from the bedroom and sat in darkness, listening to my heart beat in sync with the clock above the fire. This couldn’t go on. One way or another it would be over, and soon. Team Glass didn’t exist. My brother didn’t have my back this time – the advantage was with Rollie Anderson and we both knew it.

  I was on my own.

  55

  Trevor Mills came into Stanford’s office and closed the door behind him. He had something to say and his boss wasn’t going to like it. His DCI was bent over a report on the desk. If he’d heard the sergeant enter the room, he didn’t show it. The DI coughed to get his attention. Stanford looked up from what he was doing, clearly irritated at the interruption. Mills said, ‘Isobel Wallace is here to see you.’

  Unwelcome but not unexpected. The twenty-four-hour waiting period before a person could be reported missing was a Hollywood myth. Isobel had acted the morning after Bob Wallace didn’t come home. Officers had already been to the house and taken her statement. Questions about the state of the marriage and her husband’s drinking were rejected as ridiculous and offensive. Bob and Isobel Wallace were dull, individually and collectively, and perfectly happy.

  Stanford put down his pen. ‘Well, let’s get it over with.’

  Mills turned and stopped. ‘Oh, and something else, sir.’

  His boss held onto his patience, just. ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t come back to me about the report on Eugene Vale’s secretary.’

  Stanford’s expression wouldn’t have been out of place on Easter Island. ‘The woman who drowned in the bath?’

  ‘The very same. Should we take a closer look?’

  ‘Christ, no. The last thing we need is another murder statistic. Life really is too short without raking around in whatever shit Danny Glass is knee-deep in now. Let it go, Trevor. Bring Isobel in.’

  Without make-up, Wallace’s wife was more nondescript than he remembered from the dinner party – her hair hadn’t been properly combed and she wore black shoes with a brown coat. The DCI sniffed his disapproval. Elise wouldn’t let herself go no matter how distraught she was.

  ‘Trevor, get Isobel a cup of tea.’

  She turned the offer away. ‘No, nothing for me, thanks. I just had to get out of the house and didn’t know where else to go, so I came here. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. You did the right thing.’

  ‘Any word?’

  ‘Not yet. Try not to upset yourself unnecessarily. It’s only been a day. Bob might walk through that door at any minute.’

  Isobel put her hand over her eyes and started to sob. Behind her, Mills coughed awkwardly into his hand. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer I wasn’t here?’

  ‘No, stay. Please stay. You’re his colleagues. He’s so proud to be working with you, you’ve no idea.’

  She missed the look that passed between the policemen. Stanford was on cue. ‘And we’re proud to be working with him, aren’t we, Trevor?’

  DI Mills concurred. ‘Absolutely, sir. One of the finest officers in the building.’

  Stanford’s tone was measured. ‘Your husband never stops being a policeman. Before he left here yesterday, he told someone he was meeting an informant. That could’ve led him to something.’

  Isobel lifted her head. ‘What informant? Bob never mentioned an informant.’

  Stanford embellished the invention. ‘He played his cards close to his chest.’

  ‘Not with me.’

  ‘Of course, though you must appreciate there are aspects to the job none of us share. The Bob we see is very different from the one who comes home to you. In the short time he’d been on the team, he’s made a big contribution. Tenacious. Haven’t met a better copper. No offence, Trevor.’

  ‘None taken, sir.’

  This wasn’t the man Isobel Wallace knew.

  ‘Why hasn’t he called? Bob always calls. I’ve tried his mobile. He isn’t answering.’

  Stanford could’ve told her why.

  Instead, he leaned forward and took her hands – damp and clammy – biting back his distaste.

  ‘Go home. We’ll do everything we can to find him.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘We’re good at what we do, Isobel. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t show up soon.’

  When she’d gone, Mills said, ‘What’re we going to do about Wallace?’

  Stanford shuffled papers on his desk and didn’t look up. ‘We’ve got a missing copper. We investigate it. Top priority. Get the ball rolling. I’ll speak to the men.’

  ‘Shouldn’t w
e wait?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be appropriate. One of our own is missing.’

  Mills smiled. ‘I’ll say this for you. You’re a cool bastard, Oliver.’

  Stanford accepted the compliment, adding a small important modification.

  ‘A cool bastard, sir. We’re not in the pub now, Trevor.’

  Irritation flashed in Stanford’s eyes when he saw Mills was back. The DI caught it and forced himself not to react. He’d had enough of his boss’s superior attitude. Being promoted ahead of him didn’t seem to be enough for him. He was determined to rub his nose in it. They were up to their elbows in stuff that would put them in prison for years, yet the puffed-up dickhead wanted to be called sir.

  Stanford’s tone was clipped. ‘This better be good, Trevor.’

  Good wasn’t how the detective inspector would’ve described it.

  ‘A jogger spotted a body bumping up against Vauxhall Bridge and called it in. They fished it out of the river an hour ago.’

  ‘Anybody we know?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe it.’

  ‘Cut the dramatics, we’ve got more than we can use. Just tell me who the hell it is.’

  ‘Jonjo Hart.’

  Stanford was underwhelmed.

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘No reason you should’ve. He’s nobody. Hasn’t been in town long.’

  ‘How did we identify him so quickly?’

  ‘One of the uniforms at the scene is from Tyneside. Hart’s connected up there. He recognised him. That and “Toon Army” tattooed on the back of his hand makes it pretty conclusive.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Mills crossed to the window. In the distance, a heat haze covered the south; outside the air would be sticky and foul. One hundred and seventy years earlier, the smell coming off the river was strong enough to affect the business of parliament. London was still a bastard of a place in summer: a shithole. Too hot and too many people. He gazed down at the traffic and the pedestrians on the Embankment; nonentities unaware of what was going on around them.

  ‘Quicker to tell you what didn’t.’

  Stanford drummed his fingers on the desk. He already had a missing officer to deal with, by itself enough to bring nine kinds of crap down on his head from all directions. He wasn’t in the mood to fuck about.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, Trevor, I’ve got plenty of time.’

  The sarcasm was undisguised.

  ‘I talked to the DI down there. He says the guy was naked and he’d been tortured. Bits cut off. Holes in him everywhere. Before he died his eyes had been put out.’

  Stanford made a face. ‘Nasty. How long has the body been in the water?’

  ‘Not his call. They’re expecting Forensics to arrive any minute.’

  ‘Then, apart from the city becoming less safe by the day – which isn’t news to anybody in law enforcement – what’s the significance?’

  Mills kept him waiting, sensing the stress rise in the other man. Stanford was freaking out and doing a fair job of hiding it.

  ‘He’s small-time.’

  ‘So why tell me about him?’

  ‘Two reasons: he’s one of Anderson’s men. A peripheral player – not much more than a gofer – part of the crew, nevertheless. Could be Anderson’s guys are fighting amongst themselves.’

  ‘Why torture him? Why not stick a knife in him and be done with it?’

  ‘Good question… sir.’

  Insubordination needed proof, hesitating on a word wasn’t enough. But it was there; the DCI had heard it. Stanford moved on – he’d get his chance.

  ‘What’s the second reason?’

  ‘He’s George Ritchie’s nephew.’

  Stanford lost his temper. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you say that in the first place? Can you really not understand just how deep in the shit we are? If Anderson and his men are alive, I guarantee they’re not fighting each other – they’re preparing for war. And if somebody’s done this to Ritchie’s family, we can expect a bloodbath.’

  56

  Nina had said she believed me when I told her I’d known nothing about the Picasso Club fire. Maybe she did, but since her phone call, she’d stayed away from me. I was already a brother down, losing my only sister wasn’t the result I was after. She sounded different at the other end of the phone – edgy, wired, or just not in the mood for conversation, I couldn’t be sure, so I kept it as light as I knew how, although it was late in the day to expect her to welcome me as the protective big brother I’d never been. Thanks to Lord Justice Peyton Richardson and the twelve good men and women on the jury, that ship had sailed, too much water had gone under the bridge.

  ‘Just checking in. How’s things?’

  Her reply was jaded. ‘Much like you’d expect when your brother’s a mass murderer. Fucking grim. How’s Mandy?’

  ‘Improving and nervous. Her daughter is visiting. It’s a big deal for both of them.’

  ‘I wish her luck.’

  ‘Thanks, she’ll appreciate that. By the way, had an interesting conversation with Oliver Stanford, or, rather, he had one with me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have believed that was possible. Is he any closer to putting Danny away?’

  ‘For what? Where’s the proof?’

  ‘Is that a no?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Eugene Vale?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘His secretary’s been found dead. He suspects Danny had something to do with it.’

  Silence on her end of the line.

  ‘Nina?’

  ‘What makes him think that?’

  ‘He knows Danny, isn’t that enough? And the circumstances are odd – she drowned in her bath.’

  She processed the information. ‘Doubt he even knew Eugene had a secretary.’

  She was right; the policeman was reaching. So was I.

  ‘Though, it would be poetic justice if he went down for something he didn’t do.’

  ‘Is Stanford investigating it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Let me know if you hear anything.’

  ‘Didn’t Vale tell you about it?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him. We aren’t together.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘But you’re okay, yeah?’

  ‘As I said, when your brother’s a mass murderer…’

  I ended the call – it wasn’t going anywhere. The fire had affected Nina more than I’d realised, and with her romance ending as well… clearly, she wasn’t in a good place. Danny would be pleased Vale was out of the picture, though he wouldn’t be hearing it from me.

  In the bank, the girl who’d served me when I’d asked for a printout was there again, behind a Perspex screen. I’d given the notice they’d asked for with a request to withdraw the money two days later. She counted out the notes – crisp clean twenties that snapped between her thumb and forefinger – and edged them across to me. I waited for a variation of her sales pitch but she let me go. She was subdued, her dark-brown eyes lacking the enthusiasm for other peoples’ cash that had shone so brightly before.

  Towards the end of the transaction she raised her game and tried a smile on for size.

  ‘Hope you’re planning something fun.’

  ‘It’s not for me and it’s not for fun.’

  The truth. I’d withdrawn the amount Mandy was short and put a bit more on top for luck. She could bail today if she wanted with her little girl or hang on for a better opportunity. Her choice. Out on the street, I didn’t spot anybody following me. That didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  Giving was more satisfying than receiving, no doubt about it, and I walked to my car feeling good. Being around Amy had given me an insight into what childhood should be.

  I hadn’t had one. None of us had.

  And I’d had no idea the city was such a great place for kids. In the last three days we�
�d been to the zoo, the Sea Life London Aquarium and taken a sightseeing trip on the Thames. But the star of the visit was Harry Potter. I’d walked in the boy wizard’s footsteps and sat through a two-and-a-half-hour film of the locations and inspirations behind the books. Today we were taking it easy. Just mooching around getting our breath back. Tomorrow we were booked to go to Warner Bros. studios for more of the same. A driver would pick us up at the corner of Baker Street and Porter Street, in front of Starbucks coffee. I told myself I was doing it for the kid though really, I was having as good a time as she was.

  Family wasn’t something I was used to; I hadn’t known the woman who’d given birth to me and, growing up, my father was too often in a whisky stupor to realise I was even there.

  Little girls are cute – this one was no exception. She liked me and wasn’t afraid to show it. The feeling was mutual and when they went home, a sense of loss beyond anything I could explain settled over me.

  But it was her mother I was drawn to most. The more time I spent in her company, the more I appreciated qualities her husband had missed. She was smart, kind, funny and well able to call bullshit on me. It was easy to forget the relationship was doomed and had been from the beginning.

  And that was the problem. I had forgotten.

  The money was a no-brainer. I didn’t need it and Mandy did. To me it meant nothing, to her it was a second chance with her daughter and I was looking forward to seeing the look on her face when I handed it to her. She’d ask me to go with them. That wouldn’t be right. What we’d had was good, but it wasn’t love. I knew the difference.