by Mark Dawson
Hicks spoke hurriedly. “The money isn’t for me.”
“No? I’ve heard that before.”
Hicks spoke quickly. “My wife has cancer. She needs treatment that we can’t get here, and if I can’t get the funds together, she’ll die. My kids lose their mum. Milton, please. I don’t have anywhere else to turn.”
Milton paused.
Hicks pressed on, the desperation evident in his voice. “I was in personal protection before. It pays well, but not well enough. Higgins made me an offer. Enough money to take her to America for treatment. It’s our only hope. I didn’t have any other choice. I wouldn’t have accepted the offer if I’d known what they were doing—I know it’s wrong, and I’m trying to do the right thing so I can fix it.”
Milton considered. His impulse was to send Hicks on his way, but he didn’t. He paused.
“Please, Milton. I need to get away from Higgins.”
“So leave.”
“Come on, it doesn’t work like that. I know too much. I can’t just leave. The only way I get out in one piece is if someone brings him down.”
“Meaning?”
“What do you think? There’s only one way. Higgins has got to go.”
“And that’s why you’re here? I told you—I don’t do that any more.”
“But you don’t forget, do you? How many people have you killed?”
“Too many.”
“So one more makes no difference. Just help me.”
Milton turned his back on him and went to the kitchen.
Hicks got up and followed him. “And there’s going to be a lot of money. All I want is enough for my wife. You can have the rest.”
Milton shook his head with irritation and then gestured around. “Do you really think I’m motivated by money? Would I be cleaning dishes if I was? I don’t care about any of that.”
Hicks didn’t give up. “What, then? What do you care about? There must be something.”
Milton held his tongue and considered that for a moment.
“There is one thing,” he said.
“What?”
“Justice for Eddie Fabian. You think you can help me with that?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
HICKS GAVE MILTON his telephone number and asked him to call when he had had the chance to consider a strategy that might succeed. He left soon afterward. Milton watched him go. He saw how nervous Hicks was as he hurried across the street to his car.
The rest of the shift was quiet, with just a handful of drivers, and he used the time to think about what he should do. They had spoken for a little longer. Milton wanted as much information as he could get. It was not going to be easy to work out the best way to proceed.
He felt no loyalty to Hicks. He certainly wasn’t responsible for him. He had sympathy for his plight—if what he had said was true, of course—but his solution for finding the money to pay for his wife’s treatment was not one that Milton would have chosen. Apart from the difficulty that Milton knew he would face in squaring the morals of any enterprise like the one that Hicks had described, there was the simple matter of Hicks’s naivety. Had he not considered the possibility that he might be asked to do something that he found objectionable? It wasn’t like Robin Hood, some romantic ideal that would mean that no one who didn’t deserve to be punished would be made to suffer. Life wasn’t like that. Life was not black and white: it was a spectrum of greys, infinite in variety, some darker than others. Milton knew that better than most. He had lived his life within that spectrum, and, eventually, it had become more than he could stomach.
The first option that he considered was the moral one: he would go back to Detective Inspector Bruce and tell him what he had learned. He could tell Bruce about Hicks and what he had said he had witnessed at Lauren Fabian’s house. He would stand aside and leave it to the authorities.
He had almost persuaded himself that that was what he needed to do when another thought changed his mind. He realised what it was: he didn’t believe that the policeman would follow up on the information in a way that might produce results. He had been dismissive and unhelpful and hadn’t given Milton any confidence that he would treat any further information that he brought him in a different way. And, after all, maybe that would have been right. What did Milton really have? A story from Hicks that he would undoubtedly deny if Bruce was ever to interview him about it. And, above that, there was the danger that involving the police would bring. If what Hicks had said about Higgins was true, then making him the subject of a police enquiry would not be good for his prospects.
No. Milton postponed that idea. He would have to do it eventually, but not yet.
The second option was more straightforward. He could help Hicks take Higgins out. Hicks could lead the general into a trap, and Milton could close it, but while that might alleviate Hicks’s problems, it wouldn’t mean anything to Milton. It would bring him to Higgins’s level, too, and Milton was trying to be better than that.
Milton wanted the evidence that would prove that what Eddie had been planning to say was true. He would give it to Olivia and then he would let her publish it.
Hicks wanted Milton’s help?
Giving Eddie a voice would be Milton’s price.
#
IT WAS FOUR in the morning when Milton called Hicks. He heard the sound of driving when Hicks picked up. Milton knew that Hicks had no room for negotiation if he wanted his help, and, after Milton set out what he was proposing to do, Hicks had quickly agreed to his terms. They had spoken for another thirty minutes about the best way to achieve their goals. Milton had identified one strategy, but it was audacious and he needed more information to assess whether or not it was possible. Hicks said that he would make enquiries and, after a few more preliminaries were taken care of, Milton had ended the call.
The shelter was quiet and Milton sat down at the table, a mug of tea before him as he rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. The evening’s conversation had confused things. He had doubted that Eddie had taken his own life, but the mounting evidence that his suspicions were correct had brought more questions than it answered. Who had Eddie met on the night that he died? How was his family involved? Hicks said that he didn’t know who it was, and Milton believed him.
Whoever they were, they had murdered Eddie. That meant that Milton needed to know their identity, too.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MILTON WOKE up the following day and researched General Richard Higgins. He could remember a handful of encounters with him—he remembered his reputation for cantankerousness in particular—but he wanted to fill in the detail.
It was simple enough to find out all he needed from a few Google searches. Higgins had been commissioned into the Scots Guards at the start of the 1970s. It was a challenging time to be a British soldier, and he had completed several tours in Northern Ireland. By all accounts, Higgins had served with distinction. He completed selection in 1975 and was transferred into 22 SAS where he was eventually made commanding officer of the Regiment. His career after that was similarly illustrious: he held the command of the Airborne Brigade for four years and was then appointed Director Special Forces. There were further promotions, reaching major general before he became General Officer Commanding 4th Division before he retired. It was a glowing resumé. Milton couldn’t imagine why he would blot his copybook as spectacularly as Hicks had suggested. But then, Milton knew, greed could be a powerful motivator.
Milton called Hicks. The two of them spoke briefly, and Hicks gave him two addresses: the address of the vault in Hatton Garden and the address of Eddie Fabian’s house.
Milton decided to visit the vault first. It was a twenty-minute drive from Bethnal Green, and it was early evening and dark outside when he arrived. The streets were quiet, the shops were being shuttered, and the men and women who worked here were going home. Milton drove slowly past the address, looking at the big double doors and the low-key signage that announced the business that was transacted behind them. He thought of th
e vault, almost certainly in the basement, possibly beneath the road itself. He drove around the block, checking out all of the buildings that comprised it and looking for any obvious means of access. There were none. That was not surprising, but he felt better prepared for seeing the premises himself. He had known that he would need help if he was going to get inside, and this was the confirmation.
He drove out to Leytonstone next. It was half past eight. He didn’t have very long before he needed to think about going to the shelter, but he wouldn’t tarry any longer than was necessary. Milton waited in his car for ten minutes and observed the street. It was quiet, residential, with little passing traffic. The other houses on the terrace displayed signs of life, with lit windows and the flicker of televisions, but Eddie’s was dark. Milton wondered whether anyone had been here since Eddie’s death. Would the police have visited? Would his family? There was no way of knowing.
Milton collected a small bag from the passenger seat, got out of the car and walked slowly to the house. He walked onward for a few paces, confirmed that the street was quiet, and then turned back. He followed the pavement to the end of the road. He turned right and carried on until he reached the narrow alleyway that ran behind the terrace, offering access to the back gardens of the terrace that was adjacent to the one that included Eddie’s house. The alleyway was dirty, with dustbins left outside back gates and black bin liners torn open by hungry rats looking for food. Milton picked his way along it until he reached the gate that he guessed would open out into the back garden of Eddie’s house.
Milton took out a pair of latex gloves from his bag and put them on. He tried the handle. It was unlocked. He pushed the gate open and slipped inside.
The garden was small. There was a muddy square that might once have been a lawn, but there was very little grass there now. There was a bicycle propped up against the fence. Cardboard packaging had been left to the elements until it had shrivelled in the rain. Each house in the terrace had an extension to the rear, probably for the kitchen and bathroom. Milton crept forward, staying in the shadows, aware that the windows of the houses on either side were lit, and he could hear the sounds of conversation and activity from both.
Milton reached the extension and looked in through the window. It was the kitchen, the wan light illuminating it just enough to see that it was tidy. There was a door. It was locked, but Milton could see that the key had been left in the keyhole on the other side. He took a breath, reached down for a short length of pipe that had been discarded in the garden, and then, with a brisk jab, used it to smash through the pane of glass. He paused, listening hard, but he heard nothing that suggested that the sound had drawn attention. He reached his arm through the broken window, opened the door from the inside and went through.
He took out a pencil flashlight from his bag and switched it on. He worked quickly, going from room to room. The place had been given a thorough clean. The kitchen was spotless, the surfaces wiped down and the cupboards emptied of their contents and cleaned. The front room had no furniture, and there were holes in the wall where picture hooks might once have been.
He climbed the stairs. Both bedrooms were empty. The beds had been removed, with just the ghostly indentations in the carpet standing as evidence that they had ever been there. Milton stood in the larger bedroom and thought that this was where Hicks had threatened Eddie on the night that he had died.
He went into the bathroom. It, too, had been given a professional clean.
It was clear to him that someone—the family, most likely—had paid for the house to be cleared and then professionally cleaned. Perhaps the house would be sold or offered for rent. And perhaps they wanted to be sure that there was nothing left here that might prove to be a problem for them in the future.
He was about to leave when something caught his eye. He went over to the toilet. The cistern lid was not quite flush with the cistern. He lifted it up, set it down and peered inside. There was a plastic bag floating in the water. Milton reached down and fished it out. The bag was made from PVC and was sealed at the top with a zip. It looked like the kind of bag that a hiker might use to keep maps and other documents dry. Milton checked that the cistern was empty of anything else that might have been hidden there, replaced the lid, and took the bag back downstairs and into the kitchen. He unzipped it and withdrew an A4 scrapbook that fitted snugly within. He aimed his flashlight at it and started to flip through the pages.
He had expected to see something about the abuse, but that wasn’t what he found. Instead, he found pages of newsprint that had been neatly clipped out and pasted to the coarse pages of the book. He had no interest in staying in the house any longer than was absolutely necessary, but he found himself unable to resist a glimpse through the pages.
The extracts were from ten years ago and they all reported on the same event. There had been an armed robbery in Headington, Oxford. Several thousand pounds had been stolen from an armoured car as the guards were collecting the takings from a local betting shop. One of the guards had resisted and, during a struggle that had been observed by several witnesses, he had been shot in the chest by one of the criminals. The guard had died from his injuries on the side of the road. The reports said that he was a local man and that he had left a young family. Milton flipped the pages. There was more on the robbery and then a page that contained a letter from the widow of the dead guard. It spoke of how the family had been torn apart and ended with an appeal for information that would bring the killer to justice. Someone had underlined the final sentence in blue ink and inscribed an asterisk in the margin.
Milton got to the final page, and a piece of paper dropped out onto the counter.
He opened it and read.
My name is Alan Edward Fabian. This statement regards the murder of Toby Masters. The time of the murder was Saturday morning, December 17, 2005. The place was outside Stan James, Bookmakers, Headington, Oxford.
Milton read on.
It was a confession.
He read through it quickly. Eddie wrote that he had been there, that he had been driving the getaway car. He said that his brother, Spencer, had killed the guard. He said that not a day went by when he didn’t think about what had happened that morning, how they had ruined a family, turned a wife into a widow and stolen a father from two small children. He wrote of how that morning had haunted him ever since, and how he wanted to do whatever he could to make it right.
Milton folded the page and slid it back inside the book.
He had a much better idea about what might have happened to Eddie now.
He closed the book, dropped it into his bag and made his way to the rear door. He opened it and peered outside. The garden was empty and there was no sound from the alley. He pushed the door open, slipped outside, closed the door and then hurried through the garden, passing through the gate and into the alleyway. He peeled off his gloves and put them into the bag to be disposed of later. And then, without a backward glance, he straightened his shoulders and walked at a brisk pace in the direction of his car.
Chapter Thirty
MILTON WAS DISTRACTED at the shelter that night. It was busy, but not so busy that there was no opportunity to take out the book that he had taken from Eddie’s flat. He read through it, reading all of the newspaper articles, noting where the pages had been annotated and, assuming Eddie was responsible for the underlinings and the highlighting, he tried to imagine what those marks meant.
He returned home and allowed himself four hours of sleep. It seemed as if his alarm beeped as soon as he had put his head down; he got out of bed, showered and changed into fresh clothes. He went to the local newsagents and paid 20p to photocopy Eddie Fabian’s confession. Then, he got into his car and drove west. The traffic was light and he arrived back in Withington after two hours. The clock on the church tower showed a little after two in the afternoon as he drove by, passing through the village until he reached the turning for Halewell Close.
He parked the car in the wide gra
velled turning circle. There were three vehicles already parked there: two white vans and a BMW. Milton waited for a moment, studying the house. The front door was open and a pair of men were ferrying catering equipment from the interior to the open doors of one of the vans. The tent on the lawn was in the process of being taken down, the canvas folded and folded again until it was compact enough to be fitted into the back of the second van. Milton opened the door to his car and was stepping out when he saw two men emerge from the open doorway of the house.
The first was Frankie Fabian, smoking a cigarette. The second, turning to shake Fabian’s hand, was Detective Inspector Bruce.
Milton shut the door and set out across the gravel. Bruce turned, saw Milton approach, said something to Fabian and then came across to meet him.
“Mr. Smith.”
“Hello, Detective.”
“What are you doing here, sir?”
“I didn’t get the chance to speak to Mr. Fabian before. I’d like to pass on my condolences.”
“Really? That’s why you’re here?”
“Yes. Is that a problem, Detective?”
“No, Mr. Smith. Not at all. But I’d just like you to remember that the family has had a bereavement. They might prefer a little privacy. I’m sure you have the best intentions in mind, but I wouldn’t want to hear that they’ve been harassed.”
“That’s certainly not my intention, Detective. I just want to say how sorry I am.”
Bruce looked at him dubiously. “Make sure that’s all it is, Mr. Smith. I’ll be seeing you around.”
The detective gave Milton a nod, his face impassive, and made his way over to the BMW. Milton stood for a moment, waiting for him to reach his car. The policeman turned to look back at him, and Milton acknowledged him with a final dip of his head. Bruce opened the car and got inside.
What was that? Had he just been given a warning?
Milton waited until the policeman had started the engine and then crossed the rest of the parking area to where Frankie Fabian was waiting for him.