Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  H is watching us carefully. He’s always read these situations very well, far better than me. He can smell a lie at a thousand metres and just now, he’s looking very hard at Wesley.

  ‘Is it true, Wes?’ His face is a mask. ‘You tried to fit me up? For money, was it? Or some deal you had going with the Filth? Did they know about Sammy already? Made you an offer you couldn’t refuse? Home safe in return for little me? Was that the way it happened?’

  H’s voice has sunk to a whisper. Even now, even old, even sick, he’s full of menace, and one glance at Wesley tells me something I’ve never before suspected. H’s tame psycho is terrified of his master.

  H puts the question again. Has Wesley been talking to the Filth? Just a yes or a no.

  ‘Bollocks, no,’ Wes is sweating now. ‘No fucking way. Ever.’

  ‘You mean that? I can trust you? Just the way I’ve always trusted you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, you’ll do what we ask?’

  ‘Yeah. A pleasure, H.’

  ‘And no hard feelings?’ There’s no warmth in his smile. ‘Mush?’

  I discard the PPE and explain exactly what I want to happen next. The ground-floor flats have rear entrances. I know this because I checked this evening before I went upstairs. Outside the rear door of number two, I found a bicycle, chained to a fence post. I suspect the bike belongs to Sean McGaughy, the one I saw in the back of his van, and I suspect as well that he used it at some point to follow my son on one of his evening runs. Once he knew the route Malo always took, it would have been child’s play to recruit a couple of mates and stage an ambush. If he couldn’t get to H himself, then putting his son in hospital would be the next best thing.

  ‘You want him to admit it?’

  ‘I want him to tell me about it.’

  ‘Same thing, no?’

  We exchange looks, then make our way downstairs. I show Wesley the rear entrance and leave him there. Back in the hall, I knock on the door of number two. First time, nothing happens. I knock again, louder, then try the door handle. It’s locked.

  ‘Sean?’ I call. ‘Sean McGaughy?’

  Again nothing. I’m beginning to think he might be out for the night, but then I put my ear to the door and catch the faintest stir of movement inside. For a long minute, nothing happens. I call his name again, and then a third time, and suddenly there comes a shout from the depths of the flat, partly surprise, partly alarm. Wesley, I think. Waiting in the darkness outside Sean’s back door.

  I can hear footsteps now, and raised voices. Then the door opens in front of me and I’m looking at Sean McGaughy. Wesley has him in a chokehold. His head is back against Wesley’s chin and he’s gasping for air.

  ‘Kick me again,’ says Wesley, ‘and I’ll kill you.’

  I slip into the flat and close the door behind me. ‘Partly furnished’ is wildly optimistic. The layout of the flat is similar to ours: a front room, two bedrooms, and a squalid galley kitchen, complete with Formica worktops, that reeks of old fat. The front room is bare, except for a TV and a two-seat sofa. There’s a mantelpiece over the blocked-up fireplace, and Sean has made an effort to cheer the place up with an untidy grid of snaps blu-tacked to the wallpaper above the mantelpiece. Most of the photos show a naked woman in her mid-forties. Shanti has an arch smile for the camera and the poses she strikes leave nothing to the imagination. Wesley has seen them, too.

  ‘Shagging her, are you?’ His grip tightens around Sean’s scrawny throat. ‘I always fucking wondered who was up that arse of hers.’

  Sean says nothing. He can barely breathe.

  ‘Steady, Wes,’ I murmur. I’m looking at another face on the wall that I recognize. Last time I saw Sammy McGaughy was on Wesley’s phone, and he was probably dead.

  ‘This is your dad, Sean?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And that’s you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I take a closer look at the shot. Sean is much younger in the photo, barely in his teens. He’s wearing a scruffy pair of jeans and no top. He and his dad are sitting on the pebbles, and Sean’s thin chest is pinked with sunburn. Sammy has a can of Guinness raised to the camera while Sean is attending to a choc ice. I recognize the pier in the background, and the scatter of families on the beach suggests high summer.

  ‘What about your mum, Sean? Did she take this shot?’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head and when he tries hard to swallow, I tell Wesley to ease off.

  ‘So, where was she? Your mum?’

  ‘Back home. She’d thrown Dad out. Me and Dad met when we could. Sometimes he was even sober. Yeah …’ He nods, looking at the photo. ‘Lucky me, eh?’

  ‘So where was he living?’

  ‘He had a doss in Buckland. He lost it completely in the end. Pissed himself most nights, and never changed the sheets. The place stank.’

  ‘But you missed him?’

  ‘Yeah. Funny that, but I did.’

  ‘And he just disappeared?’

  ‘Yeah. I was away after that, had enough, went abroad, then a mate got in touch, told me what happened. In this city there are people you don’t upset. Dad never got that.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m his boy.’ He nods at the emptiness of the room. ‘And this is another fucking doss.’

  I nod, taking my time. ‘There’s a man upstairs you’ve been trying to kill,’ I say softly. ‘It never quite worked out and so you set about his son. On the seafront. Monday night. I was the one who found him, Sean, because he happens to be my son, too.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Sean feigns surprise, or perhaps indifference.

  ‘You’re denying it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You didn’t turn the power off? You didn’t come upstairs in the middle of the night?’

  ‘No. Neither have I touched that son of yours. Why should I? What’s in it for me?’

  I study him for a long moment. Then I tell Wesley I’m off for a proper look at the rest of the flat. Back in a while. Wesley nods.

  ‘Take your time,’ he says. ‘We’ve got all night.’

  There are two bedrooms, and my guess is that Sean occupies the bigger one. The bed has been slept in, the duvet thrown back, one pillow on the floor. A sagging wardrobe is empty except for a discarded hoodie and pair of muddied boots, while a scruffy holdall in the opposite corner of the room yields a collection of dirty underwear and a balled T-shirt wrapped in a pair of jeans. I take out the jeans and give them a shake, hearing the clink of what I assume to be money in one of the pockets. The jeans are stained on both thighs – splatter patterns that I recognize from a number of film sets. The stains are dark and have stiffened the denim and I’m guessing they could be blood. The same is true when I take a proper look at the T-shirt. Blood, definitely.

  It’s at this point that I hear first a gasp, then a muffled scream from the front room. To my shame, I don’t react. Like father, like son, I think. A couple more minutes, then I’ll intervene.

  I’m going through the jeans pockets now. Expecting coins, my fingers curl around something snub-nosed and cylindrical. Moments later, I’m looking at a palm full of bullets. There are five in all, the brass cases glinting in the overhead light, and I empty out the holdall. No gun. I step next door. Wesley is still at work in the front room, but this story has suddenly acquired a whole new dimension. Sean McGaughy, last night, may well have been armed. So where is the gun?

  Stop. Think. Work it out. The second bedroom is bare except for a mattress on the floor and a badly painted chest of drawers. The drawers are empty and there’s nowhere else to serve as a hiding place. Back next door in Sean’s bedroom, I’m about to abandon the search when I notice the single pillow still on the bed. Underneath, wrapped in a plastic bag, I find the gun.

  I pick it up and carry it carefully next door to the front room. Wesley has Sean between his knees, the way you might pin a sheep you want to shear. This pose, Sean’s mute helplessnes
s, has stayed with me ever since. I can see no visible signs of damage, no blood, but the slightest pressure from Wesley draws gasps of pain.

  ‘Well?’ I dangle the gun in front of Sean. He closes his eyes, shakes his head. He doesn’t want to know. This is disappointing, but the gun has definitely impressed Wesley.

  ‘Fuck me,’ he says to Sean. I think he means it as a compliment.

  I go back to the bedroom and return with the jeans and the bloodied T-shirt, handling both with great care.

  ‘And this stuff?’ I ask Sean. ‘Were you wearing it on Monday night? Is that my son’s blood?’

  His shake of the head is half-hearted and Wesley squeezes even harder.

  ‘You want a cough? The full confession?’ He’s looking up at me, and then winks. ‘It’s possible but it’ll cost.’

  Sean is terrified now. I can see it in his eyes. I tell Wesley to back off and return to the bedroom. My first call goes to Tony Morse, who turns out to be in bed. I start to apologize, but he’s already sensed that this might be urgent.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  I tell him about Sean McGaughy, and the gun, and the blood stains.

  ‘Where is he now? This Sean?’

  ‘He’s in safe hands.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Wesley’s taking care of him. What do we do next?’

  Tony takes a moment to think it through, then he’s back on the phone.

  ‘Call Dessie. Tell him you’ve found the T-shirt and tell him about the gun. You have ammunition, too?’

  ‘Yes. Five bullets.’

  ‘Excellent. Dessie will cream himself. Firearms on the premises? Expect the TFU at any moment.’

  ‘TFU?’

  ‘Tactical Firearms Unit. The full Ninja gig. Enjoy, my darling.’

  ‘And the jeans?’

  ‘Make sure you keep them. We’re talking serious DNA here and exhibits sometimes go missing. Independent analysis. Never fails. Nighty-night.’

  He rings off, and moments later I’ve raised Dessie. Same story.

  ‘Christ,’ he says. ‘And this guy’s armed?’

  ‘I’m afraid he is, Mr Wren,’ I’m back in the front room with Sean and Wesley. ‘Don’t tell me that’s a surprise.’

  The TFU, as promised, arrive within the half hour, four enormous policemen clad in body armour. They’re all toting guns handed out from the boot of a black BMW, and a sergeant takes charge as I lead them into the flat. The sight of Wesley draws a nod of recognition.

  ‘Helping out, Wes?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘And this is?’

  ‘Sean McGaughy,’ I explain.

  ‘And the gun is yours, son?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Sean is handcuffed and led away. I’ve taken the precaution of removing his jeans from the holdall and leaving them upstairs in the top flat. Then comes a stir of movement in the open doorway, and I see Dessie Wren’s big face peering in. As an attached civilian, he has no real role here but he’s driven down from Cowplain just the same.

  ‘Have you got a moment?’ He nods towards the street.

  We cross the road and stand in the half-darkness on the Common, just beyond the throw of light from the street.

  ‘Clever,’ he says.

  ‘Sean? Renting the flat?’

  ‘You. Sussing him. When I told you I thought he’d gone to London, I meant it. If we could have put him in that flat, if we’d known he was there, there’s no way we’d have left you so exposed.’

  ‘That’s sweet,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. You lie and lie and lie, Mr Wren. I know a lot about truth and I know a lot about fiction, but in your trade, I’m guessing it gets harder and harder to spot the difference. That makes you very post-modern by the way.’

  ‘Is that a compliment?’

  ‘No. We were friends once, and I was getting to like that.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now?’ Upstairs in our flat the light is on in the front room and I can see the outline of Malo peering down at us. I give him a little wave before returning to Dessie, and beckoning him closer. ‘Now is different, and you know why? Because I pulled a Crazy Ivan …’ I kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘And it worked.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The next few days, to be frank, pass in a blur which I quickly diagnose as relief. Major Crimes despatches a young female detective who interviews both myself and Malo. Taalia, by now, has had to return to work and my son, to my alarm, strikes up an immediate rapport with the new cop in his life. He makes the most of his injuries, which isn’t difficult given the yellowing bruises on his face, and when asked he maintains that he can remember nothing about the incident on the seafront. At this point, the DC produces a mug shot of Sean from the custody suite. Malo spares it a glance, and then another, and at length something sparks a slow nod of recognition.

  ‘The teeth,’ Malo says. ‘I remember those teeth.’

  This turns out to be lucky on our part because most custody sergeants insist on keeping your mouth shut when they take photos, but this one clearly slipped through. Once the interview is over, the DC bags the bloodstained T-shirt and swabs Malo’s mouth to try and get a DNA match. If this works out at the forensic lab, she says, then Sean McGaughy may be looking at a lengthy prison sentence. GBH? Possession of a firearm and ammunition? The latter charge, of course, will raise all kinds of other issues, including Sean’s belief that H had his dad killed, but yet another call to Tony Morse after the DC has gone helps put my mind to rest.

  ‘They have to prove it,’ Tony points out. ‘And from where I’m sitting there’s absolutely no chance. Chiefly because they have no evidence.’

  Before we hang up, he wants to know about H. I confirm that no one has yet interviewed him, something that doesn’t surprise him in the least.

  ‘They’re keeping their powder dry,’ he says. ‘They’ll wait for the forensic accountants to have their say and see what kind of case they can make. I doubt very much it’ll come to anything at all. H was always very tidy when it came to serious money.’ He pauses. ‘H’s mobile phone? The one you gave to Sunil? The one with the message from Wesley about the money? You need to get rid of it.’

  ‘All of it?’ Stupid question, but I’m thinking of H’s huge directory of contacts.

  ‘Save the SIM card. Bin the rest.’

  ‘And Sammy McGaughy?’ I ask one last time.

  ‘Forget it. Cold case? Dessie’s wasting his time.’

  From Dessie himself I hear nothing. I know he’s probably looking for Sunil, because Mr Wu has been calling from the nursing agency, asking whether his newly recruited Sri Lankan has made contact at all, but I say no. In truth, I’m paying Tim’s flat regular calls, always checking to make sure I’m not being followed. I’ve also bought Sunil a cheap cell phone from an Asian store, swapping it for H’s mobile, and Sunil and I get used to spending a little time together.

  From my point of view, this is more than welcome. I’m very happy to leave H in Malo’s hands, now my son is getting his strength back, and after Sunil unearths a chessboard in one of Tim’s cupboards, Sunil and I pass whole afternoons playing game after game, with one eye on the TV. Tim’s subscription runs to Al Jazeera and CNN, as well as all the UK channels, and this is the first time Sunil has had the time and opportunity to discover just what a pickle the world has got itself into.

  ‘Pickle?’

  ‘Mess, Sunil. Covid? Falling out of love with China? Trump? The Israeli land grabs? Johnson? More Covid? I’d go back to Sri Lanka if I were you. Grow coconuts. Sit in the sun and ponder. Start a family.’

  ‘I’d love to.’ He’s wiping me off the board. ‘But it’s not that easy.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Being different here was never a problem. At home?’ He shrugs and lifts my queen.

  I’m normally good at reading sexuality, but this is the first time I’ve realized that Sunil is gay.


  ‘You didn’t guess?’ He seems amused.

  ‘Too busy, I’m afraid.’ I’m looking at the dire situation of my king. ‘Other things on my mind.’

  By now it’s the Easter weekend. I borrow a wheelchair from a local branch of the Red Cross and take H for longish walks along the seafront. On one of these walks, early on Good Friday, I find him shelter from the wind at the end of the pier before disappearing round the corner to the rails on the other side. The tide is sluicing round the barnacled feet of the pillars that support the pier, and I stare down at the grey water for a moment or two before dropping H’s mobile into the waves. By the time I re-join him, hunched beneath a blanket in the wheelchair, he looks cold and slightly resentful, a coach-trip OAP the driver forgot to collect.

  ‘Took your time,’ he grunts, staring into nowhere.

  In truth, H is getting stronger by the day, which is a relief, but I think the events of the last three weeks have taken him to a place he’s finding deeply uncomfortable. H, like many self-made men, has a profound belief in his own immortality. Serious disease was something that happened to other people, while life’s other calamities would simply avert their gaze and pass him by. After Covid came knocking at his door that’s no longer true, and when he joins us in the evening to watch TV, he gets up and totters back to bed at the first mention of the virus. The implications of this aren’t lost on either myself or my son, but it’s Malo who puts it into words.

  ‘Do you think he’ll ever be the same, Mum?’

  I give the question some thought, not least because it’s something I’ve been asking myself, and in the end, I shake my head.

  ‘No, I don’t. I think all this has changed him, but you know what? That might not be a bad thing.’

  Do I truly believe that? I don’t know. H’s appeal has always been the sheer voltage he brought to any conversation, any enterprise. I’ve seen him stare down impending disaster on occasion after occasion, never once losing his nerve, and the tightest of these corners was often occupied by our errant son. Malo, thankfully, has grown up at last, but Easter Sunday brings an abrupt reminder, for me at least, that we should never take anything for granted.