Nothing Sacred

by David Thorne

  ‘You hit any of them?’ I say.

  ‘Don’t know,’ says Gabe. His speech is still imprecise. ‘My aim was off. What a bottle of Scotch will do.’

  ‘You always keep a gun under your seat?’

  ‘That’s a new thing.’

  I nod, watch Gabe drink under the harsh light of the service area. He finishes his last coffee, crushes the plastic cup in his fist. ‘We need to move.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Petroski. Where they’ll go next. They’ll call Strauss, he’ll point them there. He’s their next problem.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Right now.’

  We get back into Gabe’s car. It has no passenger window and the back window is smashed; Gabe has, I suspect, an unregistered handgun under his seat. I hope that we do not get pulled over by the police. I drive. At least the person behind the wheel is sober. Must count for something.

  It is incredibly cold even though we have the heater turned up full. Outside the moon is still bright and we drive without speaking, the flat land of Essex spooling past. It is two in the morning and it feels as if we have the land to ourselves.

  Petroski’s home is some miles to the north and we arrive at his isolated farmhouse just after three. We knock on the door and Petroski opens up so soon it is as if he was waiting for us, although we did not have his number and had not called. In the moonlight his face is even more ghastly, the ridges silvered and the hairless skin like polished marble. But he smiles when he sees us and once again I am struck by the goodness he seems to radiate despite his appearance, and despite his desolate surroundings. He does not seem surprised to see us.

  ‘Gabe, Daniel. Fancied a drive?’

  ‘James, I’m sorry,’ says Gabe. ‘I need you to collect clothes, anything you need. We need to get you out of here.’

  Petroski looks at us for a moment then nods, says, ‘Right away,’ and disappears back into his house. He is not gone for more than two minutes and when he’s back he is dressed and carrying a green military tote bag.

  ‘Going anywhere nice?’ he asks.

  On the way back to his house Gabe explains what is going on to Petroski, how Major Strauss was involved from the start, how he believes that Strauss was taking an interest in Gabe’s investigation so that he could monitor the risk he posed to Global Armour.

  ‘He say why?’ says Petroski. ‘Why he’d sell out the army, his comrades?’

  ‘Claimed he was sick of the politics,’ says Gabe. ‘But it’s always about the money, right?’

  ‘Reason they’re called mercenaries,’ says Petroski.

  ‘They tried to kill us,’ I say.

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ says Petroski. ‘We’re talking about 7 Platoon.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Gabe to Petroski. ‘I’ve got you into this.’

  ‘No drama,’ says Petroski. ‘Could do with the excitement.’

  ‘What makes you think you’ll be safe at yours?’ I say. ‘Strauss knows where you live.’

  ‘In the middle of town,’ says Gabe. ‘No way they’ll try something there. Too urban, too public. And they know I’m armed, already shot at them once. They won’t risk it.’

  I do not reply, hope that he is right.

  ‘And Danny,’ says Gabe. ‘I’m sorry.’ He sounds subdued, exhausted.

  ‘Told me that already,’ I say. ‘Enough now.’

  We drive in silence for some miles and Gabe nods off next to me, a troubled doze in which he fidgets and groans. I look at Petroski in the rear-view mirror and he looks as unflustered as if we are off on a fishing trip. Gabe is still asleep when I pull into his drive and I shake him awake gently. He opens his eyes fearfully.

  ‘We’re home.’

  ‘Thanks, Danny.’

  ‘Nice place,’ says Petroski.

  ‘You’re going to need to stay here,’ Gabe says. ‘For a few days. Till we get this sorted.’

  ‘Happy to,’ says Petroski.

  ‘You know they’re not going to give up?’ says Gabe. ‘You realise that? I’ve got you neck-deep in shit.’

  ‘Thought had occurred to me,’ says Petroski. ‘But you know what? I never liked that mob. We’ll think of something.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Gabe. But he does not sound sure.

  He turns and walks to his door, opens it and disappears inside. He looks tired and his limp is so pronounced that his walk is more of a dragging lurch. This night has taken it out of him. I cannot help but wonder, after all that has happened, all that he has suffered, how much he has left to give.

  29

  I MANAGE AN hour’s sleep at Gabe’s and then he drives me to The Black Horse to pick up my car. In the cold morning light, the events of the night before seem unreal, the restaurant car park empty and innocent. Neither of us has much to say and we nod goodbye to each other, wrung out, exhausted.

  I get home, shower and wash away the confusion and stink of the night’s events. When I am dressed again I feel better, tired but functional. But I do not have time to relax or take time out. This is day four and I am no closer to finding who Witness A is, no closer to keeping Maria safe from the threat of the Blakes. There are two days left. Somehow I need to make them count.

  By the time I open up my office it is gone eleven and there are two messages on my answering machine. I put on coffee and pick up my post, then pour a cup and walk back into my office, hit the button.

  The first message is from Charles, left at eight that morning. He is struggling to hold back tears and his voice is weak and uneven. I wonder how a man like him has managed to perform in the legal profession for so long; he lacks any kind of backbone.

  ‘Daniel, I can’t. I just… I can’t do it. Please. For God’s sake, Daniel, I can’t do it. What you’re asking me… Please call me.’ A pause. ‘Just call me.’

  There is a bleep and the voice of my answering machine tells me that the second message was left at nine-thirty. It is Maria and as her voice fills the room, I feel a hollow free-fall feeling of grief in my chest. How I have missed her voice.

  ‘Daniel, eight-thirty at Fratelli’s. You will be there.’ Her voice carries little warmth and it is clear that she is giving me no choice. If I am not there then that will be it: we will be finished. Even Maria’s patience and goodness has a limit. I erase the messages, drink my coffee and look out of my office window at the bleak street outside. I am looking forward to nothing that this day will bring.

  Charles picks up on the second ring with a strained whisper and I imagine that he is at work, among other people. ‘Daniel?’

  ‘Charles.’

  ‘Daniel, wait.’ He does not speak and I hear ambient sounds, perhaps of an office, then a door swinging closed on hinges that want oiling. When Charles speaks next, there is an echo and I guess he is in the gents.

  ‘Daniel, please.’ His voice is a whine, a schoolboy protesting at an unjust punishment.

  ‘Give me good news,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t do it. I can’t. I tried but… It’s impossible.’

  ‘You have to,’ I say.

  ‘There’s no way.’

  ‘You know what I can do,’ I say. On the other end I hear a sound from Charles, which I think is a sob. I am coercing a helpless man, using intimidation. I am no better than Connor Blake.

  ‘Charles?’

  ‘Yes?’ He sniffs, a wet, pitiful sound.

  This is a man I could bend to my will with no difficulty; he is as malleable as clay, weak as straw. But then I think of Ryan, a man driven to the edge of despair, and what had happened on the roof of that car park. Of the contempt I had shown him. Of my culpability. I close my eyes, exhale a long breath, speak without opening my eyes.

  ‘Okay, Charles. Drop it. Forget it. Get on with your life.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really. Go on. You’re in the clear.’

  I hang up on his obsequious thanks, lean back in my chair and close my eyes. I am so tired, I cannot think straight. I lean fo
rward, rest my head on the desk and try to block out all thoughts. Perhaps if I can just sleep for a few minutes. I have let Charles off the hook, let my only lead slip away. There are men out there who will hurt Maria. There is nothing I can do. There must be something I can do.

  A passing lorry shudders my office windows and I wake from my sleep that was not really a sleep. But though I had my eyes closed for only minutes, I feel slightly better and the cycle of dark thoughts that I had not been able to escape from has finished. There is always hope; there must be.

  I once again take out Connor Blake’s files and spread them out on my desk. They are now so familiar that I do not need to read them to know the contents. I pull out the final pages, the list of witnesses, the thirty-two names. I line them up in front of me. Again I stop at the name Leighton. There are not many people called Leighton and I have encountered somebody of that name, I am sure. I have an image of the outdoors. Green. A fresh smell. I almost have it.

  My phone rings and I pick up.

  ‘Hey, Dan, it’s Jack. Just catching up. You have any joy with that address I gave you?’

  ‘Joy? Yeah. No, not exactly. Getting there.’

  ‘Not holding out on me?’ Jack the newsman, determined to get his story.

  ‘No, nothing like that. Soon’s I know anything, you’ll be the first in line.’

  ‘Good. See I am.’

  ‘Yeah, Jack. I’ll be in touch.’

  I hang up, rub my eyes, my forehead. I look back at the list, back at Leighton Finch. Whatever I had in my mind before Jack called is gone. I get up, refill my coffee cup, try not to think, try not to force whatever connection I am attempting to zero in on. I sit back down and empty my mind, take a deep breath. I look up the list and, there, my heart beats a little faster as I see another name. Darren Wilmott. The surname means nothing to me and Darren is not an unusual name at all, but still, there may be something. I feel a nagging excitement, the feeling a lottery player might have if he sees three numbers come up, scarcely daring to believe what may be about to play out. Leighton Finch. Darren Wilmot. Neither of their surnames holds any significance and I acknowledge to myself that I am reaching at straws, that these first names on their own mean practically nothing. But at the same time, in the goldfish bowl of my home town, it would not be unusual for me to have come across at least one of the people on this list.

  I pick up my phone and call my father. I grip the handset tight in anticipation, will him to answer. He picks up on the third ring.

  ‘Yeah?’ No niceties with my father.

  ‘It’s Daniel.’

  ‘Pick a time to call, dintcha?’

  It is four in the afternoon. I cannot understand why this time should be especially inconvenient. ‘You busy?’

  ‘Don’t matter. D’you want?’

  ‘The men who do your garden. Tree surgeons.’

  ‘You mean landscapers?’

  I probably do. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What about them?’

  My father is proud of his garden, keeps it in perfect condition. In summer it is a marvel. It is something I have never been able to reconcile, this love of gardening with his essentially inhuman nature. ‘One of the landscapers is called Leighton,’ I say.

  ‘You telling me or asking me?’

  I close my eyes, take a breath. Dealing with my father is as thankless as putting down people’s pets. ‘Just tell me their names. Could you do that?’

  ‘Leighton, yeah. There’s Roy, some short prick called Darren, Phil’s their guvnor.’

  ‘What I thought.’

  ‘So what you asking me for then?’

  ‘I’ll see you.’

  I put the phone down, look back at the list. I scan the columns and at the very top is Roy Atkins. They came around every summer to my father’s garden. Leighton, Darren, Roy, Phil – the four of them crammed into the cab of their flatbed lorry. I scan the list, mark each name so that I am sure, but there is no Phil there, no Philip or Phillip. This could mean one of three things. The first and most likely is that I have seen three first names and made a wild, desperate connection that does not exist. The second is that Phil was not there, had better things to do. The third is, of course, that Phil is Witness A.

  Leighton Finch lives in a bungalow behind the A127, and when I call around at six o’clock he is at home. He answers the door in his work clothes of heavy trousers, boots and a polo shirt, and he is holding a beer. He looks at me curiously as if he cannot place me.

  ‘I’m Daniel. Daniel Connell. Frankie’s boy.’

  Leighton is small and wiry. He smiles in recognition, puts out his hand. ‘Knew I’d seen you before. Can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m representing Connor Blake.’

  Leighton Finch is lifting his beer to his mouth but he stops and looks at me in shock. Got you.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ he says eventually, and there is hostility and suspicion in his voice.

  ‘You were there that night.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Didn’t see anything?’

  ‘That’s right. What d’you want to know for? Said all this to the Old Bill.’

  ‘Just following up. You were with Darren and Roy.’

  ‘Yeah. Work drinks. Do it every month. Didn’t see nothing, didn’t hear nothing. None of us. End of. Leave it son.’

  He is backing into his hallway, closing the door unconsciously, putting up a barrier between me and him. He is scared.

  I look at him but he will not meet my eye. I can now only see half of his face through the gap left by the door.

  ‘Phil with you?’

  Leighton pushes the door and I have to put my hand out to stop it from closing. ‘He was, right? You were all there.’ Leighton looks at me in exasperation but there is fear there too. ‘He’d say the same as me.’ He shoves the door and it closes, latches. ‘He didn’t fucking see nothing,’ he says through the door.

  Oh yes he fucking did, I think.

  *

  Fratelli’s is a neighbourhood Italian that Maria and I have been to many times. When I arrive I am greeted by the owner, Paulo; he puts both hands to my cheeks and tells me that I am bad, that I have not been for a long time, and that I may well be responsible for putting him out of business.

  Maria is already here and I am shown to her table. She smiles when she sees me but it is the smile of a colleague or acquaintance, something reserved in it.

  ‘You look tired,’ she says, and there is concern in her eyes. She is wearing a white shirt and her dark skin against its collar is beautiful. She has her hair up, which exposes her neck and makes her look vulnerable, as if she needs protecting.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say. ‘Maria—’

  ‘Let’s order,’ Maria says. ‘We’ll order, then we’ll talk.’

  We look at the menu in silence and when Paulo comes across we both order. Paulo asks if we want wine and Maria says no and Paulo feigns shock, a pantomime act. But he sees that we are not laughing with him and he quietly takes our menus and makes himself scarce. Maria looks at me. This is it: I have nowhere to hide. I can no longer avoid her.

  ‘I’ve been so angry,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So angry, Daniel. I wanted to murder you.’

  I do not answer.

  ‘You didn’t reply to my calls. How could you do that?’

  ‘Maria, it’s… I’m sorry,’ I say again.

  ‘Daniel.’

  There are tears in her eyes and I find it hard to look at her.

  ‘Then I thought, I know you. This isn’t you. And being angry doesn’t help.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be angry,’ I say. ‘Really.’

  ‘So I thought, meet it with love. Try to understand. Try.’ She smiles but it is not a happy smile. I nod, overwhelmed by the depths of Maria’s compassion.

  ‘So here we are,’ she says. ‘And it’s over to you. Speak.’

  I turn my empty glass by its stem. I feel a tightening of my skin, a feeling of horror and
approaching panic, and I want to get away, to not have deal with this. I barely trust myself to speak.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say, simply.

  Maria’s quiet smile fades, withers. ‘No. No, Daniel.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It is all I can think of to say. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Is it me? Is there someone else? Just tell me, Daniel. Tell me. It’ll be better than… Anything would be better than this.’

  What can I say? I look up and she is crying softly, her hands clasped in front of her, her thumb rubbing at her first finger. She lifts her head and tears gently fall down her cheeks.

  ‘Maria.’

  She stands up and uses both hands to awkwardly smear away her tears. She looks down at me without malice, only sadness.

  ‘Please,’ I say.

  ‘I do so love you,’ Maria says, then turns and walks away.

  I watch her and I cannot believe that I am letting her go, letting her walk away. How has it come to this? When she has gone I turn and there is a waitress standing there with our plates, one in each hand. She is smiling uncertainly and I look at her and I do not know what to say.

  30

  IT IS DAY five. One day left. I have been on the back foot for too long, have spent too much time on the defensive. It is not my natural game. Time to go on the offensive. There is a hammer on the passenger seat next to me, a crowbar propped in the footwell. Across the road from me is the bottom of Alex Blake’s drive. I will run up there, a weapon in each hand. Steal up there in the night. Knock on the door. Force myself through and swing. However many come at me, swing, impact, forwards, keep momentum. Swing and scythe and punch and chop my way through muscle until I get to him. I am the one with the element of surprise. I am strong, I am motivated. Alex Blake is in there. One man or ten, I will find him. And then this, all this, will end. One way or another.

  I have arrived here because I have realised that there are times when having a choice does not mean that you have a choice. If the two options on the table are equally unspeakable, then which way is there left to go?

  That morning I had sat at my desk and looked at the name of Philip Tyson of 12 Hunter Drive, the man I suspected was Witness A. My choices were to give away his identity, or to sacrifice Maria, expose her to Connor Blake’s monstrous entourage.