A Numbers Game (Mal & Jackie Book 1)

by RJ Dark

  When Jackie was done with making sure no one was there, we returned to the four garages. Two of them were padlocked shut – he ignored those. The doors on the fourth one hung open, one only attached by the top hinge. Jackie had a quick look inside; I got near enough to know it smelled like a gents’ toilet in a particularly rough pub and left Jackie to it. He came out grim-faced and took a couple of deep breaths of hot summer air. I couldn’t shake the feeling this was something we should be doing at night.

  Jackie used the wrench to hook open the door to Unit 3.

  It didn’t smell quite as bad as Unit 4.

  But it did smell bad.

  Jackie peered in. He paused, as if taking in everything around us, then pulled the door fully open. I noticed it didn’t scrape along the floor. The other units had grass growing around the bottom of the door, but this one didn’t. I’d not thought about it before Jackie opened the door to Unit Three. The grass there was flattened. I kept looking at the grass and thinking about that, because I didn’t want to look at or think about what was inside.

  ‘Now we call the police,’ said Jackie. ‘Or we do once we are well away from here.’ He started to turn away. ‘You can call Callum.’

  Benny Callaghan was in the garage. He was sitting on a cheap chair. It was the type we used to have in school. The back, seat and front legs were made of a single curve of laminated wood. The rest was formed from a tubular metal frame. By the chair was a car battery. There was nothing else in the garage. Benny was leaning forward, only held on to the chair by the ropes that had been used to bind his hands and arms to it. His hair was soaked. His clothes were soaked. In the gloom of the garage I couldn’t tell whether it was blood or water.

  ‘Come away,’ said Jackie. ‘You don’t need to see this.’

  I nodded, barely moving my head because the scene in the garage demanded to be looked at, demanded to be witnessed and remembered. A fly buzzed. It smelled like a butcher’s shop.

  I had been wrong, when I said it didn’t smell as bad as Unit 4. It smelled worse. Infinitely worse.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Benny Callaghan took a breath. It sounded like it took everything he had to do it. Then I was moving forward, running. ‘He’s alive, Jackie!’ and Jackie was shouting ‘No!’ but I didn’t care. He was alive.

  It was water in his hair, maybe it was sweat, maybe it was done to increase conductivity for the battery they’d used to torture him with. Nearer still, I could see there was a lot of blood too. It soaked his trousers, and he’d soiled himself, I could smell it. I didn’t blame him. I think I would have done the same in his position.

  And his hands, I can’t even think about his hands. About what had been done to them. About how that must have felt. Must have still felt.

  But Benny Callaghan was a hard man. By the time I reached him, he had managed to raise his head. His face was so bruised I couldn’t see his eyes for the swellings. The teeth in his mouth had been smashed; a jagged array, like a shark, the skin of his lips stuck to them. His head lolled, then he pulled himself back up, looking in my direction.

  ‘No,’ he said. In that one word was a whole world of hurt and dread.

  ‘It’s alright, Benny. It’s over. It’s not them. It’s me. It’s Mal. Malachite Jones.’

  ‘Mal.’ Was it a question? Did he recognise me or was he simply lost in agony, repeating a word he recognised without understanding it.

  ‘Yes, it’s Mal.’ I touched his bruised face, kneeling by him, and he let his head slump against my chest. I was kneeling in his blood. I could feel it soaking through my jeans.

  ‘Mal,’ he said again. Did he sound relieved? It was hard to tell. He tried to say something else and though his mouth was moving, I could no longer hear him. I put my ear next to his mouth. Heard the words escaping along with his life. ‘My son. Mal. Watch out for my son.’ Then he arched his back and made a noise like nothing human. The convulsion of his muscles was so strong it knocked me to the floor, and I could do nothing but watch as the last spasms of life passed and Benny Callaghan was released from his pain.

  ‘What did he say?’ said Jackie. I turned to him; a dark figure, silhouetted by the bright light.

  ‘He wanted me to look out for his boy.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jackie. ‘Then that’s on you now.’

  ‘I didn’t …’ Jackie turned around before I could finish talking.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  I did, getting up and leaving Benny behind me. The day didn’t seem so warm or beautiful anymore. Jackie was just disappearing behind the old farmhouse when I came out, and I had to run to catch him up. When I did, he was standing by a what looked like a well, balancing a bucket on the side of it. I got to the well, and he picked up the bucket.

  ‘Stay there,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  He poured the bucket of water over my head. It was freezing. The water soaked through my clothes. Making them stick to my skin and while I was still standing there, outraged, he leant over into the well and dropped the bucket in. Quickly hauling it up and throwing another bucket of water over me.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  He dropped the bucket back into the well and started pulling on the rope again.

  ‘Because it’s a lot easier to explain away someone wet in the passenger seat of a car than someone covered in blood.’

  ‘You could have warned me.’

  ‘You’d have only made a fuss.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ I wrapped my hands round myself. ‘I’m freezing.’

  He didn’t bother to answer me, mostly because he didn’t need to. I would have made a fuss, and we both knew it.

  Jackie walked away from me toward the tractor and started moving the grass apart with his foot. After a bit, he found what he was looking for and pulled it out of the tangle of grass that ensnared it. Then he lifted it up so I could see he held an old petrol can. He brought it over to the well and poured water from his bucket into the can, and lifted it up, studying it. I really wanted to be angry with him and to remain aloof and not talk to him, but curiosity is a powerful force.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Making sure it doesn’t leak,’ he said. Then he poured out the water, walked over to the car and went around the back. I couldn’t see him, so I pretended not to be interested and took off my jacket and T-shirt. Wringing them out as best I could.

  There were smears of blood on my arms. I used water from the bucket to wash them away and spread my clothes out on the grass in hope of them drying a bit. Then I sat there, ignoring Jackie as he siphoned petrol from the car tank into the can. He wasn’t away for long. I heard him walking back toward the units, the sloshing of liquid in the petrol can punctuating his steps, and I hurried after him.

  ‘What are you doing, Jackie?’

  He held up the petrol can. ‘Burning everything.’

  ‘But, Benny is in there.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘The police will need to do forensics.’

  ‘Yep,’ he said, and walked into Unit 4. The sound of liquid being poured. ‘And what will they find, Mal?’

  I didn’t go near enough to see in. I didn’t want to see in.

  ‘Evidence,’ I said.

  ‘Evidence you touched him, Mal.’ He sounded a little vexed.

  ‘I barely touched him.’ The smell of petrol filled the air. Jackie was backing out of the unit, splashing fuel about.

  ‘You don’t have to touch him for long. One hair. A bit of skin. Bits of your clothes. That’s all it takes. This is a murder, a torture murder. They’ll throw everything they have at it.’

  I suddenly felt even colder.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Do you need some wood or anything?’

  Jackie shook his head and pulled some dried grass from the ground. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Timber framed, they’ll burn well enough to hide any evidence you were here. Muddy up the knees of your trousers, Mal, there’s blood all over them.’<
br />
  He lit the grass with a lighter he kept in his pocket and threw it into the garage. For a moment I thought it wouldn’t catch but I should have known better. Jackie knew all about fire. Black smoke started to seep out of the doors. When the air was starting to fill with the smell of burning meat, Jackie seemed satisfied.

  ‘You should get your clothes,’ he said, and started walking back toward the car.

  22

  Jackie Singh Khattar never talked about death. I mean, I knew, in an academic way, that he had killed people. He’d been in the army, in the SAS, or one of those other special services that you only need to refer to by its initials – though he never said which. He never talked about what he did in the army, not in any detail. Every so often, he’d say something that left me in no doubt that he’d killed, and not just at a distance with a gun, that he’d done it up close and personal.

  Where it was real.

  I don’t know why that had made me think he’d cope easily with death, but it was clear he didn’t, from the way he sat in his seat, from the way he drove, swearing under his breath at other drivers for the most minor misdemeanours. Jackie Singh Khattar was as close to being off-centre as I had ever seen him.

  I didn’t try to talk to him about it. If he wanted to talk, he would. He wasn’t the talk-it-out type, really. He was more about putting down his personal demons with sudden and explosive violence. And at the moment, I was more about being damp and miserable, and I was never really one for violence if it could be avoided. Or even if it couldn’t.

  Jackie put the car radio on. News of a bomb scare in the city centre, shutting down the train station. When the newscaster started talking about Islamic extremists, Jackie turned the radio off again.

  I fished the book from the inside of my jacket. It was also damp, though not as damp as I was. Water had given a wave to the edges of the pages and made the slim book feel thicker than it really was. Inside, it was full of sketches; extensions, mostly, all different types, none particularly exciting. Most of them had been crossed through, as if Larry was mentally putting each project out of his head once it was finished. They were all covered in his shorthand, initials and colours used for the various different materials within them – plumbing, electrics, insulation, whatever else builders did. There was a noticeable evolution through his notebook of the projects he was involved with; they slowly became more and more complex until I got to the final one, the house drawn in Russian Frank’s office: the house he never got to finish.

  I wondered if Janine knew anything about it. Then I decided she probably wouldn’t tell me, as she’d specifically asked me to hand over this book if I found it. She had a funny attitude for a woman who wanted me to find a lot of money for her. Not that I could find it – I was pretty sure that lottery ticket was in the wind.

  I had a sudden image of the boy, Cristophe, tapping the side of his head and saying, ‘My daddy knew the score.’

  I wished his dad would tell me the score.

  ‘You should ring Callum. Tell him about his dad.’

  ‘What?’ I glanced over at Jackie. He was concentrating on the road ahead and bit the words out.

  ‘Ring Callum, tell him about his dad. You can do it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t the police do that?’

  ‘He rang you. You get to do the death knock.’

  I didn’t want to, but I knew there was no point arguing with him. My phone was in my back pocket and my trousers were tight and I was damp and had my seat belt on. It was a fight to get my phone out of my pocket. As I struggled and contorted myself, I could feel Jackie, impatient, wanting me to get the thing done, and annoyed because I wasn’t already doing it.

  ‘I can do it later if …’

  ‘Do it now.’

  ‘Okay.’ I finally got my phone out of my pocket and stared dumbly at it. The screen was blank. Had my soaking killed it?

  ‘You switched it off.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Hold down the button, wait for the screen to fire up. A cold feeling ran down my spine. ‘Jackie, they’ll know we are up at the units, they’ll be able to track my phone.’

  He let air out of his mouth. It’s amazing how sometimes someone can make a thing as simple as breathing carry so much meaning. Annoyance, mostly.

  ‘They’ll need a warrant to get that information – they’ve no reason to suspect you would be up there.’

  ‘Yeah, but sometimes they cheat, right?’ Jackie closed his eyes and did that breathing thing again.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I know someone. I’ll sort it. Just make the call to Callum.’

  ‘Isn’t that illega—’

  ‘I said I’ll sort it.’

  I didn’t reply to that. He didn’t want a reply. My phone booted up, and I found Callum’s number, called it, got a message from Callum saying he couldn’t come to the phone right now. He sounded happy. I didn’t know the etiquette for this sort of situation, but leaving a message telling him his dad had been tortured to death felt like a wrong move. I asked him to call me.

  ‘You better do it, Mal.’

  ‘I left a message.’

  ‘You better answer when he rings back though.’

  ‘I’m not a monster.’

  I knew this mood. Jackie was angry and looking for a target, and I was here. It wouldn’t become violence, but he could wound with words as well as any weapon when he wanted. Though, thankfully, he didn’t get the chance. Before he could open his mouth, the inside of the car flashed blue.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said. Which was as good as any other description. The police car behind us flashed its lights again, and I could see the officer at the wheel motioning for us to pull over. Jackie did; he was very careful about obeying the little laws. He tapped the steering the wheel while he waited for the officer to approach. I felt myself worrying. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t take out his anger on a cop – as sure as I could be. That was a direct route to jail, and Jackie rarely did very stupid things.

  Unless he was really angry.

  And he was quite angry.

  The officer, in his fifties, smart-looking with horn-rimmed glasses, tapped on the window and waited for Jackie to wind it down.

  ‘This your car, sir?’ he asked.

  Jackie shook his head. Pointed at me.

  ‘It’s his.’

  ‘And why is sir not driving?’ he asked. Then he lowered his glasses and looked hard at me. ‘And why is sir, damp?’

  ‘We went for a walk,’ I said. ‘And we were messing about and I fell in a river. I didn’t want to get the driver’s seat wet, so I asked my friend to drive me back.’ A shiver ran through me. I couldn’t think of any reason for the police to stop us apart from what had just happened at Richmile.

  ‘Horseplay, sir? You should be more careful,’ said the officer. ‘Even in hot weather, the rivers can be very cold. People drown.’

  ‘I did notice the water was cold,’ I said, but the policeman had turned his attention to Jackie.

  ‘Are you insured to drive this vehicle, sir?’ Jackie nodded. ‘Can I see your driver’s licence?’ Jackie reached into his coat and handed it over, all without looking at the officer. The man peered at the bit of plastic, looked at Jackie. ‘Your name,’ he said. ‘I know it. Why do I know it, sir?’

  ‘Make a big donation to the police Christmas party, innit, mate,’ he said in a Bradford Asian accent as thick as cold ghee.

  ‘I’m sure you do, sir,’ said the officer. ‘One moment please – keep your hands on the steering wheel if you could, sir.’ He sauntered back to his car to check Jackie’s credentials.

  ‘We’re screwed, Jackie,’ I said. ‘They must already know about Benny Callaghan, and now they’ve got us.’

  Jackie shook his head and his grin returned. There was nothing he liked more than a crisis.

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Before I left the police station, DI Esther said she were gonna make my life difficult. This is all part the game. Sit tight, Mal.’ The police officer came back and gave Jackie
his driving licence back.

  ‘All seems to be in order, sir. Now, as you may be aware, there has been a suspected terrorist incident at the train station. Now, apart from your damp friend, can anyone else vouch for your whereabouts …?’

  ‘I ain’t goin’ to sleep wiv ‘er, mate,’ said Jackie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police lady, I ain’t gonna sleep wiv ‘er. No chance, mate. You lot can stop me as much as you want.’

  ‘I don’t think you are going to be sleeping with the DI either, son,’ he said, staring into the car. In his eyes was something dark. He didn’t like Jackie, or maybe he did like DI Smith. Or maybe he was racist and didn’t like either of them. He glared at me. Maybe he didn’t like anyone.

  When Jackie spoke again, his accent was gone. ‘Officer’ – he checked his badge – ‘Burnham, I never mentioned a DI.’

  The policeman’s face went pale as he realised he’d spoken without thinking.

  ‘But I reckon I know why someone your age is still a beat cop, eh?’ Jackie continued. ‘Now, you can go on pretending that you think I might be a terrorist, or maybe pretend you thought you could smell drugs, but we both know you won’t find anything, and if you do it’s dodgy, Officer Burnham.’ He sat a bit taller in his seat. ‘Badge number two-eight-nine-two, Officer Burnham. Got that, Mal? Now, my friend is cold and uncomfortable, and I want to get him home. Can we get on our way or do you want my lawyer on the phone screaming about racial profiling? Cos I reckon, if you’re still a beat copper harassing people on the say so of DI Esther Smith, you probably can’t afford much in the way complaints, right?’

  The officer stared into the car a moment longer. ‘Maybe I’ll let you get off on your business then,’ he said. He glanced over at me. ‘You should find yourself some better company, lad,’ he turned back to Jackie. ‘I look forward to meeting you again, one day, Mr Singh Khattar.’ He turned around and walked back to his car.