by Hayden, Mark
‘Violet? No, Great Uncle Thomas is marrying Rebecca.’
‘What? How can he marry his wife?’
‘They never got married. They went through a religious ceremony, but the priest or rabbi, or whatever, wasn’t licensed by the State of Massachusetts. They never got round to sorting it out, and he wants to put it right before he goes.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Don’t you see what it means, Tom?’
‘Hang on,’ he said, and reboiled the kettle to make tea. It would infuriate his mother completely if she had to wait a second longer, so naturally he dragged it out. ‘Sorry about that. What were you saying?’
‘I said, don’t you see what it means?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘It means that Cousin Isaac isn’t legitimate under the Letters Patent.’
As his mother had reminded him, he had a law degree from Durham University, but that was no help. He knew what Letters Patent were in theory, but he had no idea why they mattered to Great Uncle Thomas – or to Cousin Isaac.
His mother supplied the answer. ‘Isaac can’t inherit the title. Your father’s going to be the third or fourth Lord Throckton – and you’ll be the fifth.’
‘Not for a long time, I hope. Anyway, isn’t Dad due to get a knighthood next year?’
‘Yes: but I was thinking of you, Tom. I wouldn’t want you to make the same mistake.’
She had lost him completely now. He did feel a little frisson that one day he might inherit a title – even though there was no land attached to it, and he couldn’t sit in the House of Lords any more – but why was she talking about mistakes? ‘Sorry, Mum, who’s made a mistake?’
‘Great Uncle Thomas, of course. I wouldn’t want you to have a child before getting married again and disinherit the poor thing. I suppose you’re still going ahead with the divorce?’
‘Given that we haven’t spoken for months, it seems likely. And no, I’m not going out with anyone at the moment.’
‘Oh well: I thought you’d be interested. Good luck tomorrow, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
Tom ended the call and drank his tea. Before he could get out the frying pan, his mobile rang. It was Kate.
‘You having an early night?’ she said.
‘Yes. I thought you’d be hard at it by now at the party.’ This was Kate’s last day as an officer in the Regular Army. From Monday, she would be unemployed for the first time in her life, and as far as he could tell, she still had no idea what she wanted to do.
‘We’re having a mess night first – Number One Dress uniform and all the trimmings – then party on. I just wanted to say good luck for tomorrow. You’ve worked so hard for this, Tom. Sock it to them.’
‘Will do, captain.’
‘They offered me a promotion today. Major Lonsdale, Military Intelligence. How about that, eh?’
‘Did you take it?’
‘Nah. It would have meant joining the liaison team and taking overseas postings. I’ve had enough of foreign lands to last me a lifetime, thank you very much. Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m standing up in my room because I don’t want to get my skirt creased. Oh, hang on: I meant to ask: how’s the trial of Thornton and Co coming along?’
‘Plea and Directions is on Monday. I’ll fill you in at the welcome home dinner. Di’s place, as usual.’
‘Has she been dumped again?’
‘’Fraid so. Have fun.’
The small town of Earlsbury in the Black Country slopes down from a hill which boasts the Saxon church of St Oswald of Worcester on its summit. Patrick Lynch, as a good Roman Catholic, rarely crossed its Protestant threshold.
He drove down the High Street and forked right towards West Bromwich. While he waited at the lights, he turned to look at the Indian restaurant on the corner. East of Earlsbury – Tandoori Cuisine at its Best said the sign outside. He was one of the diminishing number of locals who still thought of it as the Barley Mow. He wanted a drink very badly, but there was no chance of that for now.
When he got home later, his youngest daughter would be celebrating her fourteenth birthday with a Harry Potter party – watching the films and looking forward to the first instalment of Deadly Hobbits. No, that wasn’t it. Deadly Hallows? Something like that. Either way, Fran would expect him to be sober and help out in the background. Ach, wouldn’t he enjoy it once he got there? All those kids running around in costumes and reading books. His own father wouldn’t have believed it possible, but Elizabeth was a real bookworm.
The lights changed, and he drove down the road to his prior engagement. A left turn took him past the old football pitch and on to a track that headed towards the great concrete pillars of the M5 motorway that soared above him. At the end of the track was a turning circle and an access gate to the canal. There were abandoned and forgotten spots like this all over the Black Country – except that they weren’t forgotten by the people who lived here. Whichever government body owned this little slice of purgatory may have lost track of it, but Patrick knew exactly where to go when he got the message. His visitor was already waiting.
Pat turned the car around and pointed it towards the exit. He was in no hurry to get out into the mud left behind by last night’s rain – let the other fella come to him. After all, wasn’t this their idea, not his? His phone pinged with a text and his new varifocal glasses came in handy. Come here, Paddy. I’m not getting my feet wet.
It was from the new number, the one he had been told to expect, the one who had chosen this meeting place. He cursed and dived out of the car and over to the waiting Range Rover. The bastard had locked the doors. Patrick had turned and started to walk back when he heard the central locking click open.
‘Don’t you ever pull a fecking stunt like that again with me, d’you hear?’ he said to the man in the driving seat.
‘Keep your hair on, Paddy. I forgot about the locks, sure I did.’
The interior light hadn’t come on when he opened the door, and it was gloomy down here below the motorway. For June, it was very gloomy. He got a sense of bulk, of height and the voice, although not young, was much younger than his. ‘My name is Patrick Lynch. No one calls me Paddy. Is that clear?’
‘But you are a paddy, aren’t you? A bog-trotter of the first water, no less.’
A Prod. They’d sent a fecking Prod from Belfast to deal with him. Could today get any worse? ‘What do you want? Hurry up, I’ve got to be somewhere else.’
The other man ignored him. ‘Do you have a SatNav in that nice Jaguar of yours, Patrick?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Before you go, turn it on. The wee machine will think it’s on the motorway, you know. Possibly stuck in traffic ’cos we’re not moving. This little space doesn’t exist in the digital world. No one wants it, no one loves it. I love places like this, Patrick, where no one knows where you are.’
Patrick shifted in his seat.
‘Down to business, eh?’ said the man. ‘I’m pleased to offer you a new opportunity. If you play your cards right, you could be even richer.’
Patrick said nothing. This man represented the Principal Investors in what they called Operation Green Light. He had made a lot of money from Green Light and he wasn’t in a position to say no to their suggestions.
‘Open the glove box. There’s a sample in there.’
The glove compartment had its own courtesy light, and suddenly Patrick could see the other man properly. He was in his early forties, probably, and the smile on his face was even scarier than his ramblings about secret places. There was a brown envelope on top of the junk and Patrick picked it up.
‘Holy Mother of God, what’s that for?’ Underneath the envelope was the biggest automatic pistol that Patrick had ever seen.
‘Sorry. Forgot about that. Just ignore it and open your free sample.’
Patrick tore open the envelope and took out two bundles of twenty pound notes, wrapped in plastic, together with a smaller white envelope that contained something hard
.
‘Careful how you spend it. The ink’s still wet.’
Patrick looked carefully at the notes and peeled one out from its wrapper. He had been offered counterfeit bills many times on the market, and usually he could tell just by the feel of the paper that they were forgeries. He tried to hold it closer to the light and ruffled it in his fingers. ‘These look good,’ he said.
‘They’re very good. Very good indeed. We’ve tested them extensively, and they pass any detector except the ones in banks. Something to do with the yellow dots on the back. Be very careful about leaving fingerprints – they do check them and if anyone’s prints come up more than a few times, they’ll be on to you. Apart from that, just be sensible.’
Patrick put the packet inside his coat and shut the glove compartment. He did not want that big gun staring up at him.
‘Here’s the deal,’ said the man in the driving seat. ‘There’s a key in that white envelope. It fits a small van that we use. You’ll be sent a text message forty-eight hours ahead of a drop-off. If you’re on holiday or some shit like that, text back. You’ll receive a second text with the location and exact time of pickup. And I mean the exact time. You, and only you, are to drive the van away. It’ll have a different paint job and different number plates every time. Take it to a safe place, unload the goods, and return the van to the same spot exactly three hours later. Got that?’
‘What are the terms?’ he asked.
‘A good question for once. We expect 30 per cent on future shipments, but the first one you might have to give some incentives. We’ll take 25 per cent on that. Our cut has to go through Emerald Green Imports as usual, but paid into a different account. The Principal Investors on this job are different to your current bosses. All the details are in that wee envelope you’ve stashed away. I’m your contact, but I sincerely hope we never meet again.’
‘The feeling’s mutual. What do I call you? For reference.’
When the light had come on, Patrick had caught sight of brush cut ginger hair on his visitor’s head, as well as the sharp features of his face.
‘You can call me Red Hand. It’ll remind you of Ulster. Out you get, Patrick, and don’t follow me.’
As he climbed out of the vehicle, there was a final word from Red Hand. ‘Oh, Patrick, if that tame copper of yours mentions the names Tom Morton or Kate Lonsdale, you be sure to let me know.’
Before he could reach the security of his own car, the Range Rover had sped off, covering him in muddy water from its spray. He was breathing hard and he could feel the onset of pain in his chest from the stress. He turned on the ignition and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply until the pain subsided. By then, his SatNav had warmed up and orientated itself. He looked at the display, and Red Hand was right – the little icon was smack in the middle of the M5. ‘Do not attempt a U turn on the motorway,’ said the disembodied voice. ‘Proceed to the next junction.’
The locker room at Earlsbury police station felt too small to contain the heat and smell of male bodies as they prepared for work. PC Ian Hooper strapped on the anti-stab vest, utility belt and other equipment designed to keep him safe on a Friday night. What a joke. With Birmingham so close, most revellers headed into the city for their fun, leaving a patchwork assortment of locals to frequent the pubs and bars. Because it had spare land at the back, Earlsbury division had been given a new custody suite, but the night-time economy in the Black Country was not exactly booming.
The duty sergeant threw him a set of keys.
‘Hooper, you take the Incident Car and circle round from the east. There might be something going on in Elijah. Be ready to mop up anything else.’
It was a sign of trust – he was considered competent enough to work on his own and intelligent enough to make good use of his time even though this wasn’t his shift – he had done a swap for a mate. Ian left the police station and climbed into the garishly painted Incident Car. There was always the possibility of a crash on the M5 and the summons to support Traffic, but otherwise, statistics stated that he could expect a quiet night.
He was glad that he wouldn’t be doing night duty next week, especially if the weather stayed warm. Flags were starting to appear around the town as England geared up to begin their World Cup campaign in South Africa on Friday. The evening kick-off would see even Earlsbury’s bars full to bursting. If he was lucky, there would be overtime through the evening; if not, he could enjoy the game himself. Then again, the chance of any enjoyment was remote with this England team.
The police station was halfway up Earlsbury hill, and to get round to his first port of call he would have to cut through the industrial estates or take the long route via the railway station. He took the latter option. The station itself was unmanned in the evenings, the old buildings had been converted to accommodate a taxi office where several cabs waited, their drivers clustered around a burger van with cups and cigarettes in hand. Ian slowed down and saw a woman on her own emerging from the station in a very short skirt and killer heels. He pulled into the forecourt and got out, meeting the woman as she arrived at the snack stop.
‘Alright Erin? You been stood up again?’
‘Story of my life. What you doing ’ere? I thought you was the community bobby now.’
‘Fancy a cup of tea and a lift home? I’m on me way to Elijah.’
Erin King looked at the taxi drivers. The two white men carried on their conversation, but kept glancing at her. The three Asians stopped talking and stared. She stared back and they lowered their eyes.
‘Go on then, twist me arm,’ she said to Ian. ‘Two sugars, love.’
Ian ordered two teas and asked how her children were getting along. Erin told him that they were both fine, and that the youngest had started school this term. Polystyrene cups in hand, they settled into the car.
Ian picked up the radio. ‘Control? This is 4621 Hooper in Incident Car. En route to Elijah estate with civilian for information gathering.’
‘Did you have to say that? Can’t you just give me a lift?’
‘No chance. I’m responsible for you while you’re in the car. I didn’t give your name, though, did I?’
Erin held her tea in her hands to warm them, and Ian took the Smethwick Road round the back of St Oswald’s and pulled into the bay outside a parade of shops, all closed for the night.
‘What was you doing in Brum?’ he asked.
‘I could say it was none of your business and I’d be right. Just ’cos we went to school together, it don’t mean you’re my brother or nothing.’
‘We did a bit more than go to school together. And since.’
She sipped her tea. ‘I wasn’t in Brum. Believe it or not, I was in Kidderminster for an interview. Well, audition. I had to get the train back.’
‘Pole dancing? I never thought you’d be back at that. Not since the kids, anyway.’
‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it.’
Ian looked up and down the road so that he didn’t have to make eye contact with her.
‘Go on. Say it,’ said Erin.
‘Say what?’
‘Say that I’m too old at twenty-eight, that I’ve had two kids and no one’s gonna pay top whack to see me strut me stuff no more.’
‘Erm…’
‘You don’t have to be nice. They said it, too. Can I smoke in here?’
‘Sorry. If the day shift smell smoke they’ll report me.’
Erin got out of the car and lit a cigarette. She came round to Ian’s side and leaned on the roof. He lowered the window and she leaned in, thrusting her breasts through the gap.
‘I could always go on the game. There’s good money in that.’
‘Give over, Erin. You said it: I ain’t your brother or your boyfriend. If you want to sell your body, go ahead. I’ll make the phone call to Social Services meself.’
She stiffened and pulled back from the car. ‘You would ‘n’all. You’d get me kids took off me.’
‘Calm down, Erin. You’re
not going on the game, and I’m not calling the Social. What did they really say at that new club?’
A smile crept back on to her face and she dropped the cigarette. ‘They didn’t quite tell me I was over the hill, but I could tell they fancied the younger girls more than they fancied me. Thing is, these blokes might be great businessmen, but they’re no judge of a dancer. It’s okay being young and supple, but if you don’t know what you’re doing you can get tired out very easily, and if you haven’t got any tricks, the punters soon get bored. I’ve got meself a job as choreographer. How about that?’
Ian had seen Erin perform when she was younger – when she was a kid, really. He still saw her as young. She had been very good at what she did, but he was struggling to see that it required a choreographer to do it. Wasn’t that what they had at the ballet? He told her how pleased he was for her and asked her when she started. Erin went back to the passenger side and climbed in, telling him that they had asked her to start tomorrow by re-interviewing all the girls and sorting out the ones with stage potential, as she put it. Ian started the engine.
‘Are you still going out with that teacher?’ said Erin.
‘Ceri? Yeah. We moved in together this summer.’
‘Get you, Mr Conventional. First you join the cops then you settle down with a teacher.’ She patted his arm as he drove over the junction and into the Elijah estate. ‘I hope it works out.’
Ian drove slowly round the curves and crescents of the post-war housing estate. Originally built as council property, it was now a mixture of owner-occupiers and some social tenants. He looked at the parked cars but they were all dark, and no one was lurking in the entryways of the houses. At the back of the estate, built on to a small rise, was Ezekiel House – a 1970s low-rise block of flats. The police had more trouble from there than from the whole of Elijah put together.