by Hayden, Mark
He turned and walked back to the office, hungry and burning with embarrassment.
Fran didn’t know whether or not she was in shock. The pace of the meeting was fast, and once she’d got the first few lines down in shorthand, she’d had to concentrate so hard her hand stopped shaking. When the chairman closed the meeting and invited all the Members to lunch, Fran quietly asked if they could wait for the minutes until Friday.
‘We can wait a week, can’t we?’ said the Chairman. The other Members nodded, and she slipped out. When she tried to unlock the Jag, her hands started shaking again. She took a deep breath and drove slowly back to Earlsbury.
There was a police car at the entrance to Sharrow Road, and Fran remembered that there was a back way into the Goods Yard from there. She tried to think what an innocent person would do, and so she gazed curiously down the road as she waited for the lights to change. The news bulletin had no further details of the shooting at the Yard, and on impulse she pulled into a side road and went into the corner shop where she bought cigarettes for the first time since … the 1970s, she reckoned.
‘Have you heard what’s being going on down Sharrow Road?’ she asked the shopkeeper.
‘Only what’s been on the news,’ he replied. Then he lowered his head and whispered, ‘I think that one of the men who was shot might be a police officer.’
‘Blimey.’
‘I know. It’s a terrible thing. They must be waiting to inform his family.’
The image of the back of the van flashed through her mind. Should she go to Theresa King’s house and tell her? What about Maria Lynch? Would either of them have missed their sons yet? Would they be worried about them after hearing the news? Fran thanked the newsagent and went back to the car.
She lit a cigarette and coughed deeply, the smoke filling the car and making her eyes water. She threw it out of the window and tried to dab her eyes. The smoke took her back eighteen years, to the Barley Mow. Robbie and Dermot had died together, just like their fathers, and now Robbie’s boys were without their dad, too. Fran started the engine and headed home.
Patrick was still asleep – unconscious, really. She stripped off her suit and wiped the smeared make-up off her face and then sat down on the bed in her dressing gown as she realised something else. Not only could Patrick end up in prison, his business would be destroyed. Instinctively, she looked around at the house they’d lived in for twenty-five years and which they’d extended twice. That was secure: paid for with legitimate money and registered in her name. But that was all. Everything else would be up for grabs if Patrick were arrested. These days, the police seemed to think that confiscating assets was more important than catching criminals. She shuddered and went downstairs to get a cup of tea.
She felt her husband’s pulse and checked his forehead. The angina attack seemed to be over for now, and it could be either the pills or exhaustion that was keeping him asleep. Suddenly hungry, she made a sandwich and ate it at the dining table, watching him breathe steadily and snore slightly. Three people had lost children: Theresa and Maria, obviously, but also Patrick. He had never once said that he wanted a son, but he didn’t have to. When he gave Dermot a safe haven after prison, Patrick was adopting a son to take over the business. Now that was gone, too.
She got dressed into her running gear and put the kettle on again. Then she gently started to massage her husband’s hands until he groaned and twitched awake.
‘How are you feeling, love?’
‘What? How long was I asleep?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Have you got any chest pains?’
He tried to sit up, but she pressed him back down. ‘Just lie there for a minute. If you move suddenly you might faint. I’ll get you a cup of tea and another nitro pill.’
When she returned, he was staring at the large family picture on the wall, taken at their oldest daughter’s wedding but featuring only the Lynch clan (which still annoyed her son-in-law every time he visited). Patrick and Francesca were either side of their three daughters. Ma Lynch stood beside Patrick, and next to Fran was Dermot.
‘It’s time to tell me what’s going on, Pat.’
‘I don’t know.’
She sat down next to him and put his tea on a side table.
‘I know you was with me all night, and I know you wasn’t there, but I didn’t ask what happened. I asked what’s goin’ on. And I’m certain you know that much.’
He coughed and took a sip of tea.
‘Dermot was doing a big handover last night to some boys from up north. I don’t know who they are or what happened or what the connection is to the other death on the radio.’
‘I’ve heard that the other one might be a police officer.’
Patrick sat up straighter. ‘Griff. What about Griff? Why hasn’t he been in touch? D’you think it might be him?’
Fran couldn’t stand Griffin. He was always giving her daughters the eye, and more than that, he was bent. A policeman should stand up for the good things in life, like priests. They weren’t supposed to be the bad guys. She ignored the comment.
‘What was Robbie King doing there?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. He shouldn’t have been within a mile of the place last night. He’s been doing some work for us, bits and pieces on the distribution side, but nothing on wholesale.’
‘Were they handing over those fags I saw?’
‘No.’
Patrick hung his head.
‘If it was drugs, I’m going to get a knife and stab you myself.’
‘God, no. I’d never do that. It was counterfeit money. Twenty pound notes.’
Where on earth had they come from? she thought, this is way out of Patrick’s league: he’s basically a smuggler, not a villain.
‘That’s not important. What are we going to do with...’ She took a deep breath. ‘What are we going to do with that van?’
‘We?’
‘Yes. We. If you go out on your own, you’ll have another attack, and I’m not going to lose you today. Tomorrow, maybe, but not today.’
‘We’ve got to burn it. Completely.’
That was a relief. She was afraid that Patrick would insist on transporting the van somewhere and digging a grave.
‘Do we need some petrol or something?’ she asked.
He gave a sharp bark of a laugh. ‘We’ll not be short of stuff for a fire. What do they call it on the telly? Accelerant. That’s it. There’s enough accelerant in the warehouse to give them a proper send-off.’
Patrick got up and steadied himself on the back of a dining chair. ‘I’m okay. I’m okay. We don’t need petrol, but we do need some cigarettes, matches and a rubber band.’
Fran had dumped her coat on the armchair and she felt inside the pockets. ‘These do?’ she said, offering him the new packet.
Patrick took them and examined the packaging. ‘You want to watch out, Fran. I imported these from China. They’re bad for your health.’
When it came to opening the roller-shutter doors, Fran baulked. She couldn’t turn the key and open up the nightmare again. If the shutters stayed down, she could try to forget about it.
‘Can’t we just leave them?’
Patrick shook his head and took the key off her. ‘They’d be found soon enough, and so would lots of juicy forensic evidence. Including your fingerprints, I’m guessing.’
He put the key into the control panel and pressed the green button. The shutters rolled up and the van was still there. Thankfully both doors were closed.
Patrick ripped open one of the cases and revealed a dozen bottles of vodka. He twisted off the caps from two bottles and handed them to her.
‘Go to the office and tip these out. Work backwards and cover everything with as much vodka as you can. Use at least ten bottles.’
She went through the back towards the office where the tea things were scattered over the floor. From the warehouse, she could hear the van being opened. When she came back for more vodka, Patrick had removed t
he petrol cap and stuffed a rag inside it.
‘What were you doing in the van?’
‘Closing his eyes. Saying a prayer for them both. Looking. Robbie was shot four times, I think, but they shot Dermot in the back of the head. He must have brought them here.’
He moved around to the driver’s door and leaned in to release the handbrake.
‘Nearly there,’ he said, and went round to the back of the van. Together, they pushed it further into the warehouse. ‘I’ve got to leave the doors open,’ he said.
Another case of vodka went around the van, and Fran started to feel giddy with the fumes. Patrick started to fiddle with the cigarettes and matches.
‘How are we going to ignite it?’
‘My dad taught me this. It works with petrol and it should work with alcohol, too.’
He wrapped several matches around a pair of cigarettes and secured them with a rubber band so that the match heads were halfway down the tubes of tobacco. He examined it and grunted and then made two more. Finally, he got some more rags and soaked them in vodka and made three little heaps by the door.
Fran stepped back, outside and away from the building. ‘You’ll kill yourself,’ she said.
Patrick shrugged. ‘If it doesn’t work, I’ll either go up with the evidence in a big bang or I’ll have to think of something else.’
She didn’t argue. Patrick took each little bundle of match-wrapped cigarettes and lit the tobacco, inhaling once to get them going. He placed one on each heap of rags and jogged towards the car. Fran bolted after him and started the engine.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I know that both of us would like to see it burn, but we’ll have to miss out on that.’
Fran drove off without looking back.
The fraud case was still on Tom’s desk when he got back from his encounter with Caroline and Nikolai. There were plenty of victims here, not just Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs. It was work, but it wasn’t much more than that. If the Coalition went through with their plans for cuts to the police, there would soon be a lot of people who would be glad of an excise fraud. But it wasn’t enough for Tom.
The next case might be different, though – the sooner he finished this one, the sooner he could pick up something more sympathetic, like the boiler room fraud he’d done last month. Call centres in Spain had identified vulnerable old people and pestered them until they bought worthless shares. Each case was a small fraud to the police, but a massive loss to the victim. The only way to stop it was to hit the perpetrators where it hurt – in the wallet. Tom had insisted that letters were written to every victim (after all, they had them on their database) informing them of when the trial was taking place. A group of thirty senior citizens had watched the judge give the villains lengthy custodial sentences. He was good at his job, and that was enough. He unlocked his computer and went back to work.
He had filled in most of the spreadsheet (without mistakes) when the hunger became unbearable. He got up to head for the canteen. There was always someone around in the canteen because the operational units of the City Police were housed in the same building, and uniformed officers need regular sustenance. Tom nodded to the man in front of him in the queue and considered the sandwich option.
‘Have you heard about the Birmingham thing?’ said the officer
‘Which one?’
‘That shooting in Earlsbury.’
Tom couldn’t be bothered to argue about whether or not Earlsbury was in Birmingham, so just asked what was new.
‘One of ours dead and one in hospital. Sounds like a gunfight.’
Tom grabbed the nearest sandwich and a bottle of water then gave the officer a tenner. ‘Tell Rosie to put the change in the charity box.’
He hurried back to his desk and logged on to the BBC website. The officers were named as DS Griffin (deceased) and DC Ian Hooper (critical condition with gunshot wounds). On the same page was a report that fire crews were attempting to bring a serious blaze under control in a disused building.
Tom stared at DI Fulton’s door and started munching the sandwich. When his fingers had stuffed the last crust into his mouth, he brushed off the crumbs and checked the online directory of serving officers.
The man he wanted was still with the same department in Lambeth, and he seemed to have had a promotion. Even better. Social climbing had never been a vice with his mother, more of a hobby. She used to say that I have a friend in the Close, meaning the Cathedral Close in York. Tom had occasionally responded by saying And I have a friend in Lambeth. He needed to act and he needed to act now. He grabbed his coat and headed for the tube.
After setting fire to the Wrekin Road building, Patrick had gone home and gone to bed for a couple of hours. He felt like he was wandering around someone else’s house, and either the pills or the shock or the angina attack made it impossible to think. Fran had said nothing on the way home, either.
He woke up feeling worse but better. He could feel the loss inside him. Whether it was his arteries clogging up – or grief – didn’t matter: either way it hurt. He lay on his back and said another prayer, his second of the day, and two more than he could remember saying in a long time. The first had been for Dermot’s soul, but this one was for Fran: a prayer of thanks to God for sending her to him and for giving her the strength to help him through.
He took a shower and got dressed. Downstairs, Fran was waiting for him. She was still wearing her gym kit, a thing he had never seen before. Well, it was a day for changes all round. She made a great cup of tea, did Francesca, as good as his mother’s (though he tried to convince both women that theirs was the better). The leprechaun tea cosy was keeping the pot warm on the coffee table, and she had pulled up a dining chair. The last time she had set out the room like this was when he came back from the police station eighteen years ago and she wanted to interview him about Theresa King’s baby.
He went over and kissed her forehead. ‘Thanks. Thanks for everything.’
‘It worked,’ she said. ‘The fire. It’s been on the news all afternoon that they can’t get it under control.’
She bent her head and poured him some tea. For this interrogation, she had chosen his least favourite mug: the one that said Old Golfers never die, they just lose their Balls.
‘Thanks for letting me sleep. Have there been any calls?’
She shook her head. ‘How’s your chest?’
‘Fine. It’s drama night for Elizabeth, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, and it’s her turn to have tea at Amanda’s. She’ll get dropped off about eight o’clock so we’ve got time.’
‘How much time have any of us got?’
She reached over and squeezed his hand. ‘I know you’re going to miss him … probably more than his mother will. And I know that Theresa will miss Robbie. He was always her favourite.’
Patrick nodded, and Francesca withdrew her hand and then folded her arms. His moment of sympathy was over.
‘What’s really going on, Patrick? Really. The whole truth, this time.’
He drank some more tea and met her gaze. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell her everything, but if he wanted to stay alive and stay out of jail there was no one else he could turn to. A man shouldn’t have to rely on his wife: it just wasn’t natural.
When she had threatened to throw him out after Hope was born, he had reflected on what his father would have done. First of all, his mother would never have given his Da an ultimatum. Second, if she had, his father would have got drunk and hit her. Then she would have hit him back. Patrick had never struck a woman in his life.
‘It started when Dermot came out of jail and joined the business.’
‘Go on.’
‘He knew a man who knew a man in Blackpool, and I knew a man who knew a man in CID. I started bringing stuff in from China and Dermot sold it on. I laundered the money, and Griffin made sure we didn’t get too much attention from the police.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘The perils
of diversifying. That man I knew, the one who…’
‘Stop. Stop talking about A Man. Tell me who it is.’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’ He paused. ‘You know Dermot was arrested for the murder of that football fan?’
‘Yes. You said he was fitted up by the police.’
‘He was, he was. And he was going to sue their arses off when it came out that the police had tampered with the evidence.’
Francesca frowned at him. Was ‘arse’ a swear word? No matter. He’d avoid them from now on.
‘We were about to issue court papers,’ he continued, ‘when I got a phone call from a guy.’ Patrick held up his hands to ward off Fran’s intervention. ‘No more lies, honest to God. I really don’t know who it was. He had a posh voice, though, and he said that if we dropped the court case in return for a cash payment, he’d see we were all right.’
His wife frowned. ‘How could he do that?’
‘They’ve got very good connections. That’s all I know. I agreed to the deal, and the next day DC Griffin turned up with twice the amount of money they’d offered. Said it was an investment, and if I did business in a certain way, they’d watch my back. All I had to do was pay them a percentage of the profits. That’s how we could afford to start up Emerald Green Imports. Have you got any biscuits? I’m starving.’
Fran poured some more tea and brought a slice of Ma Lynch’s cake. Now that was one thing that his wife couldn’t compete on – nothing could beat his mother’s baking.
‘You were saying about diversification.’
She was relentless. Patrick chewed his cake slowly before continuing.
‘Do you remember Elizabeth’s last birthday party? I had to go out for a meeting.’
Fran nodded.
‘I actually met one of the guys. Their enforcer, I suppose. He told me we were going to start shifting the forged notes.’
‘Couldn’t you have said No?’
‘He was driving around Earlsbury with a great big gun in his car. I wasn’t inclined to argue. Not only that … he was from Belfast.’
Fran gave him a sharp look. She had always known that Patrick sympathised with the IRA, and that he had taken those sympathies as far as active support. ‘Does all this go back to when Donal and Solomon were killed?’