by John Harvey
‘And if we don’t?’
‘Cut her throat anyway. Later rather than sooner.’
The firearms officer lifted clear the binoculars through which he’d been watching. Spoke to Karen. ‘Killed this young woman, didn’t he? Hammered the life out of her. Cut her about for good measure. And the kiddie, killed her too. Next time my lads get an unobstructed view of the target, let me give the order. One in the brain pan. All the consideration he deserves.’ He hawked up phlegm from the back of his throat and, nowhere to spit it, swallowed it back down. ‘Eugenics, where people like Simon are concerned, not such a bad idea after all.’
For some moments, no one looked at anyone else.
Then the sound of a police helicopter circling overhead.
‘You’ve spoken with her,’ Morgan said to Karen, ‘must have got some impression. How d’you think she’d stand up to this?’
Karen was remembering the pale-faced young woman who’d made her tea, talked about her boyfriend out in Afghanistan, talked about the coming baby. About Wayne Simon.
I’m frightened. Frightened he’ll do something. Hurt me. Hurt my baby.
‘Not too well. She’s not strong, physically strong. Low self-esteem. And she’d be scared, scared for the baby.’
‘Any idea why he’s latched on to her the way he has?’
‘Men like Simon, they’re drawn to women they see as weak. Easier to bully, knock into shape. Then, when those women start thinking for themselves, trying to break away, the Simons of this world react the only way they know how. Lash out.’
‘End of lecture,’ the firearms officer said, as much to himself as anyone, loud enough to be sure Karen had heard.
No one had seen hide nor hair of Jayne Andrew for a full thirty minutes, just glimpses, shadowy, of Simon moving around the flat without apparent direction, this way and that.
Karen remembering again her vain promise she would come to no harm.
Morgan dialled the number for Jayne Andrew’s mobile, the one on which he’d spoken to Wayne Simon before. While it was still ringing there was a sudden movement behind the living-room curtain, the window opened and two mobile phones were hurled down on to the grass. His and hers.
‘Fuck,’ Morgan said softly and lowered his head.
‘Stage two,’ the incident commander said, not without a certain satisfaction.
Morgan was already fastening his bulletproof vest. Moments later, he was stepping out of the van, loudhailer in his hand. ‘Wayne, listen to me. There’s a way out of this. For everyone. For you. Nobody has to get hurt, no one has to come to any harm. You hear me? You understand?’
No movement. No response. No reply.
‘Just let me see Jayne, let her come to the window on her own. I just want to see that she’s okay. Then you can let her go. Let her leave.’
Snow was starting to flutter slowly down, catching in Morgan’s hair as he moved steadily forward, one careful pace at a time.
‘No one’s hurt here. Nothing’s happened. Nothing that we can’t talk about reasonably, between ourselves. You and me. But you have to let Jayne go first. Then we can talk. All right, Wayne? We can sort this all out.’
While he was still talking the door opened and Jayne Andrew stumbled out, one hand thrust out in front of her, the other clutching her belly; her face, her front, dark with blood.
Morgan dropped the loudhailer and started to run.
‘Go, go!’ the firearms officer shouted, and immediately armed officers began to advance from either end of the balcony, weapons raised.
Karen was running herself, stumbling a little on the uneven ground.
Jayne Andrew tumbled into the arms of the first officer to arrive and, taking her weight on his free arm, he turned her away from the balcony edge and towards the wall and lowered her slowly down. Which is where she was when Karen reached her, still crouching, holding herself and sobbing inarticulate sounds through trails of snot and tears. That close, the blood startlingly bright on her face and hands.
Not hers.
Karen carefully raised Jayne Andrew’s head and wiped her face, took hold of her then by the arms and lifted her to her feet; put one arm round her and held her tightly as she walked her towards the stairs, the waiting paramedics, the ambulance, a warm bath and caring hands, the first of many nightmares, flashbacks, some kind of a future.
At least she was alive.
Wayne Simon had slashed his throat across while holding her close, the blade puncturing the carotid artery behind the jawline, below the ear.
He lay on his back, legs akimbo, arms outstretched, head to one side, a beached fish on dry land, the severed flesh open like a second mouth.
Flowers of blood stippled across the floor, along the wall.
‘Look!’ Wayne Simon had said, the moment before he cut his throat. ‘Look what you made me do.’
Karen drove back more slowly; urgency, expectation drained. The promised snow flaked across the windscreen, sticking here and there beyond the wipers’ range. She thought of Carla, wondered how she was, living in provincial digs and stepping night after night into the spotlight to enact The Revenger’s Tragedy, more familiar now with the quickness, the arc of blood. She thought of Alex, the enviable assuredness with which she worked and lived, the quick touch of her hand upon her arm.
At the service station, she drank coffee, black, and checked the messages on her mobile phone. CCTV at Woodford had shown two men running from the scene of the shooting, one of them Liam Jarvis, previously arrested and then released in connection with a similar shooting in Walthamstow. A fresh warrant had been issued and a search carried out at his last known address, as yet no sign.
39
Cordon had tried bringing up the subject of what had happened to Maxine, Letitia’s mother, a number of times, but on each occasion got little response other than an impatient sigh and shake of the head, clear signs that as a topic it was closed. On other occasions, the reply was more emphatic. ‘How many more times, she fell under the fucking train!’
It wasn’t until they were sitting outside, one evening, dusk closing around them, Danny in bed early, exhausted by the day, that Letitia raised it herself.
‘Parlo, he was there at the house when she come round. Question after bloody question. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Threatened to clip her one and she laughed in his face, told him if he did that she’d be back with the police.’
‘How d’you know this?’
‘He rung Anton, didn’t he? On account of she’d mentioned my name, said who she was, who she claimed to be. Anton told him to frighten her off, make sure she never come back.’
Letitia stopped and poured herself more wine.
‘That’s what he did. Followed her to the station.’
‘Pushed her under the train?’
‘Not according to him. Lost sight of her on the platform. Only saw her again at the last minute, just as the train was coming in. Tried to elbow his way through the crowd towards her, but with everyone else pushing and shoving, fighting to get on, somehow, he says, she went under. He hadn’t been able to get near her. Nothing he could do. Walked away.’
‘You believe that?’
‘That he walked away? Got out of there as soon as he could? Sure, of course.’
‘That he didn’t have anything to do with what happened?’
She shrugged and reached for her cigarettes. ‘What’s it matter? Pushed, fell, either way? Not going to bring her back, soft cow.’
Cordon bit back his words. Her mother, not his. Her life to live.
Neither of them mentioned it again.
Jack Kiley had been in touch that morning. According to Taras, his brother was gradually coming round; just give him a little longer and he thought Anton could be persuaded to agree to some kind of reasonable arrangement, shared access to his son in exchange for financial support. Just give him a little more time.
Time they still had.
Venturing out into the surrounding area, they
found, less than fifteen minutes’ drive away, a family theme park with bouncy castles and trampolines and pedalos; a small paddling pool, where Danny screamed with delight at the sudden shock of cold; a petting zoo with sheep and goats and a pair of long-eared donkeys, shaggy in their winter coats.
Emboldened, they drove north to the Pink Granite Coast and followed the path as it wound between vast, impossible formations of rocks shaped by the sea and the wind; parked above the empty swathes of sand at Beg Leguer, where Cordon and Danny combed rock pools for shrimps and tiny crabs, while Letitia sheltered out of the wind and smoked and read for the second time a Maggie O’Farrell she’d found stashed behind all those dry and clever men on the bookshelves where they were staying.
On a shopping expedition to the Carrefour in Guingamp, Danny picked up a flier advertising the Haras National de Lamballe, the national stud. Guided tours at three p.m., Tuesdays to Sundays. The illustration showed a stallion rearing irresistibly up into the sky, its mane catching the rays of the sun.
‘Please!’ Danny cried. ‘Please!’
Smiling at his anticipation of such pleasure, Letitia agreed.
Lamballe was where they had switched cars, no more than an hour and a half away; Cordon could call in at the office while they were there, extend the period of loan. Give the boy his wish.
The sun shone, still weakly, but without a breeze they could delude themselves of its warmth. The tour of the stables was more interesting than either Cordon or Letitia had expected — some of the huge Breton horses weighing up to a ton — and Danny, in his element, ran from stall to stall, glowing with excitement; when the tour guide pointed to some hay and asked if he wouldn’t like to help feed one of the horses, it must have felt like heaven.
Afterwards, they sat outside a patisserie in the town square, Cordon and Letitia drinking coffee and sharing some kind of almond pastry, while Danny sipped hot chocolate through a straw and bit down into a coffee eclair so hard the cream splurged out from the far end, all over his face and hands.
Letitia caught Cordon’s look and instead of giving him a warning glance, she allowed herself a smile.
‘Good day?’ he asked, as they settled back into the car.
‘Not bad.’
Leaning across, she kissed him on the cheek, and from the back seat, Danny issued a little squeal of delight.
It couldn’t last.
40
Hugo French lay there, blocking out the sound, for as long as he could. Turning over, turning back. Moving the pillow beneath his head. Covers tugged this way and that. Kids. No, not kids. Older. Young men by the sound of them, their loud, overlapping voices rising up to the second-floor bedroom where he slept. Young blokes, not so very long out of the pub, standing around outside the house, arguing the toss. About what, Hugo didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. Just the odd word clearly audible, the pattern of phrases repeated over and over, the slightly dodgy double glazing unable to keep them out. ‘No, wait. Wait, wait, wait. Listen. Just fucking listen!’ Every second or third word, the swearing. Like some kind of punctuation, like breathing.
Time was, it would have been Mary awake before him, pushing back the duvet and padding to the window, thinking nothing of throwing it open and sticking her head out, complaining.
People sleeping …
Haven’t you got a home to go to …
Call the police if you’re not careful …
Not any more. The space beside him cold and uncomprehending. He rolled over on to his side and as he did so, the noises seemed to falter and fade. Thank Christ! They were moving away.
But then again …
‘Listen, you bastard! Listen, will ya! Fuckin’ listen!’
Over and over and over …
Hugo levered himself into a sitting position, feet seeking out his slippers; tightening, as he stood, the cord of his pyjamas; reaching his old dressing gown down from behind the door. For heaven’s sake let me buy you a new one for Christmas. That old thing’s a disgrace.
Carefully, he shuffled to the window. Stood there for several moments, nervously, before easing a small space between the curtains and squinting down through the gap.
Yes, he was right. Four young men, standing in a tight little group, facing one another, hands every now and then gesturing, heads lifting with the rise and fall of voices. On their way back from some party, he supposed, an extension at the pub on the corner. Nothing wrong with his eyesight, he didn’t recognise any of them. Not from this street, he was certain. Not from round here. Why they’d chosen this street, he’d no idea. Unless that was their car, parked right by where they were standing. He hadn’t seen that before, either. Nothing flash, nothing racy. Could be theirs, no saying.
One of them turned abruptly and started to walk away, and Hugo thought, okay, this is it, at last they’re going. But right off he seemed to change his mind and turn back again and now … now what were they doing? One of the others leaning over the roof of the car, something being tipped out onto a piece of … foil, was it?… yes, a piece of foil … and one of the others dipping his finger and then putting it inside his mouth, rubbing it across his gums. Hugo didn’t believe what he was seeing. This perfectly ordinary, quiet street, not yet two in the morning, four blokes, illuminated by the nearest street light, not giving a bugger about who saw or heard them, messing around with drugs — cocaine, he supposed that’s what it was, cocaine — he’d read about it enough times, seen it on TV. Maybe that’s what they’d been arguing about all along, buying or selling, he didn’t know, the price, who was to pay, how much.
It angered him; knotted inside him.
And the blank windows opposite, blinds down, curtains closed, none of the neighbours, not that he really knew most of them, not now, not any more, no one interested, sleeping through it all, not caring.
Below, one man pushed another and laughed, then went back to what they were doing.
The telephone was on the bedside table.
The community support officer when he’d called round — some kind of scheme they had, crime prevention — had left a card with the number of the local station. You keep it there, where it’s handy. Any strange noises, anything untoward, don’t be afraid to use it. What we’re there for. Your taxes.
Not my taxes, Hugo remembered thinking, not now it was just a few bits and pieces and the pension.
He dialled the number.
Dawn Pritchard was parked up outside the twenty-four-hour convenience store near the junction when the call came through; her partner, Richie Stevenson, inside buying God knows what. Snickers, Peppermint Aero, KitKat, Bounty. Likely a can of Coke or Red Bull. Whatever it took to get him through the rest of the shift without dropping off. The wonder was, all the sugar and stuff he gorged on, he still looked like a stick insect, so thin when he turned side-on it was just possible to miss him altogether. Whereas Dawn, as she knew to her cost, only had to look at a bar of chocolate or even a Diet Pepsi and she was having to loosen the buttons at the front of her uniform jacket.
‘Richie!’ Passenger door open, she shouted across the pavement at the figure standing chatting at the counter. ‘Come on, let’s shift it.’
The call from the dispatch room had been graded S for soonish, as opposed to I for immediate, which Dawn knew gave them an hour’s window in which to respond, as against a maximum of eight to twelve minutes, but so far the night had been quiet as the proverbial, and anything was better than nothing.
‘What is it?’ Stevenson asked, peeling back the wrapping from a KitKat, snapping it in half and offering her two fingers.
She shook her head. ‘Group of men causing some kind of disturbance. Possible drug involvement. That part’s uncertain.’
‘Lady Margaret, you said?’
‘Lady Somerset.’
Big houses, semi-detached for the most part; a few still family homes, but not many; the majority divided into flats, two, three or even four to a building. The address she’d been given, another hundred metres along on the
left side, before the road curved downhill.
‘Where they supposed to be, these blokes?’
‘I don’t know, just standing around.’
‘Well, no bugger here now, they’ve scarpered.’
‘No, wait up. There, over there.’
‘Where?’
‘There.’
They were sitting inside a silver Saab, silver-grey, four men; the interior light on and then, as the police car approached, swiftly switched off.
‘What do you think?’ Stevenson said.
Dawn pulled up just sufficiently ahead of the Saab to block any attempt to drive away.
Both officers got out of the car.
While Stevenson went around the rear of the Saab and on to the pavement, Dawn knocked on the driver’s window and motioned for him to wind it down.
Stevenson shone his torch from the other side: four faces, young and white, blinking away from the light, heads down, avoiding his eyes.
‘Now I need you,’ Dawn was telling the driver, ‘to step out of the car.’
No movement.
‘That would be now.’
He swore not quite beneath his breath, loud enough for her to hear, and, with all the disdain he could muster, did as he was told. Early twenties, Dawn thought, if that. Dark hair, curling up against the collar of his leather jacket, perhaps unfashionably long. Not bad-looking, she could see that; a fit-looking bloke and no mistake, but too young. Too young for her, at any rate.
‘Driving licence,’ she said. ‘Any other identification.’
‘What for?’
‘Licence, don’t argue.’
‘We weren’t doin’ nothin’, just talkin’.’
‘Just do as I say.’
His eyes caught hers, decision made. Flung out an arm, catching her high across the face, as he turned and started to run.
Dawn thrust out a leg, tripping him so that he fell, half-fell against the bonnet of the car, rolling awkwardly away, one hand pushing up from the ground till she brought her baton down hard against the bone, the elbow, the crack clear and loud and lost in his scream as she struck him again, a full swing down against the top of his shoulder, the reverberation jarring her own arm, making her fingers tingle.