Moonbeam never asked herself what suffering she had undergone. She’d never had much money, but that was down to her spending the reasonable salary she earned on expensive herbs and ritual accessories. She’d been collecting grimoires – books of spells – since her twenties and some of them now had great monetary value, but she would never sell them. She’d lived in a run-down flat in Hackney for nearly thirty years, filling it with the necessities of her craft and rarely cleaning. She used a room as a studio too, occasionally selling art works, though they were too exotic for most people. And she had been on her own, deeply, painfully, since Joni’s father Greg left her. Joni had never reached even the lowest level of natural understanding, for all her studies and certificates, while the men Moonbeam allowed in her bedroom were nothing but substitutes, none of them capable of giving her anything but fleeting physical pleasure. Not that she had any objection to that.
She had always been sure that Joni would come back to her, wounded and desperate for healing. Moonbeam was in a position to provide that now she had cleansed herself and achieved access to the true knowledge contained in the earth, the sea, the moon, the trees. Fertility was all around if only you knew how to set it in motion. Joni needed help to understand that.
46
Joni spent the afternoon carrying out searches for the Popi. What little there was in the databases was insignificant: mentions in statements by frightened minor criminals who were trying to take the heat off themselves; the name shouted in open court by a Turkish heroin dealer who claimed he’d been framed; the corpse of a headless young woman with the letters ‘POPI’ cut into her back.
Morrie Sutton came into the MCU with Nathan Gray. They asked her about the Albanian who’d been caught in Alnwick and she told them his mouth had been zipped up by one of Lennox’s minions.
‘No sign of Suzana Noli?’ she asked.
‘Who?’ they said, in unison.
She stared at them with intent.
‘Oh, the tart with the cutlery,’ Gray said. ‘Nope. She’s gone, DI Pax. Turn your electric eye on someone else.’
Joni would have ripped into him, but she had more important things to do. The first of them, she wasn’t looking forward to. Since she’d left London, she hadn’t had any contact with her former colleagues in Homicide South-west. It was time she re-established relations, but she didn’t want to do it in the open-plan office.
Picking up her pad and pen, she went over to DCI Rutherford’s glass box. He was bent over a pile of papers.
‘Sir, I’d like to call someone in my old squad in the Met. Could I do it from here? I don’t fancy DI Sutton overhearing.’
Heck looked at her. ‘What’s Morrie done now?’
‘Nothing egregious by his standards. He’s not exactly setting DS Gray much of an example, though.’
‘Not really your business, is it, Joni?’ Heck said, then he relaxed. ‘I take your point though. Gray’s an arse, but the ACC wanted him here.’
‘Blonde, blue-eyed boy minority representation?’
Heck laughed, then coughed and clutched his lower abdomen.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘I’ll live.’
Joni knew about his cancer, but he didn’t talk about it. Like much of Heck’s past, it was off limits. Even when they’d been in his car for hours on surveillance, he hadn’t opened up much. Then again, neither had she. But her boss would have seen her service record. He knew all about what she’d been though.
‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I need to ask about the Popi. I want to see if the Met’s working on anything linked to it or them or whatever the hell the words refers to.’
‘Don’t jump into a heap of shit. I can call someone senior. Anyway, they should be updating the databases.’
‘With respect, sir, you know that they’ll give you, for want of a better word, shit. A DCI from the north of England is hardly going to make them open up. Besides, you know the databases are only updated with sensitive material when forces are desperate for help. The Homicide Units don’t do desperation.’
‘All right, have it your way.’ Heck stood up.
‘No, sir, stay. I’m not kicking you out of your office.’
Heck shrugged and sat down again, pushing the phone over to her.
DS Roland Malpas wasn’t answering either his mobile or his office number. His voicemail kicked in, but Joni didn’t leave a message. She suspected he wouldn’t return her calls. The last time she’d seen Ro was at a squad party when she was on sick leave. He had avoided her all night and she heard from one of the secretaries that he blamed himself for putting her in danger. She eventually tracked him down by asking the same secretary to connect her without saying who it was.
‘Ro,’ she said, when he picked up, ‘this is Joni Pax. Don’t put the phone down!’
There was silence before he spoke. ‘DI Pax. I wouldn’t dream of cutting you off. How goes it in the frozen north?’
‘I’m in Northumberland, not Norway. We’ve got spring here, same as you.’
‘Oh, right.’ Malpas sounded distracted.
‘Is this a bad time?’
‘It’s always a bad time. Was there something in particular?’
Joni wasn’t letting go of the chance to put him on the back foot. ‘I’m fine, thanks for not asking, Ro. Wounds healed, brain back in gear.’
‘Shit, I’m sorry, ma’am.’
‘Call me Joni. Forget it, Ro. I need you to check something for me.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘You come across any Albanian gangs down there?’
There was a pause. ‘Albanians? Well, they’re on the rise all over the place. Have you got them up there?’
‘Uh-huh. There’s one particular name – I’m not sure if it’s an individual or a family.’
‘Have you run it through HOLMES?’
‘What do you think? Nothing of any significance.’
Malpas paused again. ‘Let’s have it then.’
‘Popi, or rather the Popi.’
This time the response was rapid. ‘No bells ringing.’
‘All right. Do you think you could ask your mates in other units, Ro? It would mean a lot to me.’ She didn’t want to ratchet the emotional pressure up too much – at least, not yet.
‘OK,’ Malpas said. ‘I’ll see what I can find out for you.’
‘You’re a star.’
‘Yeah, right.’
She gave him her new mobile number and rang off.
Heck looked up from his paperwork. ‘He’s calling back?’
Joni smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay on him.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes. Well, not exactly. I was thinking about the international agencies. I know the ACC said no to Interpol, but there’s Europol as well.’
‘Have you got a contact there?’
Joni shook her head. ‘I could put in a request for information.’
Heck ran a hand over his closely cropped head. ‘This conversation isn’t happening, DI Pax.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Of course, I can’t control what you do off your own bat.’
Joni had never been good with sporting metaphors apart from those originating in athletics, but she understood the risk was hers. There was no way she was going through the Pofnee international liaison officer. He was Ruth Dickie’s tame chief superintendent.
47
Nick and Evie were in the back of Lord Favon’s Toyota Land Cruiser, on the way back from the Hall. Nick had cycled up and done a couple of hours’ revision with Evie. Although English was the only subject they shared, she had a great system for consolidating notes that was helping him with all his work.
They held hands in the dark, but kept a distance between them, aware that Andrew Favon was glancing at them in the mirror. Neither was keen on her parents knowing that they were together. This time Evie had turned the key in the library door before they made love. Nick trembled as he remembered what they had done to each other and squeezed her hand.
He heard her inhale deeply and understood she was thinking about their time under the table too.
‘I hope you appreciate this, Nick,’ the broad-backed driver said. He was wearing the wide leather hat he favoured. Baldness was spreading over his large head. ‘I don’t normally drive around at this time of night.’
‘My grandfather would have come to pick me up.’
‘It’s all right.’ He looked in the mirror. ‘Anything for my Evie.’
Evie laughed out loud. ‘I should think so. If you hadn’t broken my legs, I’d be driving this thing myself. Except I’d be in Africa.’
Nick stared at her. He’d never heard her be so sharp with her father.
‘Steady, girl,’ Favon said. ‘It was an accident.’
‘And what do you mean you don’t normally drive around this late?’ she continued. ‘I’ve often woken up in the middle of the night and seen no sign of the Land Cruiser in front of the Hall.’
‘You know I sometimes park round by the tower.’ Her father’s tone, normally abrupt, had hardened even more.
Evie pushed her fingers between Nick’s. ‘Whatever,’ she said, leaning back. Her body remained tense.
‘What did you get up to on Sunday night, Nick?’ Andrew Favon asked.
Nick was immediately suspicious. Was this why Evie’s father had offered to drive him home?
‘I went as a traffic light.’
‘What?’ Was the surprise genuine, Nick wondered.
‘With fully functioning red, amber and green panels. The problem was, I got picked up by the police.’
Favon’s laugh was high-pitched, like a donkey in season. ‘That must have gone down well with the general.’
‘He was OK about it.’
‘Where did this happen?’
Nick was unsure if the question was as innocent as it sounded. ‘Somewhere in the old industrial area. I don’t know where exactly. I had the odd pint.’
‘You weren’t charged, though?’
‘No.’
‘Experiences like that are part of growing up.’
Nick didn’t answer. He was trying to decide if Favon had lost interest or if he was playing a more subtle game. He gave the impression of being a dim-witted aristocrat, but Nick had never been convinced by that. Just as he’d never believed that Lady Favon was the man-eater she was said to be – until he found out otherwise. The way she looked at him was embarrassing. Tonight Evie had noticed and, later, told him to ignore her mother. She was an airhead and besides, Evie would look after him.
They didn’t kiss when he got out of the 4×4. Nick watched as the bulky vehicle turned outside the house and went back the way it had come. He wasn’t only sad to have parted from Evie; he was worried about leaving her alone with her distinctly strange father.
48
Heck and Ag often went to sleep spooned against each other. That night she dropped off quickly, but he was restless. He slipped away and went down to the kitchen. Since he’d come out of hospital, he regularly had disturbed nights. The only thing that helped was a mug of chamomile tea and honey – recommended by Ag – and recourse to his armchair. He had to manhandle Cass off it, the dog’s eyes fixed on him pathetically. As he finally sat down, he felt a twinge in his abdomen. That was what this was all about. He’d been recommended counselling after the operation, but had declined, much to Ag’s exasperation. He had to work through it himself, he told her. What he didn’t say was that he had to confront his fear.
Heck had been a good amateur rugby player into his late thirties, captaining the Corham team for eleven years. He wasn’t some fly-boy winger who kept himself out of the action; his place was at the back of the scrum and he was renowned for the devastating hits he made. He’d never been afraid of anything on the pitch, nor in Newcastle, a city that wasn’t short of headbangers, many of them in street gangs or more organised crime operations. The problem was, he’d allowed himself to be moved up the ladder in the Force. When he was in his early thirties, he spent six months undercover. They’d been the most exciting of his life.
His first marriage, which he hadn’t thought about for years, was already on the rocks. He’d suspected Lindsey of shagging the next-door neighbour when he was on night shift, so the offer of taking on an assignment that would look good on his record came at the right time. He was taken off normal duties and treated like a VIP rather than a detective constable with only a few arrests. They briefed him about the crew of armed robbers he was to infiltrate, giving him basic firearms training and a fake background as a London heavy who’d moved north after five years inside.
‘Like Jack Carter?’ he said to the DI who was monitoring him.
‘Fuck Jack Carter. He only got shot once, at the end of the film. If MacLean’s crew get on to you, they’ll turn you into a sieve before you’ve finished your popcorn.’
No Lard MacLean was a hard man of the old school, his nickname referring to his muscle-bound frame. His team was experienced in emptying banks, security vans, post offices, even a North Shields to Norway ferry’s safe. What Heck – nom de crime, Jimmy ‘the Juice’ Joyce – brought to the party was a foolproof plan. He’d been supplied with the architects’ drawings for a bank in Gateshead that had recently been completed.
‘Where did you get these, bonnie lad?’ No Lard asked, after Heck had been plied with spirits. Years of post-match boozing meant he could hold his drink.
‘Nicked ’em,’ he said, in the best London Irish accent he could manage. ‘From the guy who got me sent down.’ He grinned. ‘He won’t be using his legs again.’
‘Tell us more,’ said No Lard, with a sick grin.
Heck held his nerve and ran through the story he’d memorised. No Lard made some calls which checked out, thanks to the undercover squad’s careful planning.
‘So you’ll be coming with us then, Juice,’ the muscle man said, a statement rather than a question.
‘Sure I will,’ Heck replied. He didn’t get much sleep that night, or the following three. The squad wasn’t contacting him and he was only to use the dead letter drop if he was in immediate danger – this was in the days before mobile phones.
And so he found himself in a beaten-up van with No Lard and his men at two in the morning. They thought they knew exactly where to lay the explosives and they were tooled up with sawn-offs and semi-automatic pistols in case things went pear-shaped. Heck himself was carrying a Browning High Power he’d been supplied with by the Northumbria Police armourer. No Lard gave the word and they took up their positions, Heck by the leader’s side – it had been made very clear that was a condition of his involvement. As the guy with the Semtex headed for the rear wall of the building, the undercover squad, bolstered by an armed response unit, moved in.
The subsequent inquiry found that two of the gang members had decided this was the perfect opportunity to dispose of No Lard. He hit the ground, riddled with bullets in his back. Heck threw himself to the side and managed to get round a corner as the rest of the gang started firing at each other. When the shotgun and pistol blasts ended, no one was left standing. Heck peered out and was met with a scene from a Peckinpah movie. Only the shooter who had disposed of No Lard was still alive. He had three bullets in his abdomen and only lasted two hours in hospital, but he managed to brag about what he’d done, saying his name would last longer than his victim’s. Heck had forgotten it a few weeks later.
He hadn’t been taken off the job. His celebrity status as the only survivor of what became known as the Gunfight at the Gateshead Corral meant he was soon recruited by another gang. Heck was involved in several big busts until things got too dangerous and he was withdrawn. But his knowledge of Newcastle’s most dangerous crews was second to none and he ended up running operations against them. His target was the Bad Shepherds (they hated the former owner of Newcastle United). This lot were careful, taking months to set up a bullion raid. Heck had an undercover man participating in the planning, as well as in a post office robbery to keep the gang in ready ca
sh. That officer, a DC playing the part of postmaster, managed to warn his colleagues and the takings were kept below five hundred quid. There was no shooting and no one was injured.
As time passed, Heck got more and more excited. Lindsey commented on it, saying not entirely in jest that he must have a mistress. In a way she was right. Heck loved the danger, even at arm’s length. At the same time he was repelled as never before by the brutality, the complete lack of humanity shown by the Shepherds and their kind. They treated each other like animals, they beat up their women – years back Heck had intervened and took a heavy blow to the side of his head – and they ignored their kids. But they knew how to behave when it counted. The Bad Shepherds’ leader, a vicious streak of piss called Ned Sacker, kept them in line.
The operation ended with a whimper and only one bang – the blank round fired at the undercover man by an armed response officer when the gang was caught and disarmed as the members moved in on the shipment in the docks. They were all sent down for long stretches. Heck had been threatened outside court by Sacker’s brother Ian, a waster known as Not So Lucky because the outsiders he habitually bet on never even placed.
Cass gave a quiet bark when Heck stifled a cry. He was shaking, his belly on fire: he was terrified of sustaining more damage to his abdomen and he was sure he could never face another suspect in the field again.
49
Carnal Acts Page 14