The Score

by Howard Marks

  The same logic applied to the man who had escaped the bust, Morgan’s soldier, Diamond Evans. He was the potential controller of distribution if not the distributor. He knew where the ten canoes had been hidden. Maybe he was the only person to know. But that didn’t directly tie him to the Tower Hamlets pills or to the girls. Most likely he had lain low for six months then used proxies to handle the roll-out in the raves and clubs.

  Cat pulled the NCIS file on Evans. It was another disappointment. There had been no confirmed sightings of Evans since the bust. There had been no reported sightings by informants. He had disappeared, probably overseas.

  The database on Evans’s known associates looked equally unpromising. Most were in prison, awaiting trial under strict conditions, or they were dead. Only one still seemed active, a middle-level wholesaler operating in London, a former associate of Morgan’s called Hywel Small. One current address was given in Brentford. Unlike Evans, who had no prior convictions, Small had over twenty, all drug-related though none exactly major-league.

  Thomas sighed. ‘We don’t know Small and Evans have recent history. They’re on the same tree but their branches may not cross.’

  Her head ached. ‘Small’s all we’ve got.’

  She closed down the projectors and the screen went dark.

  She went through it all once more in her mind. The only Mandrax seized in the last five years had been identical to Morgan’s pills from the bust. The dead girl from Tower Hamlets had some in her flat. The two dead girls in the mine had a tox report heavy with Mandrax, most likely the same pills, as no other recent type was known. And then there was graffiti at the cottage near the mine identifying Morgan as the killer. It made no sense, but sometimes, Cat knew, the truth didn’t.

  The taxi drives off.

  At first, she thinks there’s nothing there. Nothing and no one. Just a former industrial street in a forgotten part of town.

  Then she sees that someone is watching her. The gate that looks locked actually isn’t. The patch of ragged ground beyond isn’t empty. In front of what is – surely? – a derelict building, a man is standing. He looks smaller than she expected. Shy almost. Is that the right word? Or curious? Expectant?

  She’s not sure, but she knows what to do.

  She smiles back. Tries to seem confident. She needs not to look like yet another teeny-bopper girl with delusions. So her smile is slow, considered, grave.

  Her movements are the same. Slow. Authoritative.

  The dress has a swing to it now. A purpose.

  There’s a little plop of understanding. About the song. The dress. The make-up. Even about this whole set-up, this choice of place.

  There are depths to the song she hadn’t understood. As though love always has to talk about its opposite: death. As though the two things go together, hand in hand, like lovers walking through a garden.

  The man greets her with old-fashioned courtesy. She replies as well as she can, given how strange she’s feeling. But what’s this? He lifts her hand and kisses it. Says, ‘Welcome.’ And then again, ‘Welcome.’

  They walk inside. Ahead, in the dimness, she sees the halo of a spotlight.

  10

  OUTSIDE, THOMAS LED the way through the wet down Fitzalan Place, Windsor Road. ‘My turn to show you something,’ he said. He walked almost wordlessly, grim-faced, over the railway line, left into the heart of Splott, and down Inchmarnock Street.

  ‘There it is,’ he growled. His face was stretched, tense. She could see he was still itching for the fight he’d almost had. He was pointing to a house in the run-down terrace.

  She noticed the tell-tale signs – the semi-jammed door, the furtive glance and quick steps past of a nervous potential visitor. Outside were a couple of unshaven lookouts with sunken eyes, scarcely capable of seeing a double-decker bus, should one ever pull up.

  It was a well-known crack house. The front door swung slowly open, and an attractive black lady wearing grey clothes and flowers walked out laughing. ‘Wake up, Bra. Mi soon come back wi’ me VIP frens,’ she called to one of the lookouts, in the Tiger Bay Jamaican accent.

  Cat held back, intrigued, watched Thomas approach the woman who smiled at him. She clearly knew him and Cat feared for a moment that Thomas had got himself a habit. But she dismissed the thought, Thomas was a drink man, through and through. He talked to the black woman, who nodded, beckoned Cat towards them. The woman turned around and began walking back into the house.

  ‘Irene will get us in,’ he said.

  ‘What have you told her?’ she whispered.

  ‘You’ve been locked out by your boyfriend and need somewhere to get your head together.’

  ‘Jesus! Couldn’t you have done better than that?’

  He smiled. ‘Fits perfect.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said.

  The lookouts stood aside so they could pass. Cat knew in Splott, Grangetown and Ely, a crack house was not merely a marketplace: it was a home. Cocaine was invariably used, but not always sold by the occupiers, typically an ex-cocaine dealer and his girlfriend who had progressed from occasional use to heavy abuse. The fashionable sniffing culture that had first made a home for itself in after-hours clubs was dying out, and cocaine addiction had moved from the glamour professions to the lives of the mentally ill, the undomiciled and other cast-offs from the over-ground economy. It was the same old story.

  Once inside, Cat recognised the familiar stench. Human odours mixed with garbage, crack freebase and unwashed floors. The empty entry hall retained signs of its former elegance: the marble floors were braided with yellow and red designs woven down the long passage. From the ceiling, gargoyles looked down with their mouths wide open. Only two sculpted faces remained; the others had been replaced by cheap lightshades. In the corner were old appliances, partially stripped and shedding peels of lead paint. Remnants of alpine wallpaper hung from the walls.

  To the right was a front room. A big colour TV auto-surfed its way through channels picked up by a coat-hanger antenna. Latex gloves, an empty container of cornstarch, water bottles, a half-full Pepto Bismol and tourniquets covered the floor. A lost-looking girl smiled up at them.

  To the left of the hall was another room. Mattresses and a ramshackle armchair sat on the bare linoleum. An old heating grate, removed from the wall, was waiting for someone to have the energy and motivation to sell it for scrap. A poster and broken clock adorned one wall, gazing Dali-like over a slough of candles, lighters, tin foil and empty Stella cans. A couple of wooden crates served as extra chairs.

  ‘All right?’ Thomas addressed a smartly dressed, balding, middle-aged man lounging on the armchair. White pills, some powdered, lay beside him in an ashtray

  ‘Fine. I’ve seen you around, haven’t I? Please.’

  He gestured at the mattresses. His accent was an unnerving mix of Manhattan and South Africa.

  The man was jamming a blunt pencil against the base of copper gauze at the bottom of a glass tube. Satisfied, he took a smattering of the crack cocaine in his pocket, some ground powder from the ashtray and evenly distributed the mixture against the top part of gauze wire. Then, he methodically brought a lighter to it before once again commencing his approach to heaven and hell. A wild look took root in his eyes, as he delayed the exhalation of white smoke. The stench momentarily hung in the air.

  Cat glanced at the window. For a moment she thought she’d seen a sharp, pale face peering in through the rain-spattered pane. It was gone now. All was dark. She shivered, looked back to the user in the armchair. He slouched catatonically backwards.

  ‘This has to be the best smoke on God’s earth – crack and good old-fashioned ludes.’

  ‘You selling?’ asked Thomas.

  The man looked at them blankly.

  ‘Anyone selling ludes?’ Thomas asked more softly. ‘We’re gagging, man.’

  Thomas shot Cat a fierce, concealed glance. Her turn.

  ‘They get you going,’ she added, pushing back her shoulders.

/>   ‘These come from London,’ the man said.

  ‘Is the bloke here now?’ Thomas asked, leering.

  The guy looked up, heavy-lidded, from Thomas to Cat, imagining things, no doubt. He loosened his mouth. ‘Nah. He only drops them once a week. Just a few.’

  ‘You’ve got a number?’ asked Thomas, pushing it.

  The man shook his head, went back to banging out the copper gauze. Thomas tried again. He clicked his fingers and murmured as if he knew the dealer in question and his name was on the tip of his tongue.

  ‘He’s a biker.’ The man glanced at Cat. He ran a hand down his face. She understood. It was a gesture common among bikers. The delivery man had kept his visor down.

  They thanked the man, left him to his stupor, picked their way back through the detritus onto the rainy street. Cat glanced around, half-expecting to see the black Rover, the white face. There was nothing. She was tired, couldn’t tell if they were getting closer or further away. She felt agitated, began to hurry down the dark street. Thomas caught up with her, put an arm on hers, showing her she was going too quickly, drawing attention. He was right, she’d forgotten herself. She slowed up, turned to look at Thomas. ‘Well?’

  ‘Guy from Swansea I busted a few weeks ago had a Mandrax pill, said he’d got it here.’

  ‘But we don’t have time to wait another week and begin tracing the distribution chain. That could take weeks, months even.’

  Thomas’s phone was flashing. He looked at it, then passed it over so she could read the reports from the screen. A second search of the mine had turned up no signs of Esyllt. Nothing else of hers had been found at the abandoned pit house the girls had used as a den. But the lab test had confirmed the blood type on the T-shirt as matching Esyllt’s.

  Checks of phone records for Esyllt and Nia had turned up nothing useful. Neither phone had been switched on again since the girls had originally gone missing.

  Cat clapped a wet palm to her aching head, thought of Martin, of the sort of wound that might never heal. She felt so old suddenly, like Methuselah.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Thomas gently.

  Cat looked back at the screen, forced herself to focus on the next page. Matches had been run on their own initiative by the techies between the Mandrax traces on the two girls’ bodies, traces at the cottage and those found at the dead girl’s flat in Tower Hamlets. They had no other types to run against except the marina Mandrax, so it had been a one-stop cross-reference job. All were chemically identical to those from the marina bust.

  Cat looked at Thomas. Her anguish must have been visible. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘I know.’

  With all the recent developments, the case had blurred and complicated. Cat’s legs jellied, wanted to fold. She’d had enough. Nearly. Before she gave in, though, she raised herself for one more task. She called Martin, mercifully he did not answer. She left a message, hoping her voice did not sound as ragged as her hope felt.

  ‘They’ve searched again and not found her body,’ she said. ‘We won’t give up Martin, we won’t. This house believes that.’ She omitted the details she had learned. Martin didn’t need to know. He was probably getting no sleep as it was.

  Cat hung up and she went with Thomas back to her Penarth flat. They ordered a take-away, which Cat only picked at. She watched Thomas glug the best part of two bottles of wine as she smoked canna in silence, John Martyn trying to soothe from the iPod dock. Thomas talked about the case. The pictures of the girls were there when she closed her eyes. She felt weak, felt she might give in to anything. It was the sort of mood that made people throw themselves off trains.

  This wasn’t how she assumed it would be.

  She’s seen clips of studios. Abbey Road, that kind of place. Mixing consoles. Microphones. The live room for the vocalists. She always laughed about that. The ‘live’ room. What are the other rooms called, then? Dead rooms? Dying ones?

  So she said something. ‘This is it? I thought there’d be more … stuff?’

  That got a laugh.

  ‘Stuff? The stuff comes later. The first thing is to get the song right. No point in recording any old crap, is there?’

  A friendly voice. Warm, in some ways. But controlling. You felt the power. Not someone you’d want to disobey or anger.

  Is the room cold? It must be, though it’s not particularly cold outside. Or perhaps it’s nerves. The lights. The single spot and the empty stage. The moment. Anyhow, whatever the reason, she feels shaky. The whole place is ABFW. That was code she had with a couple of her friends at school. One of the ways they rated boys, parents, teachers. Lots of things were ABFW, but she’s never felt anything quite like this.

  ‘It’s OK, is it?’ she says, approaching the microphone. ‘It’s all OK?’

  She doesn’t know what she means by that, but she’s reassured by the answer.

  ‘Yes, it’s all OK. Just sing. That’s all you have to do. Just sing.’

  ABFW: a bit fucking weird.

  But singing is what she’s here to do. She approaches the mic, starts to sing.

  11

  JUST AFTER DAWN, Cat looked at Thomas’s sleeping face: soft and almost childish without the bolshy carapace of the day.

  She thought back to the night before. He had asked her and she had reached out, almost touched his hand. Loneliness and its antidote had clung to her but the thought of Rob had given her strength, she would stay clean of men for a while now. Certainly of this one.

  She had got some bedding out, chucked it down on the sofa for Thomas then retreated to her bedroom. Now, this morning, she looked at him asleep on the sofa that was too short for him. Before she woke him, she decided to contact Rob.

  Cat went to the kitchen and booted her Mac. She messaged Rob, knowing he was an early riser. He got straight back, and they opened up a Skype connection. Rob looked sleep-creased and wan. Next to him on the desk was a pot of tea. Cat didn’t think about how to position herself for the camera, did not think about how she looked. She felt close enough to Rob that morning to show herself as she was.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cat.

  ‘For what?’ asked Rob, smiling anyway at the praise.

  ‘You saved my arse last night.’

  ‘Huh? I was asleep.’

  ‘I was going to do something, then I thought of you and didn’t do it.’

  ‘Benzies?’

  ‘No, another type of drug.’ She guessed Rob would understand. ‘Just as bad, when taken at the wrong time.’

  ‘Want to tell me ’bout it?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m coming to London. I’ll look you up.’

  It was her turn to move the relationship forward. But before Rob could reply, she heard a grunt from the lounge, a morning belch. ‘Got to go, Rob,’ Cat said, ending the connection.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she heard Thomas say from the sofa. ‘My back’s killing me. Price? You there?’

  ‘Coffee and aspirin?’ she asked from the kitchen.

  ‘That’ll do.’

  They chatted. Thomas didn’t seem annoyed about the rejection of the night before, probably expected it, or else couldn’t remember. He was affable, in his way, seemed keen to get going.

  As he pieced himself together, Cat ate and moved through an edited kata, some jabs and kicks, then they drove through the terraced streets parallel to the river. It was the route she had taken as a girl on her bicycle. After a while the terraces gave way to warehouses and out-of-town shops. She followed a road between disused lots to a house with blackened windows.

  Cat told Thomas to wait in the car. Thomas’s police-issue Mondeo would attract the wrong sort of attention where they were going, as would any of the unmarked cars she could have taken from the Cathays pound. A hire car was easily traceable. They needed something more discreet.

  The lower part of the house was taken up with a workshop. She stepped inside. The close air was filled with the scents of oil and old leather. Along the walls were the carcasses of many bikes. In one corner s
he recognised Norton featherbed frames and Triumph engines waiting to be frankensteined into collectables. In the other there were trail bikes, Montessas and Puchs, their forks bent out where they had fallen hard from jumps.

  She passed through the workshop and up the stairs into a small martial arts dojo, with an office in the corner. The man she had come to see, sensei Walter, was middle-aged with a gut on him, but he was taking on two hard-case teenage boys simultaneously. He wore the striped belt of a sandan, the colours faded. She suspected he could have reached the level of sayhun, but lack of outward ambition prevented him acquiring tokens that would mean nothing in his current surroundings. Walter saw her and his bearish face ignited with a smile. There were no words of greeting because one of his pupils flew at Walter then with a leg outstretched, and Walter stepped aside so the boy’s own force flung him against the padded wall. When the second boy came forward with a chopping action, Walter grasped his wrist and flicked him down onto the mat. Cat walked around the edge of the dojo’s matting towards the office. Walter shot Cat an ‘in a minute’ smile.

  Cat waited in the office. On the walls were pictures taken in the city of Kyoto, with Walter as a younger man in a dojo. Others were of the Sony plant in Bridgend and Walter as part of the cultural exchange programme which had traded rugby skills for martial arts. She sat on the desk and leafed through the local Echo. The lead story was still the release of Morgan on compassionate grounds. The picture showed a painfully thin man struggling up the steps of a large North London house. The docudrama at the marina would no doubt be released to coincide with his imminent death.

  Walter had now dismissed his pupils and he entered, a towel around his neck and another as a turban. He was clearly pleased to see Cat. As a girl, the dojo had been her refuge and for a while he had tried to play a paternal role with her. He had taught her everything he knew.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said, and she explained what she needed on the vehicle front.