He was on time. Bang on time. I must have been cold, it was a cold night, but I didn’t feel it as I stood there. I was primed, like a tightrope walker just before she steps out, like a tennis player on a tie-break. I was as ready as anyone has ever been for anything. I had my hand inside my bag and I was hanging on like crazy to the envelope with the cash. Come on, Nina, I said under my breath. Come on, sweetheart, I’m here, I’m waiting, you’re nearly safe.
He was driving a different car. I’m not sure why, although afterwards the others thought that it may have been to confuse me, put me on the back foot. It didn’t. I remembered what Nina had said about him driving different cars, and somehow I was prepared for it. I expected him to come in a different hat, as it were. It was a pale car, nondescript, looked like all the other cars on the road. A Skoda, I think Des said afterwards.
I could see him smiling as he drove towards me. I’ve thought about that and I’m not sure how on earth I could have seen him smiling, because it was dark and badly lit round the back of the precinct. That’s probably why he chose it. So I’m not sure really, whether I made the memory up to fit the facts, but it feels very definite. He raised his hand from the wheel in a little gesture of hello, slowed right down until he was practically next to me, and then stopped. I scanned up and down the road. No one in sight. I tried to look in the back of the car, but it wasn’t such a plain car as I had thought, because the back windows were blacked out. I couldn’t see anything except his smiling, horrible, toadlike face.
‘Have you got something for me?’ he said, leaning out of the window.
‘First things first,’ I said, marvelling at myself even as I said the words. I sounded in control, like someone from a TV drama. We had decided it would be best to keep it simple. ‘Where’s Nina?’
He looked angry for one second then he rearranged his features into his customary bland expression.
‘Nina,’ he said, as if he wasn’t quite sure why I had mentioned her. As if she was an acquaintance we had in common that we hadn’t chatted about for ages.
I resisted the impulse to say, yes, Nina, the girl you stole. I just stared, and kept my face clear. So clear, in fact, I wondered whether I looked slightly deranged. Two sandwiches short of a picnic, as Henry would have called it. I certainly felt rather unbalanced but clear and focused at the same time. Only one thought going through me, one aim in mind, everything else forgotten. Just give me Nina, I thought, and then I said it, quietly and firmly. Like you might speak to a man balancing on the edge of a bridge railing if you were trying to talk him down. Don’t do it, you might say, but without any urgency in your voice.
‘I’ve got half the money here, but I need to have Nina first. It’s what we agreed.’
‘Count it,’ he said.
I started to say something about trust and honour or some nonsense like that but he cut right across me.
‘I said count it, and I meant now, here, in front of me so I can see, you stupid bitch,’ he said.
I got the envelope out of my bag but my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t get the money out straight away.
‘Just a moment,’ I said, ‘I’ve always been a butterfingers.’
I can’t believe I said something so stupid. I don’t think I’ve ever used that expression before, and I’m sure I never will again. Toad man gave a kind of dismissive snort and I thought, right, that’s good, he’s not seeing me as any kind of threat. Safer for me. I made myself slow my breathing and tried to concentrate on getting the notes out of the envelope without dropping any. I ignored the violins playing frantically and out of tune. I counted it out, fifty, one hundred, playing for time and holding the notes up so that he could see.
I’d moved the gun so that it was tucked up my arm. My winter coat has Velcro at the cuffs, to keep the heat in, so it was easy to pop it into my sleeve. I liked the feel of it. I wasn’t planning on using it but it was company and I moved my arm as I counted so that I could feel it against my side through my coat. It calmed me down.
I’d got to nine thousand when toad man said, ‘Oh stop it, for goodness’ sake. I’m getting bored. Just hand it over.’
I stood my ground.
‘Nine fifty,’ I said, ‘nine one hundred, nine one fifty.’
I couldn’t stop. I could see that he was angry, really angry, but I had been trusted to do a good job and if that included counting it out then I would count. I would count until it was time to stop. Stubborn, that’s me. I think there was something soothing about the repetition as well.
Toad man opened the door and jumped out of the car. He slapped me round the face, a resounding slap, a slap like in the movies. My head jerked to one side as if it might fly off my neck, and even through the shock I thought, same side as Tuesday’s punch, that’s going to be sore in the morning. Henry had been a slapper, so I knew.
I stood straight, didn’t lose my footing.
‘Nine two fifty,’ I said although I wasn’t sure that the number was consecutive. There was a ringing in my ears.
‘If you’d like to send Nina out now,’ I said, even as he was gearing up to hit me again. I think it’s the training I had from Henry, standing my ground and keeping on. It kind of symbolised our time together, me trying to stand firm while he chipped away at me, and I’d got rather good at it.
I think it might all have gone smoothly if it hadn’t been for the dog. I don’t know what dog it was or where it was but I could hear a dog barking somewhere nearby. It didn’t sound like a happy dog. You can tell a lot from a bark, and this dog sounded lost and alone and scared. The bark turned into a kind of whimper at the end and then tailed off. I lost count of the money altogether and looked around to see if I could spot the dog, help it in some way. It sounded so much like Bingley, that was the thing. People who don’t know about dogs say that they all sound the same, but it isn’t true at all. There are as many different barks as there are human voices, and an owner will be able to pick her dog out of hundreds or thousands, I’m not sure which. I would have been able to pick Bingley out of millions, I know that.
I’d never thought of owning a dog before Bingley turned up. I thought they were unpredictable, terrifying, liable to turn into wild beasts at any time, that’s how I’d been brought up. My mum would cross the street to avoid walking past a dog. She used to grip my hand so tightly I could feel the fear radiating down her arm. So when I opened the front door that day and saw him there, a little bundle of matted fur, my first instinct was to scream. Like women are supposed to scream when they see a mouse, that sort of scream. If there’d been a table to jump on to I think I would have jumped. There wasn’t, so I had a closer look. I wasn’t even sure if he was alive but then he opened his eyes and looked at me and that was it. I was smitten. I picked him up, holding him at arm’s length in case he flew at me like a deranged wolf, and I took him into the living room. Henry was at work that day, so I had all day to look after him. I intended to take him to the police in the evening, see if could find him a home, but he deserved at least a good wash and a feed before he went. I’d never washed a dog before. I’d never washed anyone except myself, and I had no idea how joyous it would be.
I didn’t have any dog shampoo, but I used human grade instead and an old hairbrush to fluff him out afterwards. He looked gorgeous by the time I’d finished, and the name Bingley flashed into my head like a neon sign from another planet.
Bingley, I said and he looked at me as though he was relieved I’d guessed the right name. He ate a chicken breast I cooked for him and some plain boiled rice. When Henry came home Bingley looked as if he’d always been there, sitting nicely on a cushion in front of the fire. I knew that I wanted that little dog to stay, but I also knew that Henry didn’t like anything that wasn’t his idea. I was ready.
‘Henry,’ I said as I opened the front door, ‘Henry, I’ve got the most wonderful surprise for you.’
He looked indulgent and ruffled my hair. It must have been a good day at work.
‘Liver and bacon casserole?’ Henry said. ‘Orange polenta cake, poached salmon?’
I shook my head. I wished that I had cooked something he liked to jolly him along but I’d actually been far too busy giving Bingley a makeover.
‘Even better than that,’ I said. ‘I thought you needed a dog. So I’ve got you one. Tadaa!’
I opened the living-room door and thrust my arm out to indicate the fluffy, shiny-eyed Bingley, still warming himself in front of the fire.
‘I’m sorry,’ Henry said. There was a warning note in his voice. ‘I’m sorry but did we discuss this? Have I forgotten something important?’
I knew I had to think quickly. I’d been so blinded by puppy love all day that I hadn’t thought it through properly.
‘I was reading a book,’ I said, ‘you know, that one I’ve been reading recently.’
I knew he wouldn’t have taken one bit of notice of what I was reading so I felt safe.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘the main character in that, the main man, he has this dog, and he says, every thinking man needs a dog for a companion. So I thought of you, and how much you would like taking a dog for walks, that kind of thing. So I got Bingley.’
It was feeble, I knew that even at the time, but I was desperate.
‘Bingley?’ Henry said. ‘What kind of name is that for a dog? If he’s going to be my dog I think we’ll come up with something much more fitting.’
He came up with Prince, the most obvious name in the world, but I didn’t make a fuss. Better to be called Prince than thrown out on the street, I thought. I still called him Bingley when we were alone, of course, and I took pleasure in undermining Henry’s training of him whenever I could.
That was my undoing. Bingley’s undoing, really. Henry had a special chair, a mustard-coloured velvet chair that had been in his family for generations. That’s what he said, anyway. I thought it was perfectly ordinary, but I went along with his requests to be careful with it, never let the dog sit in it, that kind of thing. In fact, I never even sat in it myself. It wasn’t very comfortable. One day, when Henry was at work, Bingley decided to try it out. I should have noticed, of course I should. I should have helped him off, explained to him, whatever would have worked. I didn’t though, I was reading a book and I was feeling lazy. I also had no idea that Henry would be home early. I didn’t even hear his key in the lock, that’s how engrossed I was. So the first I knew of Henry being home was when he burst into the room shouting.
‘What’s that filthy animal doing on my chair,’ and worse. Bingley jumped off, of course, and the worst thing is, when I look back, that at first he was wagging his little tail and acting pleased to see Henry, but that didn’t last long. Henry scooped him up, held him by the scruff of his neck and shouted right into his face. He was a good dog, Bingley, a very good dog, but he was a rescue dog nonetheless and he’d probably had people shouting and being mean before, so he knew what to do. He bit Henry. On the nose, and it was a hard bite so Henry dropped him and I rushed to pick him up and Henry stood in front so that I couldn’t. I was crying and carrying on and I think Bingley thought that he would protect me because Henry was still shouting about legacies and antiques and picking invisible pieces of Bingley fluff off the chair. So he bit Henry again, on the ankle this time. I knew as soon as it happened that I wouldn’t be able to help him but looking back now, I can’t understand myself. I can’t understand why I didn’t just grab that dog, walk out of the door and leave.
I started keeping money with me after that. Always a couple of notes in a pocket or even in my bra in the summer. That day I didn’t have any, couldn’t think what I should do, dithered around like a silly old lady. Henry stormed out holding poor old Bingley as if he might explode any minute and I fluttered after him, apologising and promising I’d make sure Bingley behaved himself but he slammed the door in my face and didn’t come back for three hours. He came back without Bingley, of course. I never did find out what he’d done with him. It was almost the worst time of my life. I cried, I tried to make bargains with whatever higher power there might be, but there weren’t any available in Lewisham that day. All the time, right through the three hours and for many nights afterwards, I thought I could hear Bingley barking. Yelping, really, it was a noise of pure terror.
I’d never heard anything like it before or since. Until tonight. Until I was standing there, counting money and waiting for the next slap, waiting for Nina. The dog sounded like Bingley, but it was more than that. The dog sounded scared and alone, that was the bottom line, and I forgot any worries I might have had for myself and thought instead of Nina, scarcely older than a pup, and about trying to locate the yelping animal and help it.
‘Come on, Nina,’ I shouted, ‘let’s go and find the dog.’
It wasn’t in the script, it wasn’t what I’d planned but it seemed right, that’s all I can say. And I could tell that it was because of the noise of the back door of the car opening. Maybe he didn’t have a child lock on this car because it wasn’t his best car, or maybe he had forgotten to use it, I’m not sure. But Nina opened the door and was out of the car before I could think it through and I shouted, ‘Nina,’ at the top of my voice and the homeless man from the circus was suddenly right behind me and he grabbed my hand and I grabbed Nina’s and we moved towards the huddle of people over by the doorway but he had a gun, the toad, I recognised the shape of it in his hand and he grabbed me back and held it against my head.
‘Go on,’ I said to Nina, ‘run.’
I meant it, too. I’m not a hero or a victim, I don’t mean that, but the thing is, if he was going to take anyone, it might as well be me. He certainly wouldn’t get much for me on the open market, he couldn’t really pimp me out at my age and I’m used to bullies. I’ve been used to them all my life. So if that no-neck ugly toad man wanted to take someone away with him it might as well be the person he wants least. I stared at the circus man, it must have only been for a fraction of a second but I put everything into that stare to try to make him understand and I think he did. He held onto Nina more securely and made a tiny saluting gesture towards me.
Toad man was still hanging onto me and I wondered about getting out my sleeve gun but I thought it might be amazingly stupid to start a gunfight even if I could have slid it out easily. His hand pinched into my arm and I stumbled as he pulled me back towards the car.
‘Get in, get in,’ he said but it wasn’t like in the movies.
In films and on TV, people being forced into cars slip in easily, and if it’s the police pushing them in then they place a protective hand over their heads, to stop them from making complaints later, I suppose. In real life, it was much more complicated. First, he pulled me towards the car. Nina was screaming by this time and reaching out towards me as the man from the circus, helped now by Des, pulled her away. Then the toad flung the door open and pushed me towards it but I’d been standing around in the cold for quite a long time and my right knee had gone stiff so I couldn’t bend quickly. I needed to rub it to get myself moving but that wasn’t possible so I had to make a kind of lunge towards the car, which meant that I dropped quite a number of the bank notes I had been holding on to. There was a wind that night and it picked up a few of them so that they flew to first one side, then the other. Toad man was torn between hanging on to me, running after Nina and scrabbling for the fifty pound notes.
He went for the easiest option. He chose me, bundled me into the car and slammed the door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grace
Thursday, 28 February
That seaweed tang is so strong that I sneeze. This is bad trouble, right in front of us. That man has got Meg. I feel like I could tear him apart with my teeth, break his arms just by looking at him, but I have to be careful because of Nina. I look at Daphne and I can see she’s as distraught as I am. Not Meg, I think. Oh, not Meg, how will she cope? Her life is so tidy. Her cushions match her curtains. I want to shout, ‘Leave her alone!’ I keep quiet, though, an
d Daphne does too. We’re biding our time, trying to think what we can do that will have the best possible chance of helping. I’m breathing deep so I don’t gag on that smell. That smell of trouble.
We didn’t tell Meg we’d be following her quite so soon. She was terrified as it was, and very keen to play by toad man’s rules. I could understand why, but it wasn’t possible for me or Daphne to stay at home a minute longer and leave her to face all the danger on her own. I’ve spent my whole life feeling responsible, being responsible for terrible things happening to people who didn’t deserve them. I can’t add to the list now. There are enough ghosts queuing up to shout at me in the night.
We jumped into the car soon after Meg left and parked as near to the precinct as we could. We hovered at the back of a little crowd by the doors where no one would notice us. It seemed that most of the people there were homeless, and coming together at night for company and a bit of warmth from the shops inside. Meg was standing off to one side, then she moved and I couldn’t see her any more. I wished I could go and help her, stand with her in solidarity or something, anything that might help. I looked around to take my mind off my inaction. I’ve never been good at standing back. I recognised the Shoe people. They looked uncomfortable, standing apart from the others and facing in different directions, as though they’d had a row.
‘Hi,’ I said. I kept my voice down.
‘Hello,’ said Greg. ‘Des told us what’s going on. We’re ready.’
I hadn’t seen Des yet. I had thought that the Shoe people would be more hidden, although I could see the advantage of hiding in plain sight, mingling with the little crowd. Everything was worrying, nothing seemed right.
A Beginner’s Guide to Murder Page 23