“Thanks, Andy, I really appreciate it. I’ll try to be back as soon as I can. I don’t even know when the funeral’s going to be.”
“We don’t want you worrying about that sort of thing, Finn. That’s why it’s been decided we should really re-examine our options vis-à-vis your position.”
“What?”
“We’ve been reviewing the staffing levels and rotas anyhow, and we need to make some efficiency adjustments.”
“Hold on—say that again?”
“We really appreciate all your hard work and we wish you all the best in the future,” Andy recited.
“You mean you’re firing me?”
“We need to redeploy our resources externally,” said Andy. Was this bullshit intended for his benefit or mine? Or was the guy really incapable of human speech? Either way I wasn’t surprised he was doing this over the phone. If we’d been in the same room I’d have decked him.
“Which means you’re firing me.”
“The fact is, we have to be strict about the image our staff projects, on and off duty. We can’t afford to have anyone on the team in trouble with the police.”
“Andy, I’m not in trouble with the police. My dad was murdered.”
“But they’re not looking for any other suspects at the moment, as I understand it.”
“Who the hell told you that?”
“I’m afraid I cannot discuss references we may or may not have received. Your outstanding wages will be paid as usual—”
“Was it a copper called Prendergast?”
“Like we said, we wish you all the best in the future. And if you’re ever in this neck of the woods again, do call in, and remember to ask for your special Max Snax Veteran’s Discount.”
“This neck of the woods? I fucking live here, you prick!”
“Sorry, Finn, but we have to go. Have a really great day.”
And he went. Before I even had a chance to tell both of him where he could stick his Max Snax Veteran’s Discount.
My knuckles were white on the handset, as if I was gripping Andy’s windpipe. He’d fired me? Fired me! Two days after I’d won my second golden stud? Thank Christ I’m through with that place, piped up the voice in my head. Screw Max Snax, and Andy, and that shit job.
Yes, it was a shit job, I thought, but it was a job, and now I didn’t have one. How long would the money I had last? I should find out which bank Dad used, call their customer services, tell them what’d happened.
To hell with that—the first thing they’d do would be to freeze the account. Leave it for now. There was someone I needed to talk to, somehow.
McGovern’s house looked even bigger than in the photographs. Not that I could really tell from where I was standing—across the street, surveying the place from behind a tree surgeon’s lorry bumped up on the verge. The perimeter wall was pretty forbidding—four metres high, smooth rendered brick painted white. Every seven metres or so stood a pillar crowned with a cluster of video cameras. The entrance gates were only about three metres high but they were plated in sheet steel, also painted white; unremarkable, anonymous, and impenetrable. All this security wasn’t unusual in the neighbourhood—there were other sprawling millionaire mansions, and one or two Middle Eastern embassies. But there the high walls and cameras were intended to keep thugs and criminals out … in McGovern’s case, it was the other way round.
Now I’d found the house—the name of the street had been mentioned in that Inside Duff underworld blog—I had no idea what to do next. It occurred to me vaguely I could wait till dark, dress like a ninja and throw a grappling hook over the wall. There were a few mature trees whose branches were blocking the cameras’ view, I noticed. But I didn’t have any black clothes with me. In fact, I didn’t even own any black clothes—they showed up my dandruff. On the other hand, I didn’t feel like walking up to that front gate and pressing the entry buzzer either. Hi, my name’s Maguire, I think Mr. McGovern may have had my dad murdered? Either they’d tell me to piss off, or they’d let me in and I’d never be seen again. Not that many people would be looking.
It had taken me an hour to get here, and I didn’t feel like going home just yet. It was mid-morning and the street was deserted, though not exactly quiet. The tree surgeon was up a plane tree nearby with a chainsaw, lopping off the spring growth and letting the green branches fall onto a cordoned-off section of pavement. His mate, in hi-viz jacket and ear protectors, was at the tailgate of the truck, feeding the branches into a shredder. The blades of the machine kept up a constant deafening whine that every minute or so rose to a crescendo as a branch was fed in, ground up and sprayed in fragments onto the growing heap in the back of the truck. I noticed another lorry just like the tree surgeon’s coming down the street, indicating left … McGovern’s mansion was on its left. This other truck was towing a shredder, rather shinier and newer than the one beside me. The lorry slowed, turned in, bumped up over the lowered kerb and stopped with its nose against McGovern’s white steel gates. It was painted in a classy pastel green, with a business name in dark-green lettering I didn’t quite catch. The driver rolled his window down, poked the entryphone button with a gloved hand and shouted something into the mike. It gave me more time to read the name on the side of the van: “Daisy Cutters Garden Services.”
I couldn’t hear what the driver was saying, and it seemed that neither could the person controlling the gates—the driver had to repeat himself a few times to be heard over the roar of the shredder. But eventually the gates jerked and rolled open with a whine, slowly revealing a fake-cobblestone drive curving up to the white painted portico of McGovern’s house, where steps led up to a solid wood door. I just had time to register that the house resembled one of those shiny plastic Hollywood mansions you see on US TV soaps featuring shiny plastic Hollywood starlets when the gates started to hum shut again. Dammit, I thought, if I’d been quicker, I could have sneaked in behind the lorry before the gates closed … Except, of course, I would have been spotted by the CCTV. The security staff probably would have set dogs on me, and waited a good while before calling them off. All the same, it gave me an idea. I hesitated … Was I really going to do this? If I was, I had better do it right now.
Screw it. I stepped back behind the tree surgeon’s truck, pulled off my hooded sweatshirt and my T-shirt and tied them round my waist.
The shredder in the street was still grinding and spewing when I pushed the button on the entryphone a few minutes later. I heard it crackle into life and a voice squawk out of it, but I couldn’t make out what it said. I stood well back from the microphone and shouted, “I’m with Daisy Cutter,” but I was pretty sure whoever was listening and watching couldn’t make out a word. The voice over the intercom squawked some more, and I stared up at the TV camera and nodded at the gate. I was shirtless, wearing jeans and carrying more leafy green branches in my arms than I could manage. On my face I wore the bored, harassed expression I thought a gardener’s gopher might have if he’d been sent to go pick up the trimmed branches that had fallen outside the client’s wall, but I wasn’t sure if whoever was controlling the gates could even see my face behind all the foliage. Nothing happened, and seemed to go on happening for a long time. Had they seen me dash across from the other side of the road? Shit—had they clocked the fact that I wasn’t wearing gardening gloves? I shivered, and it wasn’t the breeze that was chilling me.
The gates jerked and shuddered and slowly parted, the motors whining. I staggered forward with my armful of greenery and gave the camera a grateful smile and a nod. I had barely stepped through when they hummed shut again, coming together with a soft metallic ring. They reminded me of a dinner gong … and I was the starter.
I was pretty sure the security people would still be watching, so I had to go through with it. I staggered up the drive, scattering fresh green leaves in my wake, towards where the Daisy Cutter lorry was parked. The real gardening crew was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear a petrol-driven strimmer firing up on the
far side of the house. From what I could see there were more than enough bushes and trees in the grounds to keep a two-man crew busy all day. I dumped my armful of branches by the shredder, pulled on my T-shirt and hoodie and headed towards the sound of the strimmer, still trying to look as if I belonged. I glanced casually around to see if anyone was about, sizing up the house itself. Close-up it still looked Hollywood somehow; everything was shiny and new, expensive and vaguely fake. Beyond the portico, by heavily draped French windows, was a sun terrace with a set of wrought-iron table and chairs that looked like they’d come from a catalogue and had never even been sat on. Leading away from the terrace and heading off nowhere in particular was a timbered framework laid out like a tunnel, for roses to climb on. A pergola, that was the word for it. I dodged into it and paused, looking around for CCTV cameras. If I could see them, they could see me. But this seemed to be a blind spot. I leaned back into a gap between rose bushes and tried to figure out what to do next. Tricking my way through the front gate had seemed like a great idea, but I would never get out the same way. In fact, I couldn’t see how I was going to get out at all, and I didn’t even know what I was looking for. What the hell was I doing?
I was looking for McGovern, that’s what I was doing. Why not just ask him to his face if he knew about my dad and the script he’d been writing? Even if he didn’t answer the question, I thought I’d be able to tell something from his reaction. Maybe he’d get some of his heavies to work me over for trespassing, but what the hell, I’d been smacked around before. When I realized I could take on anyone in the boxing club and win, I’d started boasting about it, and Delroy had arranged for a special visit from an ageing clapped-out middleweight. He hadn’t even had my reach, but he still knocked seven shades of shit out of me. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, my dad had said, getting out a bag of frozen peas for my jaw. I thought that was bollocks at the time, and I still did. It was quite possible McGovern would just kill me, and if he only half killed me it wouldn’t make me stronger.
Presuming McGovern was there. He might not be. The man had properties all over Europe, supposedly, and an island in the Caribbean. Who’d want to be in North London in April when they could be on a beach in Jamaica? Maybe this whole journey had been a waste of time. But to hell with it, I was here now, and I couldn’t squat in the bushes till it got dark. I might as well look around.
Pretending to be with the gardening team had got me this far, and it might buy me some time if things went pear-shaped. I pulled a few stems off the rose bush behind me and got a few bloody scratches from my trouble. Clutching them in my hand, I walked on round the house, feeling like some village idiot carrying a bouquet of twigs and thorns for his favourite goat. The house seemed to go on for ever; I guessed it had started off with four walls and a roof, then been extended sideways and to the rear, and those extensions had sprouted more extensions, and extra floors, and carports. Between the outbuildings and extensions little sun terraces and patios and barbecue areas were dotted around, some looking vaguely Spanish, others all black and white and minimalist, as if whoever designed them couldn’t make up their mind what they liked.
I heard voices; a child screaming. The screams had a ringing echo like you’d hear at a swimming pool. About ten metres away was a long, low outbuilding with a slanting glass roof. The screeching was coming from there. That’s where everyone was, I thought, hanging out at the indoor pool. Mind you, what’s the point of having your own pool if you can’t keep screaming kids out of it? The screeching went on and on—a little girl, by the sound of it. She would pause for breath, then start again, and nobody was scolding her or trying to get her to shut up, from what I could tell.
By now I was at the corner of the pool building. The brat’s echoing shrieks were so brain-piercing I had momentarily forgotten to check for CCTV. I peeked round the corner, to find that the end wall was made up of glass panels that folded back so that the pool opened straight onto a sun terrace. The middle door-panel was open, and through the plate glass I could see a girl of about five in a frilly pink swimsuit, crouching slightly, hugging herself, and screaming at the top of her voice. She was looking at the pool, where the water was splashing and slopping, stirred up by a boy of maybe six as he threshed about just below the surface. He was drowning in the deep end.
I threw the daft handful of rose stems aside and ran to the door, pulling off my hoodie, then started to undo my belt. The kid’s struggles were getting weaker—how long had he been in there? I hurled myself in, jeans, trainers and all. My denim jeans immediately become waterlogged, and felt a hundred times heavier. My trainers seemed to be streamlining my feet, so no matter how hard I kicked with my legs I still sank. I wished I’d stopped to take a breath before I jumped, but it was too late now. I gave up trying to surface, straightened out and swam underwater straight for the kid, who was now slowly descending, mouthing like a fish, his blond hair hanging round his pale, scared face like a halo. I struggled towards him, felt his arm brush mine, clutched it and dragged him towards me. His body was limp, more dead weight. Not dead, not dead, I thought, please not dead. Hugging him to my chest, I aimed for the surface, kicked and kicked. My head burst clear, and I gulped down air. The kid was limp and heavy in my right arm, and my left arm swung out behind my head, trying feebly to swim half a backstroke and simultaneously feel for the end of the pool. My lungs were burning and my stroke growing weaker when my fingers brushed the end wall. I scrabbled for a handhold, scratching uselessly against the smooth, warm tiles, and I almost dislocated my arm stretching out and backwards before I grasped the hard rim of the tiles at the pool’s lip. With the last of my strength I folded my body towards it, my right arm still hugging the kid. The girl had stopped screaming—now she just sobbed and gasped.
“It’s OK—it’s OK!” I panted. “He’ll be all right. Go get help.” She stared at me, and swallowed. “Go get help!” I barked. She turned and ran off, her little feet slapping the wet tiles. I looked around, and realized I was only three metres from a ladder. Kicking my leaden legs and hopping one hand along the edge, I managed to drag the two of us towards it. It was easy to throw the kid over my shoulder; he was as floppy and as light as a wet tea towel. I climbed up the ladder and as soon as his feet were clear of the rungs I lowered him onto the tiles, then scrambled up after him, my jeans flabbily hugging my legs.
He’d been threshing about a minute ago—with any luck I’d still have time. As I leaned over him I tried to remember everything, anything Delroy had taught us about first aid, and I cursed myself and the other kids in the gym for how we’d messed about, pretending to grope the practice dummy and not really listening. A few things came back to me—head back, check the airway is clear, for a child cover both the mouth and nose. I tasted a hint of snot as I put my open mouth over the lower half of his face, but to hell with hygiene, I thought, and blew, and paused, and blew. Heart massage—what was it? One hand for a kid, fifteen pushes to the sternum—
Now I could hear shouts and shrieks and arguing and blame approaching from the other side of the glass doors, but kept going. Three breaths to the mouth and nose, heel of the hand to the sternum—one, two—
The kid coughed, winced, rolled onto his left side and puked. And coughed some more, great racking wheezes, hacking water out of his lungs. I fell back, my legs folded beneath me, utterly exhausted, and realized I had an audience. The little girl, clutching the hand of a blonde in her late twenties with tumbling hair, an amazing figure and too much make-up; a younger, pinch-faced girl of about twenty with black hair scraped back in a ponytail, looking terrified, shocked and clueless; behind the two of them, a scarred gorilla in a suit, impassive and silent. And walking round to stand in front of all of them a slim, fit, tanned bloke with silver hair and blue-grey eyes.
I’d seen photos of him on the steps of a courthouse. Then the collar of his overcoat had been turned up, his flat cap pulled down, and he’d been wearing shades, but it was the same bloke. McGovern stooped d
own by the little boy, who was still coughing and retching, and laid a hand on the kid’s head. “You’re all right, Kell. You’ll be all right.”
The Guvnor turned his pale grey eyes to me.
“Thanks,” he said. “Now who the fuck are you?”
five
“Kell, you go over there and shake that man’s hand.”
The little boy, in a thick towelling robe slightly too big for him, walked over to face me, held out his hand and piped up, “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” I said. “Next time make sure there’s a grown-up around before you go swimming, OK?”
“OK.” He grinned at me as if he hadn’t been dead a few minutes earlier.
We were all standing in the living room, or rather one of the living rooms, in the main house. On my way in I had glimpsed a warren of similar lounges leading off the hall. In this one three big sofas in white leather had been laid out in a C-shape around a glass and chrome coffee table piled with glossy style magazines. Above a vast black marble fireplace, its iron fire basket full of dusty unburnt logs, a huge flat-screen TV hung in a custom-built alcove. The wallpaper was pale gold and textured like woven silk. There were gilt and dark wood side tables scattered around the place, bearing heavy cream side-lamps with gilt trim, and yet more glossy magazines. It was all a bit fussy, more expensive than stylish, from what I knew about style … which admittedly was bugger all. I felt self-conscious, standing barefoot on the soft white wall-to-wall shag pile carpet, water still trickling down my legs despite the heavy towelling robe I’d been given over at the pool house.
McGovern hadn’t got much further than asking who I was when the women had started fussing over the boy and arguing about taking him to hospital. It seemed the kid was McGovern’s son, and the blonde with the eye-popping curves his second wife, Cherry. Kirstie—the teenage girl with the Essex facelift—was the nanny. McGovern sent me to get out of my wet clothes, and while I’d unpeeled my soaking jeans in a little changing room to the side I’d heard the voices of the two women, shrill with shock and fear, defensive and tearful, answering the questions McGovern was asking in a calm, low, steady voice. From what I could make out, through the overlapping apologies and lamentations and excuses, each woman had thought the other was keeping an eye on the kids. Cherry had been shopping online, while Kirstie had been on the phone to her boyfriend.
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