by Thomas Emson
“Yeah,” he said, his voice like it had been scraped off the back of his throat.
“Did you sell her a pill?”
Lithgow swallowed. “I – I did not sell Jenna a pill.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, no I didn’t. All right, I sold pills to other people, but I did not sell to Jenna.”
“So you did have drugs on you, you shit.”
“Yes, yes, all right. I did. But that doesn’t mean I killed them. Doesn’t mean my pills killed them. There were probably loads of drugs there. Doesn’t mean I killed them. No way, man.” He sat back, folded his arms. “No way.”
“You’re a coward, Lithgow.”
“Yeah, so? Big fucking deal. I do what I have to do. There’s no way I’m taking the fall for those dead people, no way. I only sell ’em on. Nothing to do with me what’s in them. Not my responsibility.”
Fury boiled in Lawton’s belly. He wanted to drag Lithgow across the table, toss him through the window. “Okay,” he said, “where’d you get them? Who sold them to you? Was it Holt? Did he have anything to do with this?”
Lithgow made a face and said, “Holt? What the fuck –? No – no way, Lawton, no fucking way. I’m not a grass.”
“You are if it means saving your skin, shit for brains. Tell me about Holt. He let you in last night when you’re supposed to be banned.”
Customers turned, aware of Lawton’s anger. He looked around, scowled at a bald man trying to look young in a Nike hoodie. The man shied away.
Lawton said, “I guess it’s time to slip away. We’ve got ourselves an audience.” Lawton stood. “I’ll see you again, Fraser. I want to know where they came from, or I give you to the cops.”
Lithgow stared up at him.
Lawton, lying again, said, “You’re on the tape, Fraser. You’re on the tape selling drugs to people who died. Think about it, mate.” He straightened, pointed at Lithgow saying, “See you soon,” and walked out.
Chapter 9
WAR CRIMINAL.
“JAKE Lawton killed an unarmed civilian,” said Murray. “Chased him down and shot him through the head.”
“And he left the Army before any charges could be brought,” said Commander Peter Deere. “We all saw your marvellous piece of investigative journalism, Christine.” He leaned back in his chair, one hand scratching the back of his neck, the other aiming the remote control at the TV.
Murray glanced over at the TV. Sky News was broadcasting a statement from Home Office minister Jacqueline Burrows.
Murray said, “But you didn’t do anything about it.”
“Not a matter for British authorities. Let’s listen to what Firestarter has to say,” said Deere.
“Firestarter?”
“Flame red hair and fiery temper, Christine.”
He turned up the volume, and Burrows’s voice grew louder, saying, “... and our thoughts, today, are with the families of the twenty-eight victims. I, on behalf of the Home Secretary – ”
“Who is on a jaunt in the U.S.,” said Deere.
“ – and the Prime Minister – ”
“Same jaunt,” said Deere. “While their citizens are dying.”
“ – want to declare the government’s determination to bring the perpetrators of this crime to justice. We do not wish to pre-empt the police investigation or the forensic evidence, but it has been suggested that drugs are to blame for this tragedy. I can assure the public that this Labour government shall continue its successful campaign against – ”
Deere muted the minister, saying, “These people spout such bollocks.” He swivelled round to face Murray. “So your energies are directed towards this ex-soldier again, are they, Christine?”
“Where are your energies directed, Peter? I can’t seem to get a straight answer from Phil Birch.”
“Well, off the record Lawton is certainly someone we’re looking at. It’s claimed he was alone in the CCTV monitoring suite. The tape, which would probably identify the dealer, has gone missing.”
“Do you really think he’s the mastermind? I know he was there at the scene, but it just doesn’t ring true. An organizer of such a crime”
– Murray shook her head – “would be miles away, surely.” A sweat broke on her back and her blood quickened. She suspected Lawton might be guilty, but wanted to hear it from the police.
Deere shrugged. “I can’t tell you any more, Christine. Investigations are on-going and all that.”
“What about the concern that soldiers leaving the Army are being drawn into crime? We know Lawton’s worked as a doorman at some unsavoury venues – unlicensed boxing nights, illegal raves.”
“I didn’t know there was a concern.”
“I’ve written stories about criminal incidents involving ex-Forces.”
Deere smirked. “You seem to have a dislike for soldiers, Christine.”
She shrugged. “Not at all. But I do think that we shouldn’t regard them all as heroes when we know that individuals like Jake Lawton join up.”
“Individuals like Jake Lawton?”
“Murderers. A war criminal.”
Deere shook his head. “You went for the jugular, you got your reward, Christine. And you took no prisoners – even the Met got lashed – ”
“You didn’t charge him, Peter. You didn’t even question him.”
He held his hands out. “It was out of our jurisdiction. Anyway” – he sniffed and cradled the back of his head in his hands – “war’s war, and nasty things happen. I know – well, I’m sorry to say this – but I know that’s difficult for a woman to grasp, so – ”
“It wasn’t a war, Peter. The war was won, by then. This was supposedly peacetime. He murdered an innocent man. And if he’s able to shoot someone in the head at point blank range, he can comfortably play a part in the distribution of drugs.”
Deere leaned forward and bristled. “I shall neither confirm nor deny our interest in Jake Lawton.”
Murray looked down at the notebook that rested on her knee. She said, “All right. Anyone else in the line of fire?”
“Off the record, a few drug dealers. The DJ on the night, a Captain Red – real name Steven Hammond – has convictions for possession.”
He turned his eyes towards to TV. Burrows still railed. “Quid pro quo, then, Christine – as usual. If you hear anything – let me in on it.” He sighed up at the television. “That Jacqueline Burrows woman will be up the ACC’s arse all day, and then she’ll be up mine. And once the Home Secretary’s back from his American junket, he’ll be crawling up there with them.”
“Can I quote you?”
He glared at her.
* * *
Murray sat at her desk in the Mail’s Kensington offices, pecking the currants from a scone, and thought about her conversation with Deere.
She’d known him for fifteen years. Murray worked the crime beat for the Standard; he worked drugs as a superintendent with the Met.
He was a known woman-doubter, a dinosaur in the multi-cultural, gay-welcoming, female-friendly Met.
But the dinosaurs still survived, and whatever picture the imagemakers painted, the police would always be a man’s world – like the Army; Jake Lawton’s world.
She logged on to e-lib, the Mail’s electronic library system. The database stored stories published in all the national papers. The Mail had installed e-lib in the past year, so this was the first time Murray had run Lawton’s name through the search engine.
She waited while the system searched and thought about Lawton and how he’d come to do what he did. Murray had marched to stop the invasion of Iraq. She’d gone as a reporter and as a citizen, furious that Blair was taking Britain to war.
“Won’t do any good,” said Richard at the time – and he was right. He’d said, “The loudest voices are against the war, but there’s a considerable majority out there who think it’s right to go in – we believe in the weapons of mass destruction evidence, Christine.”
“I don�
�t want this done in my name,” she’d said, screaming at her husband.
“That why you protested, went on that March – to express your outrage. Pity the Iraqis can’t express their outrage against Saddam.”
“Bollocks,” she said, not wanting to know about Saddam. This was never about Saddam: it was about U.S. and British aggression.
But the war came, and in days it was won.
And then things started to go wrong.
Abu Ghraib sliced open the wound that had festered since the invasion, and the poison seeped out. Those images from the Baghdad prison showing U.S. troops abusing Iraqi POWs confirmed what Murray knew.
“We’re all barbarians,” she’d told Richard.
After Abu Ghraib, the tide, although always pushing against the war, swelled and roared in defiance. The papers chased scandals. Mirror chiefs made morons of themselves by publishing those hoax pictures.
But the mood was clearly there for soldier baiting.
And Lawton got caught.
A friend of a friend of a friend who skulked around the anti-war movement had e-mailed Murray the footage.
The e-mail said, “Shocking video of British soldier killing an unarmed Iraqi – who’s surrendering. We think the soldier’s called Lawton – Jack or Jake. Not sure which regiment. There’s no volume, sadly. We think the incident happened in Basra sixteen months ago, November 2004, but can only confirm this from the reading on the footage – the settings might not be correct. Leeza Dervish at Peace Today! said you’d want this. It’s disgraceful – this is what these soldiers are doing every day in Iraq in our name.”
Murray’s blood boiled when she read then e-mail. But when she clicked on the RealPlayer icon attached to the message and the video played, her fury bubbled over.
This is what she saw:
The cameraman looks down into an alley. Static peppers the image.
The picture shows the side of a sandstone building. Pots and pans are piled up against the wall.
Dust coughs up on the left of the screen, and a bearded man wearing combats stumbles into shot. A rucksack hangs off his shoulders. His right hand’s not there, blood pulsing from his stump. He throws up dust and debris as he scuttles backwards into the alley. He falls on his backside. The sand coats his clothes and hinders the cameraman’s view.
More dust belches from the earth on the left of the shot, and a soldier in full combat gear comes into view.
A rifle is jammed into his shoulder. He aims the gun at the bearded man. The soldier crouches as he shuffles forward. The gun’s jerking, and the soldier’s mouth opens and closes as if he’s shouting at the Iraqi.
A cloud of dust swirls around the alley.
The Iraqi’s jaw goes up and down – was he begging for mercy?
The soldier jabs the gun. The gun’s fixed on the bearded man. The camera shakes.
In the bearded man’s left hand is a mobile phone. He holds the hand up over his head, palm facing heaven, pushes it against the air. He’s getting to his feet. Is he surrendering?
His wounded hand rests over on his heart. He rubs his chest, or tries to pluck something out of a breast pocket in his jacket.
Is he pleading? Trying to show his identity papers to the aggressive soldier?
Another soldier coming into shot, gun raised, barking commands by the way his mouth moves. The first soldier waves him away without drawing his eyes from the Iraqi.
The second soldier backs away. He reaches for the first soldier, but the first soldier gesticulates for his colleague to retreat.
And the second soldier reverses to the edge of the shot, drops down to one knee.
The bearded man, one hand up to heaven, the other on his heart.
Kids spill into the shot, laughing. The bearded man smiles, says something, probably telling to soldier not to shoot when there are children about.
The soldier jerks, jabbing the rifle towards the un-armed victim.
The Iraqi lunges forward, spits at the soldier. The soldier recoils. The Iraqi thrusts his left hand forward. Maybe he’s saying, Let me call my family before you kill me in cold blood.
The soldier’s mouth makes the shape of, “No, no, no.”
The rifle jerks. A spark spits out of the barrel. Smoke coughs out of the rifle, clouding the image.
The bearded man jolts backwards and his head bursts in a flare of red.
He crashes to the ground, throwing up dust. His body arches, and he twitches as the soldier moves forward, gun still fixed on his victim.
The soldier stands over the body, rifle aimed at the twitching body.
More troops swarm into the shot. They crouch, they scan, they kick up a storm of sand.
The killer looks up into camera. He aims at the cameraman. His mouth makes the shape of shouting. Jake Lawton’s face, creased with rage, glaring into the lens.
The picture jerks and the screen blacks out . . .
Murray, waiting for e-lib to complete its search, blew out her cheeks and let the images that had stained her mind for two years fade out.
The database came up with more than thirty pages of hits on Jake Lawton.
She flicked through the first few stories, beginning with her original piece for the Sunday tabloid. She read it, moved on to the next hit.
The Independent’s piece ran stills from the video. The headline read, gazing into the abyss, and a sub-deck declared, How war makes monsters of good men.
The Sun, following up the Sunday newspaper’s exclusive splash, were more to the point:
“Execution” screamed their front-page headline.
She felt a trill of excitement. I made this, she thought – this is my story. And anything to do with Jake Lawton was still her story.
She stared at the video grab of Lawton looming over the man in the alley that the paper used. The gun was jammed into Lawton’s shoulder, ready to kill.
She said, “I’ve not finished with you, Mr. Lawton – by a long shot. You got away with murder in Basra, but it’s not going to happen again.”
Chapter 10
GODS FROM DUST.
“TWENTY-EIGHT is a good number, don’t you think, Professor?” said Mrs. Radu.
“I think it’s an excellent number,” said the Professor, wiping his glasses with a red handkerchief. He perched the spectacles on his nose, blinked, then sat back in the leather sofa. He scanned the library, taking in the shelves packed with books. The room smelled dusty, and the light was weak. “How long will it take?”
Mrs. Radu, dark hair loose over her shoulders, sat cross-legged opposite him. He glanced now and again at her legs, shapely and long in black nylon. She turned to the other man, a bent creature, short and grey-haired. “What do you say, Dr. Haddad?”
Dr. Haddad wheeled his chair over and said, “Between twenty-four and forty-eight hours is my conclusion, but that’s only guesswork.”
Mrs. Radu nodded, looked again at the Professor. She smiled; let her tongue slide out of her mouth.
He said, “This dealer, is he safe?”
“Oh, he’s safe. He won’t say a thing,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Firstly, he’s a coward, and secondly –” The phone sitting on the glass-topped coffee table trilled. Mrs. Radu leaned forward to retrieve it. The Professor gazed down her top. She raised her eyes to his and grinned at him. She sat back up and answered the phone.
“This is Nadia Radu – ah, how are you? – Yes, it’s gone well, the days will soon be with us – You will be rewarded – I see – Yes, the soldier, I see – Well, if there is to be a patsy, why not – Yes, thank you for calling – soon, then, soon.”
She shut the phone.
“All good?” said the Professor.
“All good,” she said. And she glanced at the elderly man in the wheelchair.
The Professor knew little about Haddad. He was from the Middle East, somewhere, but had British citizenship. A frail figure, he was deep into his nineties. He’d always lived her
e with the Radus, even when Nadia’s husband, Viorel, was alive.
Haddad was their secret weapon, the creator of their dream.
“What are you thinking, Professor?”
“I’m thinking how fortunate we are to have Dr. Haddad.”
“We are,” she said. She looked at Haddad. The old man had dropped off and snored in his wheelchair. Mrs. Radu touched the choker collaring her throat. The band was her mark – the sign that she was untouchable. Watching her, the Professor fingered his own mark. Mrs.
Radu went on:
“Dr. Haddad’s work is coming to fruition. Once the first batch rise up, we can use them to bring in live blood for the resurrection.”
The Professor’s heart raced. A tight band wrapped around his belly, flushing blood into his penis. He looked at Mrs. Radu, and lust made him dizzy. “I want to fuck you, Nadia,” he said.
She smiled. “I know you do, Professor, you all want to fuck me, but I can’t be giving myself to everyone.”
“Give yourself to me.”
“After this is done, perhaps. But I must be choosy.” She glanced at Haddad, trembling in his sleep.
Hot water rushed up the Professor’s throat, and his guts ground.
“You can’t mean –?”
“I do what I must in the service of my god, Professor. You know that. My family, our family, has done the same for centuries. We do what we have to do.”
She stood and the Professor heard the zip of nylon at her thighs. He got up, too, brushing down his trousers. She threw a look at his crotch and grinned.
Raising her eyes to his, she said, “Thank you for calling on me, Professor. Pleasure to see you again. We’ll be in touch soon, won’t we?”
They shook hands, and he held her delicate fingers in his. He stared into her purple eyes. She mesmerized him like all the men she met.
Perhaps she’d be his after this was done – after he’d washed the thought of her with Haddad from his mind.
“This is a wonderful time for us, Professor,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“We’re creating gods from dust.”