[Lambert and Hook 22] - Darkness Visible

by J M Gregson

  John Lambert was falsely bright over the tea. He tried another couple of conversational sallies which went down very short cul-de-sacs, and then took his leave. He took his time deliberately to walk through the grounds, smiling and greeting those of the residents who acknowledged him, feeling that his transition to the real world needed to be gradual rather than sudden if it was to be successful.

  That night, Amy North rang him to ask about his visit. ‘He was pretty vague, to be honest,’ said Lambert.

  ‘He’s better some days than others,’ said Amy North, determinedly cheerful. ‘He remembered you’d been, so that’s good, isn’t it?’

  After midnight, there were few people around here. It would be foolish to challenge those who were, unless you had the power and authority of a large organization like the police service behind you.

  Darren Chivers had no such support so he trod warily. He wanted no contact other than the single one he had come here to make. He was careful to avoid the police patrol car which slid past him as he remained deep in the shadow of a high warehouse wall, and equally careful to avoid any less legal and more sinister agency operating in this part of the city. He remained motionless until the sound of the slowly moving vehicle died away and the silence of the night was his again.

  Despite his alertness to any activity around him, Chivers felt much more at ease here than in the blazing light of a June midday. In his dark blue jeans and trademark navy anorak, he felt he could merge into the shadows, become a part of this black, inanimate landscape, whenever he chose. A kind of chameleon, he thought, capable not of changing colour but of avoiding all colour, to disguise the fact of his existence. Of merging into that darkness visible which was his natural element.

  Darren was used to being patient. Waiting was a fact of life for him, one of the tools of his existence. The ability to endure long periods without motion whilst still remaining intensely alert was a necessary skill for a drug-dealer. The ability was also useful when he followed this other trade of his, this lucrative activity which had at first seemed very dangerous, but which at present was less so than pushing heroin and coke.

  Earlier in the evening, he had seen his supplier and explained why he proposed to keep a low profile for a month or two, until the fuzz got bored and moved on to other more active possibilities. It had been a rough interview, but the man had seen sense eventually, accepting with a surly reluctance that it was in the interest of himself and his masters that Chivers should steer clear of trouble. Arrests helped no one.

  It was after midnight now, and the silence here was almost tangible. Even the thin sliver of the new moon was not visible if you kept on the right side of buildings. Half a mile away, someone dropped a piece of some sort of metal on to concrete. The sound rang as clear as if it had been within a hundred yards, startling the man who slid like a feral cat through the shadows of high buildings, stilling for a while the yowling of real cats which had been the only previous nocturnal sound in the area. He moved away from the docks and the unmoving mirror of water below the quays; in the streets which ran away to the south of the tourist area of dock museums and antique warehouses, it was even darker.

  The street lighting was sporadic here. There were no houses, and the businesses which operated behind high walls and locked gates were expected to provide their own security, which might or might not include security lights. Strangers would have been quickly lost, but Darren Chivers knew exactly where he was going, just as he knew exactly what he planned to do.

  That did not mean that he was not excited, even fearful. More fearful about this than about any other of the contacts he proposed to make in the pursuit of this other branch of his income. He had not planned to contact this man again. For once, the blackmailer’s old assurance that this would be the final demand had been genuine, because Dan Steele scared him. But needs must, when the devil drove. Or rather the police; this was all the fault of the pigs, really, for closing in on his drug dealing. Darren Chivers slipped into the warped logic of the habitual criminal.

  The double gates were high between the pillars of brick. And of course they were securely locked. Darren didn’t even bother to check that. But he did look up and down the dark street on either side of the gates, checking that he was alone here. It was the instinctive caution of the hunted man. But the quarry was about to turn predator. Chivers settled into the deep shadow of the wall beside the gate and waited for his moment. He was good at waiting, he told himself again. Somewhere on his left, a hundred yards away at the next small opening in the wall, there was a scuffling, a small, investigative scratching, which would have been inaudible in anything other than this profoundest of silences. A rat, probably. Darren didn’t mind that thought. Rats were creatures that made the most of anything they could find in the darkness, like him.

  Ten minutes passed. The man should be here by now, unless he had changed his routine. They did that sometimes, security men. It didn’t do to be too predictable, when there might be violent people around. Darren wasn’t violent. His danger was far more subtle than that. He soothed himself with that thought as he waited, with the collar of his anorak turned up even on this still, warm night.

  Another ten minutes. Then he heard movements in the distance, which translated themselves into the sound of footsteps as they drew nearer. Darren inched his head to the edge of the gates, resting his forehead on the cool metal, waiting to check that this was the right man before he made his move.

  The footsteps seemed as loud as the tramp of a marching army as they drew nearer. He could see little but a dim presence beyond the bright circle of light thrown by the torch’s beam. Then the feet caught an empty tin can flung over the gates by some anonymous reveller, and the muttered curse told Darren that this was indeed his quarry.

  Chivers waited until the man was in the very centre of the gap between the two gate-pillars, then said, ‘Job going well, is it, Mr Steele?’

  There was a startled gasp from the dark shape behind the torch. Then the light flashed full upon Darren’s face, white and pitiless, causing him to blink and recoil. But this exposure did not matter, he told himself. The man already knew who he was, so that the light gave him no advantage. He could do him no harm with the strong iron gates between them, despite his superior strength and the pick handle he carried.

  Darren forced confidence, even contempt, into his voice. ‘I’m going to need a little more, Mr Steele. It’s unfortunate, but there it is. Unforeseen circumstances, cost of living, and all that.’

  ‘You’re getting nothing else from me, Chivers. Get your miserable skin out of here before I call the police.’

  ‘You won’t do that, Mr Steele. We both know that you won’t do that. You’ll meet my modest demand, and then see no more of me. A thousand, that’s all. A small price to be rid of me for ever.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before!’ The hatred and frustration poured through the metal bars of the gates, causing Darren to step back another pace. ‘You’ll get no more out of me. I should never have dealt with scum like you in the first place.’

  ‘You’ll pay. You can’t afford not to pay.’

  ‘I’ll see you at the bottom of the Severn first!’

  Darren Chivers resisted the temptation to glance over his shoulder towards the quiet depths of the great river. He could hear Steele’s harsh breath, the anger thrusting itself into that uneven, rasping sound. Even with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, he could not make out the features of his adversary’s face. With the vestigial lighting of the empty factory behind him, Daniel Steele was no more than a black hulk. A very large hulk, with a weapon in his hands. Darren was glad of the heavy metal gate between himself and the pickaxe handle. ‘You won’t do that, Dan Steele. You know that if anything happens to me, the evidence is waiting to be discovered. You wouldn’t want that, so you won’t harm me.’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  ‘You’ll pay, because you have to. I’ll give you a week, but no more. Your credit’s good, so I’ll take a
cheque, if you like. Made out to Darren Chivers Esquire. I know it won’t bounce, because you’ve too much at stake for that.’ He did not want to meet this man, did not want to encounter face to face the frustrated violence which might overflow into physical action.

  ‘If I ever get my hands on your miserable throat, you won’t last sixty seconds, scum!’

  But with that final wild threat, he was acknowledging that he was going to pay, thought Darren. He managed a parting taunt. ‘You have a week, Steele. But earlier payment will oblige!’ Then he forced himself to turn his back and slip away into the warm, concealing night.

  Six

  Michelle de Vries was feeling guilty. Her husband was a good man. She should not be cheating on him. But she couldn’t help herself.

  Even as she framed that thought, she thought how tawdry and second-hand it was. The excuse which weak and sensual women had given to themselves over the centuries, which should be fiercely rejected by a modem woman. Of course she could help herself. Of course she had a will of her own. She was making her own decisions, not a victim of some sexual spell which she could not control.

  Gerald de Vries was a good man. He did not deserve what she was doing to him. She certainly could not deceive herself with that old evasion that he deserved all he got because he had invited it. He was not a rich wimp. He would not tolerate what she was doing if he somehow got to know about it. That should have been all the more reason to give it up.

  Instead, she found herself making the resolution that Gerald must certainly not find out about her affair.

  ‘How did things go at Boutique Chantelle today?’ he asked her now.

  ‘All right. I made a useful sale to a very rich old lady. I think she’ll recommend me to other rich old ladies. These things pass around among what we used to call the county set.’

  ‘But can you exist on the county set alone?’

  ‘No. You’re right, as usual. We need the nouveaux riches as well. If it wasn’t for people with more money than sense, there wouldn’t be enough trade for shops like mine. But don’t spread that thought around!’ She grinned at him, enjoying behaving as a working equal with this man who had made more money that she could ever hope to make from her modest enterprise.

  ‘Is your turnover increasing? Is the extra member of staff you took on paying for herself?’ He was treating her as a serious businesswoman. He had put money into her enterprise. He could afford to treat it as an expensive hobby, to indulge this whim of his wife’s to run a high-class fashion outlet and if necessary simply write off the money involved, but he wasn’t doing that. Perhaps it was instinctive in a man like him to want to see his investment justified. Either way, his interest was genuine. He was certainly not patronizing Michelle.

  She said, ‘Sales are up on last year, and I think it was a good move to bring the hats into the shop, as you suggested. Our busiest three months are coming up, so it’s a little early in the financial year for me to speculate, but I’m optimistic. As for Jean, I’m not sure about her yet. I can definitely justify an assistant, but she may not be the woman for the job. You can’t rush my customers into purchases. But she’s only part- time. Either she’ll prove a quick learner, or she’ll have to go.’

  Gerald glanced at her approvingly. He hadn’t expected this strain of hard-headed ruthlessness in his wife when he’d set her up in the shop. He took a sip of his burgundy, paused to savour it for a moment, and then asked unexpectedly, ‘Are you enjoying Boutique Chantelle?’

  ‘I am, yes. I’m enjoying meeting the challenge. Enjoying generating new business - there wasn’t a shop selling clothes of my quality in the city before we took the lease. Enjoying showing my clever old husband that he isn’t the only one who can make a success of a business.’ She reached across the table and stroked the back of his hand for a moment. The feel of it brought the treacherous thought that it was older, more sinewy, and much less strong than that of her lover.

  ‘We can get more help in the house, you know, if you need it. Someone to help with the meals.’

  ‘There’s no need, at the moment, honestly. We already have someone in to clean and I hardly do anything in the garden nowadays, except give directions to Ted. I feel quite a slut about the place.’

  ‘But you’re my slut! And long may it remain so, I say!’ Gerald gripped the hand she had been trying to withdraw, held it between both of his.

  She thought for a moment that he was going to lift it to his lips and kiss her fingers.

  She said abruptly, ‘I have to go out again this evening. I’m afraid, darling. Pressure of business, you see. The price of expansion.’

  A little sigh, a little hurt creeping into the brown eyes. Perhaps a glimmer of the suspicion always likely to beset a man sixteen years older than his wife, but she couldn’t be sure of that. Michelle said, ‘Penalty of success, I’m afraid. I have to visit a lady who wants to be measured up and advised on clothes in the privacy of her own home. Rather a grand lady, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Too grand to come into the shop?’

  ‘Too rich to be compelled to, if she doesn’t fancy it. I think she might want to come in, after I’ve presented her with a taster of what we have to offer tonight. Obviously I can’t show her the full range in her own home, can 1?’

  She smiled at him mischievously on that last thought, and he grinned back and said delightedly, ‘We’ll make a tycoon of you yet, Michelle de Vries!’

  It had been once a week at first. She should keep it to that, if she wasn’t going to risk Gerald being suspicious. But whatever resolutions she made, Guy seemed able to make her dismiss them. She felt quite guilty as she reversed out of the drive and waved to Gerald’s face at the front window. But within a mile, excited anticipation had taken over from guilt.

  Bert Hook arrived early to pick up his sons from cricket practice. He was hoping to see them in action, to check on their progress in the game he loved, but of course he wouldn’t admit any such fatherly weakness to the boys.

  Jack Hook wasn’t quite fifteen, yet, but he had already had the odd game in the first team and was practising with them in their net. He had already had his twelve minutes’ batting practice and was now bowling his occasional off-breaks to the man taking his turn at the batting crease. Bert felt he could watch him for a few minutes without putting him off. Jack was an out-and-out batsman who had no pretensions to be a bowler.

  With the smell of newly mown grass and the sound of bat on ball, Bert felt that old mixture of pleasure and pain which besets the retired sportsman, a yearning for things past. He had been a doughty performer for many years for Herefordshire in the various Minor Counties’ competitions, a pace bowler who had made some of the best batsman in the country hop about a bit. There had even been offers of trial contracts with Worcestershire and Gloucestershire in his youth, but the former Bamardo’s boy had not dared to jettison the career in the police service which had been presented to him as a wonderful opportunity.

  Now, with cricket balls whizzing around the practice field and the familiar cricket banter in his ears, his fingers itched to caress the seam of the ball again, whilst his shoulders twitched in remembrance of the thousands of balls they had delivered over the years. Nostalgia was a wonderful thing. You never bowled a bad ball in the selective memory which took over in retirement. Don’t be so damned silly. Detective Sergeant Bert Hook told himself firmly. Stand back and watch the next generation take over.

  In the junior net, his younger son Luke was just beginning his allocation of time for batting practice. He was concentrating far too hard to notice his father, so that Bert was able to sidle round behind the net without being spotted. One of the people bowling was a lad of eighteen anxious to make his mark in the first team, who was plainly going to make no concessions to the new batsman’s youth. He was a bowler of brisk but erratic pace. Bert winced mentally as a short ball rose spitefully and flashed past Luke’s nose. Then he swelled with fatherly pride as the lad got right behind the next ball and play
ed it calmly down, his left elbow high above the handle of the bat. Nothing wrong with the lad’s courage, then. It took guts to stand in line and play a ball coming at you at that pace. Bert stared at the ground, hoping that his parental satisfaction was not too obvious to any bystander.

  ‘Your boys are coming on well, Bert. It must be something in the genes!’

  Bert Hook started, then turned with a smile. He had been so intent on the actions of his younger son that the club captain, an old cricketing friend of his, had arrived undetected at his side. ‘I don’t know about that, Keith. I was a bowler, sweating buckets on hot days. These two seem to have the sense to be batsmen!’ He tried to keep the pride out of his voice, but didn’t succeed.

  ‘Jack’s in the first team tomorrow. Perhaps batting at five. Or do you think that’s too high for him at his age?’

  ‘Your call, not mine, Keith. Whatever is best for the team. Are you still opening the batting?’

  The man who was only a couple of years younger than Bert shook his head. ‘Times change, Bert. Our current openers are called Singh and Patel. Both have lived here all their lives - they might have darker skins than the rest of us, but they have strong local accents. Fortunately, they also have those steely wrists we associate with the subcontinent.’

  ‘I watched one of them batting when I arrived. Silky. I wouldn’t like to bowl to him.’

  ‘I bet you could still make him hurry his shots.’ Keith looked at his old friend and allowed his face to crease into a slow, mischievous smile. ‘Why don’t you trundle a few down, Bert? Give yourself a bit of exercise.’