I pictured Sharon curled up on her bed, and I prayed that she’d sleep long. I wondered if the creature inside her would be sleeping too. It stunned me to think of it. I pushed everything aside and thought about it there, inside Sharon, inside my girlfriend. I tried to picture it, what it was doing. Did it wake and sleep yet, did it know the difference? I didn’t know. I thought about the time we’d made love and made it. That first time. To be able to pin the moment down like that felt bizarre, the beginning of a life traced back to one, isolated, definite event, which hadn’t seemed like an act of creation. We’d fumbled at each other’s clothes like fifteen-year-olds and then we’d hardly moved. We’d just held on to each other, inside each other, barely able to believe it.
Pregnant. She was pregnant. I suddenly wondered. If none of this other stuff was happening. If I’d gone to the airport and she’d told me. What would I have felt? There was no way I could know. It was far beyond that.
After calling Sharon, I called Sally and asked her if she could come down to the gym an hour early that night. She said she could but when she asked why I said I’d tell her when I saw her. It left half an hour to kill. I thought about heading down to Loughborough Junction to find the girl I’d seen, but I didn’t have time. I remembered what she’d said to me. ‘What are you? Daddy?’ I’d thought she’d meant Denise’s father but she hadn’t. She’d meant the father of Denise’s child. So she must have known Denise. Denise had probably shown up after I’d left. She must have been picked up by the person who’d followed me, and probably picked up soon after I’d gone. The girl I’d fought with would almost certainly have seen Denise. And if she had, she must have seen the person who took Denise away.
Half an hour wasn’t enough time to go down there, though, and I really did want to see Sally.
Instead I walked towards the gym, stopping to lean on some railings across the junction from the station, breathing in the peculiar ambience of King’s Cross. The area that used to be my beat hasn’t changed, in spite of the renovation programmes, the companies who have escaped the hiked rents in the City or the West End to set up there. It still oozes its peculiar mixture of shabbiness and weary danger, something that must puzzle the city planners and developers every time they come down. Clerkenwell was the same when I moved in but it has changed beyond recognition with its coffee bars and bookshops, restaurants and trendy tailors. In contrast, King’s Cross, surrounded though it is by Clerkenwell, Islington, Bloomsbury and Camden, continues to resist gentrification like Asterix fighting the Romans.
The word ‘Shit’ had been sprayed on the window of the McDonald’s opposite, accompanied by an anarchist sign, and my mind skipped back to the graffiti on Fred’s. I remembered talking to Max about it. Assuming it was just kids. Just as I had for the last four hours I tried to dredge something up, anything, that might give me a clue as to what I’d done to prompt this. It Was You. What was? Had some crim’s wife lost her baby while he was inside, something like that? I just didn’t know. I sighed and shook my head, looking across the junction, where I saw Lucas, a rent boy I spoke to now and then, his back against a lamp post. He was chatting to another boy. The other boy was two or three years younger than Lucas, fifteen maybe, and when a man in a long blue overcoat came to speak to them it was the other boy he left with. Lucas folded his arms and stared after them, the question spinning round his head easy to read on his startled, horrified face. How did life wash me up here? The same question spun round my head too.
I was also wondering: is he watching me? Right now? King’s Cross was swarming with people. Some, like Lucas, were static, had their business there, but most were moving through: to the train, the tube, the buses or the cabs. Could he see me leaning against this railing? I also wondered about the women around me and I searched the crowds for one who might be pregnant. Now I felt that everyone was looking at me. That all of these people must surely be able to see what I had brought into their papers, their TV news programmes, into their city. I shrank in on myself and bowed my head. A young kid in the back of a car caught my eye but I turned away.
* * *
Sal must have left right after I’d called her because the gym was open when I got there. Open but quiet. I walked down the steps, past the recumbent machines, and found Sal in her office. She was frowning over some accounts, her dark curly hair piled on top of her head like a nest. A gas fire burned in the far corner. Sal looked up with a bright smile when she saw me, but her face changed in a second. She said she was pleased to see me, but guessed that it wasn’t a social call. I said it wasn’t. I took a seat and told her what was going on. I told her everything from Jemma’s visit, to the graffiti, to the phone call I’d got from Andy. How I’d realized that I was at the centre of this. When I’d told Sharon about it I’d been stunned, had stumbled through it. Telling it to Sally, clearly, so she’d get it all, felt like walking on ice. I was testing it out, amazed that it really was true. The ice held. I could see Sal’s mind working. I could see that she knew why I was telling her what I was, why it was her that I’d gone to.
How big a part of the fabric of London’s underworld Sal is I’ve never really known. It’s not something we talk about unless we have to, just as Sal seldom mentions my previous career. But I do know that she’s deep in the mix. That Sal’s gym is just a sideline for the business she took over when her husband was killed, ten years or so ago. I know that she has dealings with serious men, with serious faces, who do serious things. I also know that she is privy to the undercurrents of rumour and counter-rumour that move largely unnoticed around London like the dark, unseen rivers that flow constantly beneath all our feet into the Thames. I hadn’t gone there because I expected Sal to know anything, though. I just wanted her to ask around, to see what was being said. I also wanted Sal to get something for me, something you couldn’t buy on the High Street.
As I went through it, Sal listened, her face impassive to begin with before tightening with concern. It then became impassive again, while she thought about it. I was glad Sal didn’t gush, tell me how terribly sorry she felt for me. She knew I hadn’t gone there for that. When I got to the end, Sal told me that she’d read about the murders, of course, but hadn’t given them a lot of thought. It was different, though, me being involved. I nodded. Then, without me asking, Sal told me that she’d put the word out: if anyone knew anything, anything at all, she should hear it. I nodded again and thanked her. I told her to let it be known that there was cash available for anyone with anything worth hearing. A lot of cash. I’d come into some money by accident earlier in the year, something I suspected Sal already knew about. At the mention of the cash Sal sucked in her cheeks.
‘It’ll help,’ she said. ‘It nearly always does, though I’m not sure how much good it’ll be in this case. I don’t want you to expect too much, Billy.’
It was what I’d told Jemma. ‘I won’t.’
‘Good. You see, this just isn’t the sort of thing professional villains do.’
‘I know.’
‘No profit in killing pregnant women and getting half of London’s Bill on your case. And where there’s no profit, there tends to be no firm.’ Sal shrugged. ‘There’s also the fact, and you don’t have to believe this if you don’t want, but as far away from normal morality as your regular crims operate, this is as far away from them again. I can’t see anyone I know being involved. The thing that is on your side, though, is that they will all want it sorting. It’s likely to bring a lot of unwanted attention to people who make very good livings because they don’t normally get any. They won’t want that. So you never know.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘In advance. Even if you don’t hear anything.’
‘It’s nothing. But Billy.’ Sal paused a second, weighing me up. She looked at me with the dark brown eyes that I knew could convey soft, intense emotion, but right then were hard and steady. Then she said the exact opposite of what Clay had.
‘If we do find out who’s doing this, I know people who’ll s
ort it for you, given the right price. Going to the police? I know I wouldn’t want that. Not if it was my friend. Not if it was me it was all aimed at.’
‘I don’t want that either. Unless it’s the only way.’
‘Then I’ll have a quiet word with Mountain Pete in case you need him.’
‘Have a word with Pete,’ I said.
Sal pushed out a long breath, nodded, and gave me a frank look that said: I’m glad I’m not you. Her face then, finally, flooded with sympathy, and she looked relieved at having been able to let it out. She smiled the smile that didn’t belong to the person she was now, that had somehow survived from the time she was just a normal young girl who’d fallen in love with the wrong type of man. She shook her head, the hair tied up on top wobbling. She drew her chair in.
‘In the meantime,’ she said, ‘you told me about the hooker at Loughborough Junction. Don’t go down there again.’
I frowned. ‘Why not? I’ve got to find that girl.’
‘I know. You do. But, as you know, the 22 Crew are the gaffers down there. They’re a pretty tight unit and they don’t like gatecrashers at their party. The Bill’ll be all over the place anyway and most likely the girls’ll be laying low. You won’t find her, for a start. Listen, I don’t like what the 22 do, and I don’t like dealing with them. But they’ll know it’s for the best to put an end to this. They’ll be losing revenue, losing it right now. I’m pretty sure the girl works for them if she was where you say, but let them speak to her. Let them get a description of the guy you’re looking for. They might even let you talk to her yourself but only if you ask first. Don’t go down there sticking your beak in again. It really won’t get you anywhere and you might just get it bitten off.’
I thought about it. I didn’t really care about upsetting people but it made sense that the streets would be empty. ‘But you’ll speak to them?’
‘I promise. And I’ll tell them what you want. They’ll probably come back through me but I’ll give them your mobile number. They might phone you direct.’
‘OK. And thanks again, Sal.’
‘Save it. The 22 – you might not thank me if you get tangled up with that lot.’
‘I’ll try not to.’
‘Good. Most of them are just in it for the money and you shouldn’t have a problem if you’re straight with them. But if they do contact you, to say it’s all right to speak to the girl, for instance, be careful. Especially of a guy they call Charlie Baby.’
‘Charlie Baby?’
‘One of their captains. He likes getting his hooks in, seeing how far he can stretch people.’
‘Stretch them?’
‘Ask Pete sometime. His cousin got into trouble with Charlie and Pete had to sort it. No, don’t ask, wait till he tells you. If he ever does. What Charlie Baby made Pete do isn’t something he likes to brag about.’
‘And if I can’t stay away from him?’
‘Then you’d better ask yourself how much you want to sort this. Because, even though he’ll most likely help, he’ll take something from you and it’ll be more than just the money. It’ll hurt.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘You’ll care,’ Sal said. ‘Believe me. Or you’d better pretend you do. And pretend good. Because if he can’t hurt you Charlie won’t help you. And then he’ll find a way to hurt you anyway.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
The gym was filling up now. I could hear voices behind me and the deep drill of a Miss Dynamite tune. I felt a little better than I had done an hour ago. I’d done something, set a plan in motion. It gave me a small feeling of control, though it didn’t stem the terror. I knew that I was still a blind man, waving his stick at the attacker he knows is there but can’t see. Waiting for the next blow. Sal looked at her watch. I told her goodbye but she shook her head. As she stood up from her desk she tried to persuade me to put some work in.
‘You’ve already piked out of two training sessions, Billy Rucker, and you’re not going to miss a third.’
I said no on reflex but let Sal change my mind. As much as I wanted to get to Sharon, I thought it might do me good, give my brain time to regroup. I changed into some shorts from my locker and joined the circuit training that puts Sally one place behind Torquemada in the Torture Hall of Fame. Finding myself still breathing when Sal called a halt I used the bike and the rower and then the heavy bag, stopping short of getting into the ring itself, even though Jeff did his best to persuade me into a rematch.
All the while I was thinking that I didn’t know whether or not to feel guilty, guilty about the deaths of three women. Until I’d found out who was doing it, and why, how would I know? My frustration was added to by the fact that whatever the police were doing, and they were doing a lot, the answer was inside me. It had to be. And I couldn’t get to it. The workout hadn’t helped. As I was leaving the gym, I remembered the massage girl and wished she was there now. Maybe her ministrations might have had a greater effect.
Back on Exmouth Market I made the van easily enough but only because I was looking for it. It was an unmarked blue Transit, perfectly anonymous but for the smoked plastic window on the side. It was parked at the top of the street, at the end of the market, with a good view of the door to my flat and all the approaches to it. It felt strange, knowing I was being watched as I unlocked the street door. Carpenter would be pointing me out to the other officers, getting them to remember my face. He’d probably be telling them all about me. How the drug cartel I’d been after as a DS had tried to finish me, but got my brother instead. I thought of Luke, lying motionless in his hospital bed as the world drifted past him, unnoticed. For the first time in nearly seven and a half years I was almost jealous of him.
Upstairs I picked up the phone but put it right down again. I couldn’t see the point of calling Sharon again, maybe waking her, just to tell her I was coming over. I ran through the way we’d left the airport, every single face we’d seen, and told myself she was safe. She was. Instead of calling her, I made myself eat a bowl of filled pasta and then tried Andy again, without any success. I guessed he’d be one of the officers down in Brixton, trying to shake out the girl. I wanted to go down there too but I’d trust Sally, for a day at least. If the 22 didn’t come through, I’d go and find the girl. I wouldn’t care whose party I was crashing. The girl was the key, I was sure of it. If she gave me a description, it might shake something loose, might make me think of the person she’d seen. It was difficult to wait but I had to do it. Unless the police found her, in which case I’d get to her sooner. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted the police to find her or not.
Andy had said the CCTV stills would be ready the next day, so that was something else I had to wait for. He’d told me midday but I’d go there first thing, look at the ones they’d already pulled. No point waiting for them all when the first picture I looked at might be the one. But what now? I wanted to do something, something that would keep me from trying to wring the answer out of my mind, which only seemed to send it hiding even deeper. I knew something I could do and the thought was so good it was painful. The clock in my kitchen told me it was nine-thirty. I grabbed my coat and walked down to the street again. It was ten-thirty by the time I was standing on the north side of the bridge that crosses Regent’s Canal, at Broadway Market in Hackney.
I’d driven down to Hackney but parked half a mile away from my destination on the other side of London Fields. I’d locked up and then walked away from Broadway Market, all the way to the busy, unfashionable end of Kingsland Road. Once there I’d jogged down some steps onto the canal towpath. It was a ten-minute walk along it to Broadway Market and as I took it I listened out for footsteps behind me. I couldn’t hear any. I ducked behind a bridge to see if anyone came by, but they didn’t. Eventually I emerged onto Broadway Market and stood with my back to the still water. I tied my shoes and took a furtive look across to Sharon’s flat. Sharon’s flat is on the other side of the canal, looking straight down onto the water, part of a c
onverted machine-tools factory.
I stayed where I was for ten minutes, pretending to smoke a cigarette, making sure that no one had followed me. I didn’t think they had, and I couldn’t see anyone else watching the buildings opposite. Sharon was home, I did know that. Orange light pushed through her curtains. I stood, trying to act casual, and whether I did a good job of it or not no one seemed to notice me. I pictured the inside of Sharon’s flat and remembered the last time I’d been there. It was the night before Sharon had gone away and we hadn’t fumbled around then or been very still either. I smiled. I’d been impressed by Sharon’s flat. It was light, with high ceilings and a good kitchen, ducks to feed right outside the window. There was also a boxroom and I wondered now: was it big enough for a nursery? Probably. I had to admit that the place was a lot more practical than my flat. Without even thinking about it I knew that we’d live at Sharon’s. It would be weird to move out of my place but it made sense, though if we had another kid then we’d have to move out of Sharon’s too and find a house somewhere. Another kid? What the hell was I talking about, another kid?
I was still standing on the other side of the canal. I still hadn’t crossed the bridge and rung Sharon’s bell. I scanned the towpath, where a bow-legged Arsenal fan wearing a thick gold chain was walking his bull terrier. He passed the looming gas tower and was gone. An old couple followed in the same direction, not speaking. I took another step forward but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go there. The thought was terrifying. I wanted to run across the bridge, to be there with my pregnant girlfriend, to press my face against her belly and listen for the sounds within. But my feet wouldn’t take me. Instead I stood for another ten minutes before turning round. I walked off quickly, down Broadway Market, to my car. I thought about calling Sharon but I couldn’t do that either. She’d only persuade me. I just had to go, but when I got to the brooding space that is London Fields I remembered that there was a pub on the far side that did lock-ins. I’d been there with Andy, years ago, a fleapit of a place called the Prince or something. It was just before eleven and the doors were closing when I got there. I ordered a pint and drank it quickly and then ordered another and a double shot of Jameson’s in case there was no lock-in.
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