by Ava Marsh
I picture the two boys outside. Did they deliver this? Another pang of guilt as I think how many people I’ve already dragged into the mire with me. Step over the line, and the consequences ripple out all around you.
‘Here.’ Raffey shows me the remaining contents of the Primark bag, holding it open by the handles so I can peer inside. I reach in, feel the cool metal.
Exactly what I asked for. Prison issue, by the look of them.
He stands back, leaning against the sink. Subjects me to his unnerving scrutiny.
‘Long way to come to tool up,’ he says, running his tongue over his teeth.
I shrug. ‘Easier than trying to make connections in London. Besides, I needed to get out of town.’
‘Not come looking for him then?’ Raffey’s look has a kind of leer in it that makes me feel physically sick. I don’t even grace it with a reply.
‘I hear he’s out. Farrish,’ he persists, nodding approvingly at the gun in my hand. ‘Shame you didn’t have it before, Grace. You could have shot that cunt back then. Saved everyone a load of trouble.’
I think of Michael’s flat, the one he moved into after his initial release. That sordid high rise out on the Pallesey estate, with its piss-reeking corridors and broken lifts.
Would I, I wonder. If I’d had this gun in that gloomy little room, would I have used it?
But that’s not the right question, I realize, as I examine the places where use has worn the colour from the metal. The real question is not whether I’d have shot Michael.
The real question is whether I would simply have turned it on myself.
41
Saturday, 11 April
Anna’s late. Twenty minutes so far. I sit on the park bench shivering in the cold snap that’s descended on London, winter cocking a last snook at spring. I’m wearing jeans, a thick sweatshirt and a coat, and I still feel underdressed.
Eventually I see her in the distance, hurrying up the hill towards me. She has her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her jacket. She is wearing a giant wool scarf, wound loosely round her neck, her chin hidden in its folds. It looks like something your gran would knit you, but probably cost more than my whole outfit.
Anna drops on to the bench beside me, wincing as the chill in the wood penetrates her jeans. ‘This is a bit rural, isn’t it? Why not just meet at the pub?’
‘I thought it would make a change,’ I lie.
Anna’s expression is sceptical. ‘So where have you been? I tried ringing you several times on your new number, but your phone was always off.’
‘I had to go and sort a few things out.’
Another quizzical look. But this time she doesn’t comment.
‘Why the new mobile anyway?’
‘I lost the other one.’ I feel myself flush. The lies are stacking up like interest on a bad debt, and it’s not making me feel any better.
Over in the playground a couple of kids start whooping with excitement, chasing each other around the elaborate rope climbing frame. Anna glances over and quickly looks away.
Hell. I should have chosen somewhere else.
‘Let’s go.’ I get up and head over to the patch of woodland on the crest of the hill, Anna’s pace falling into step with mine. We walk side by side between the bare trees, neither of us speaking. Watching our breath disperse into the air like smoke.
‘Fuck this,’ Anna says after a few minutes. She pulls me towards the café on the edge of the park. Orders two hot chocolates and a huge slab of carrot cake. We sit at a table by the window; you can see the lake through the trees. I keep an eye on everyone who passes by, while trying to hide it from Anna.
‘Eat,’ she says, handing me a fork. ‘You look like you haven’t bothered in days.’
I take a mouthful of the dense sponge and chew it slowly, letting the sweetness spread across my tongue. A sip of the hot chocolate to chase it down. I hope all this sugar isn’t going to make me sick.
‘So what’s going on?’ Anna’s expression tells me she’s had enough of being fobbed off. ‘You’re as jumpy as a scalded cat.’
I study the pattern of the froth on my mug, the heart-shaped dusting of cocoa powder. What can I tell her? I can’t bear to keep lying; equally I can’t think of anything I can say that won’t involve her further.
‘Is this something to do with Elisa?’
I look back up at Anna, sharp as ever. I still don’t answer.
‘OK, I get it.’ She gives me a once-over. ‘Best if I don’t know.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No need to be. I’m concerned about you, that’s all.’
I nod.
‘So, if you’re not here to tell me what’s going on, and we’re clearly not just meeting for a casual chat, what exactly is it you want me to do?’
‘Actually …’ I hesitate. ‘OK … I do have a couple of favours to ask you.’
‘Fire away.’
‘I need Janine’s address. You’ve been there, haven’t you? You did a duo with her, I seem to remember.’
She squints at me across the table. ‘Why not ring her and ask?’
I swallow. ‘I’d rather go round and see her.’ Calling would forewarn her. I want the element of surprise.
‘OK, it’s in Islington. Belbridge Road. Number 17, I think. You can’t miss it ’cos it’s the only house with a bay window. Middle flat.’
‘Thanks.’ I make a mental note of the address.
‘So what’s the other one?’
I gaze at her.
‘Favour? You said you had a couple of things to ask me.’
Reaching into my coat, I pull out a small clear plastic box containing the SD-card. Press it into her hand.
‘Take care of this for me, will you? Put it somewhere safe, somewhere no one can stumble across it.’
She examines it for a moment, then picks up her handbag and zips it into an inside pocket. ‘I suppose I can’t ask what’s on there?’
I shake my head. ‘And please don’t look.’ I reach over and place my hand on hers. ‘It’s a big ask, Anna, I know, but can you do that for me?’
Anna’s eyes fix on my face. I see her fighting the urge to know more.
‘You have my word.’
‘Only, if something happens to me … if I …’
‘What the fuck are you talking about, Grace?’ Her voice is a suppressed growl, lowered but insistent. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble? I mean real trouble? Not just money shit.’
I stare out the window. Realize I’m on the lookout for them – not only for them, but him too – examining every male that walks past. Though I know he’s miles away. No way Michael would risk breaking probation. Not this time.
‘Grace?’
I turn back. ‘Yes, I am. But I’m going to deal with it, all right? But in case something does happen … if it all goes wrong, even if it looks like an accident, I want you to do two things for me. I want you to copy the stuff on that card and send it to every national newspaper in the country. And then I want you to take it to the police.’
‘And say what?’ Her expression both astonished and horrified.
‘Say it came from Elisa’s flat.’
‘But how do I explain how I got hold of it?’
I chew the inside of my lip. Think for a few seconds. ‘Tell them I took it, when I went round to see Kristen.’
Anna leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. ‘Jesus, Grace, this sounds like some serious crap you’ve got yourself mixed up in.’
I grimace. Don’t bother to deny it. There’s no point bullshitting Anna. She may lack my clinical training, but she has a natural lie detector honed by years of being screwed around by men.
‘Why me?’ she asks suddenly.
‘Because you’re about the only person I can trust not to look.’
She frowns. ‘What is this? Pandora’s box? Open the lid and unleash all the evil into the world.’
‘Or all the good. It’s hard to tell at this point.’
; Her eyes search my face for clues. I can sense her desperation to ask more. ‘Grace, I’m suddenly more than just worried about you. I’m really scared for you.’
I swallow and stare back out the window. A sparrow lands on one of the outside tables, pecking at crumbs. Another dive-bombs in beside him and they both fly away.
‘I’m scared too.’ I say, facing her.
She leans over and takes my hand in hers. Gives it a squeeze. ‘Is there nothing I can do to fix this? Nothing else I can do to help?’
I shake my head again. ‘I wish you could. Honestly. But I’ve got to sort this on my own.’
Anna blinks. Downs the rest of her drink and gets to her feet, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. ‘I have to go. I’m due at the Carlton in a couple of hours.’
She leans over and kisses the top of my head. ‘Good luck.’ she says, straightening up and winding her scarf back around her neck.
It’s only then, as she turns towards the door, that I see she is crying.
42
Saturday, 11 April
Belbridge Road is a short walk through the backstreets from Islington tube. It’s not long before I’m standing in front of Number 17, ringing the bell for the middle flat.
No answer.
I ring again. Wait another minute. Oh God, please let her be in, I think as I glance up and down the empty street. Certain now that I don’t have much time.
‘Who is it?’ Janine’s voice on the intercom, sounding terse.
‘Stella.’
There’s a pause. I wonder if she’s going to leave me standing here on the doorstep.
I never much cared for Janine, being the kind of whore who views every client as fair game, a glut of resources waiting to be tapped. Rumour has it one guy was schmuck enough to buy her a sports car, though I can’t see any sign of it out here.
The buzzer sounds. I push on the front door and climb the stairs. Janine is hovering in the hallway of her flat, dressed in a white cotton dressing gown, her hair piled up in a towel. I’ve never seen her without make-up before. She seems smaller, more vulnerable and … well … duller. Where Elisa, bare-faced, was even prettier, Janine simply looks plain.
‘Why are you here?’ Her tone hardly welcoming, though she stands back to let me in. ‘I was in the shower.’
‘Sorry,’ I say insincerely. ‘I don’t mind waiting till you get changed.’
‘I had a visit from the police a few weeks ago,’ she says accusingly as she closes the door behind me. ‘They were asking all sorts. About the party, about Harry. I got the distinct impression you’d pointed them in my direction.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘What’s to tell? It was only a little get-together. I don’t see what the fuck it’s got to do with Elisa getting herself knocked off in some hotel.’
I stare at her. She scowls back.
‘You don’t care, then,’ I ask. ‘What happened to Elisa?’
She snorts, but her eyes won’t meet mine. ‘Of course I fucking care, Stella. Everyone cares.’ She tightens the belt of her dressing gown around her waist. ‘It’s not nice knowing there’s some kind of nutter out there. You have to be careful. Elisa should have known that.’
‘You think it was her fault? That she was careless?’
She shrugs.
I gesture towards what I assume is the living room. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
Janine runs her tongue over her immaculatet veneers, then jerks her head inside. ‘Go on through.’
I walk into a room entirely furnished in cream. Cream carpet. Cream leather sofas. Cream display shelf and coffee table. Cream cushions and cream curtains. It looks like something from an early Bond film.
‘So why are you here?’ She drops into one of the sofas, pulling her dressing gown over her exposed knees. Christ, does she imagine I’ve come round to seduce her?
‘He wasn’t a nutter,’ I say, staying on my feet.
‘Who?’ Her look is sharp. I must remember not to underestimate Janine – she has the kind of feral intelligence of somebody entirely out for themselves.
‘The man who killed Elisa. It was a professional job.’
Janine stops scowling. Her mouth drops open. For once she has nothing to say.
I give her time for my revelation to sink in, but don’t let my gaze leave her face for even a second.
‘How can you possibly know that?’ she asks finally. Her tone accusatory, like maybe I’ve come here purely to wind her up.
‘I just do.’
I remain standing, looking down on her. I figure the only way forward with Janine is to frighten her into cooperating with me.
‘How?’ she asks.
I ignore the question. Let her stew for another minute. Play this steady, Grace, I tell myself. Don’t scare her off too soon.
‘I still don’t get it.’ She stares up at me. ‘Why you’re here. What’s any of this got to do with me?’
‘A lot,’ I say simply. ‘Quite likely, you’re next – or me. Probably both of us. And sooner rather than later.’
Her mouth falls open again. I watch her breathing turn shallow, the pupils of her pale brown eyes dilating as her heart rate begins to elevate.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t know that. Why would anyone want to hurt me?’
Despite the bravado, I can see in her eyes she’s genuinely afraid. This fuck-’em-and-eat-’em thing Janine’s got going is only skin deep; underneath, she’s as vulnerable as the rest of us.
‘Because, Janine, you were there. You were at the party too. We’re loose ends.’
She pulls her dressing gown tighter across her chest. A subconscious gesture of self-protection.
This might just work.
‘I don’t understand.’ Her voice smaller now, less arsy.
So I explain. Slowly and clearly, without embellishment.
She stares back at me, her expression a cross between fear and disbelief. ‘Let me get this right. You’re saying they had some sort of dodgy deal going and Elisa found out about it?’ She’s huddled on the sofa now, her knees drawn up tight to her chest.
‘No, Janine. I’m saying they had some sort of dodgy deal going and they thought Elisa had found out about it. That’s why we’re not safe either. We don’t have to actually threaten or blackmail them to present a risk – they only have to think we might.’
‘But they can’t just kill us. I mean, how?’
I shrug. ‘Anyhow. Simply make it look like an accident.’
She swallows. Swipes at the tip of her nose with the heel of her hand. ‘So what do you reckon we should do?’
Now it’s my turn to hesitate. This is the moment where I tell her what I’ve planned – and put my fate in her hands. If Janine bolts, goes to Harry, trades what I’ve got up my sleeve in return for her safety, I’m as good as dead.
I study her face. The defiant jut of her bottom lip. The sly expression that seems always to lurk at the edge of her eyes.
Is this really a gamble worth taking?
I take a deep breath and tell her my plan. And her part in it.
She glares back at me, horrified. ‘You must be fucking joking, Stella! Why would I go along with this? Harry’s a good client, a regular. I see him practically every week.’
I fix my eyes on hers. Force her to hold my gaze. ‘Have you seen him recently, Janine?’
No answer.
‘It’s been, what? Eight, nearly nine weeks since the party? Have you met up with him since?’
She thinks for a second or two. Slowly shakes her head.
I take a couple of steps towards her. Square my shoulders so I tower right over her, trying to make myself look as intimidating as possible.
‘He’s a lost cause, Janine. And he’s also the man who had Elisa murdered. For what she knew, Janine, for what she heard.’ I pause, to place greater emphasis on what I’m going to say to her next. ‘So what do you imagine will stop him doing the same to you?’
Ja
nine goes pale. I can almost see her trembling. ‘He wouldn’t do that. Harry’s really into me.’
I snort. Make my voice sound a great deal tougher than I feel. ‘Wouldn’t he? How long till he … they … decide you’re a liability too, Janine?’
I watch her. I can tell she’s wavering.
‘Get real, Janine. You honestly believe you’re that special to him? That there aren’t dozens of girls who could give him what he wants? It’d take him, what, five minutes on the internet to come up with a replacement?’
Janine’s face slackens. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her dressing gown, trying to stay composed.
‘Elisa’s dead, Janine. Dead. Don’t you get it? You’re batting way out of your league here.’
She swallows. Blinks twice, slowly. ‘I can’t, Stella. I just don’t think I can do it.’
‘You can have my fee too. Double your rates, Janine – that’s got to appeal.’
Her face brightens a little at the mention of money. ‘But like you said, Harry hasn’t been in touch since the party. How am I going to get him to agree to see me now? In the next few days?’
I smile down at her. Moisten my lips before I speak.
‘You’re an inventive girl, Janine. I’m sure you’ll think of something.’
43
Saturday, 11 April
He’s lying in bed in a private room, head and shoulders sunk into the pillows, looking smaller than I ever remember. His eyes are closed, his face turned away.
I walk in quietly, half hoping he’s asleep and I can come back later. But his head moves and his eyelids flicker open as I approach, as if he knew I was there all along.
‘Grace.’ His voice so quiet, uncertain, I can barely make out my name.
‘Dad.’
‘You came.’
I lower myself into the chair beside the bed. ‘So it would seem.’
He clears his throat. Speaks a little louder. ‘I didn’t think you would.’
I glance at the paraphernalia around his bedside. He’s hooked up to a drip, the tube running across to the hand resting on the sheet, gnarled and scrawny, mottled by age spots. Behind the bed, a heart monitor bleeps softly to itself, the screen a muddle of green lines and figures.