The inspector glanced at Thax Man then back to Robby. “When?”
“Not until next year. He wants me to go to the gym, beef myself up so I can handle murder.” Robby shuddered. Shit, he wasn’t cut out for this kind of life, he knew that for certain now. “I can’t do it. I have to get away. Ma has to get away. He’s already implied that if I don’t do what he wants, Ma will get a ‘visit’.”
“Ah, that old chestnut,” Thax Man said.
Robby didn’t know anything about bloody chestnuts, but what he did know was fight or flight warred inside him. Flight was winning. He had the urge to run—right now, run, run, run—and had to use great strength of will to remain seated.
He wanted to cry like a little kid.
“Yes, waiting a year so it looks unrelated to what’s going on now,” the inspector said. “As though we wouldn’t realize in twelve months that Damien’s death was linked to something specific.” He clamped his mouth shut as though he’d said too much. “Right, Robby, sit tight. Not long now and this will all be over.”
Robby gave them a twisted smile then rested his head on the table again. He listened to them leaving the room, saying goodbye to Ma, then exiting the house. The front door closing was so final—like his and Ma’s safety net had been whipped out from under them, and if they fell now, they’d crash land and everything in them would be broken.
He rose, unsteady on his feet, his world tilting on its axis. Forcing his legs to move, he walk-staggered down the hallway, his bones seeming to have lost their rigidity, then he turned into the living room. Ma sat there on the sofa, the tartan blanket folded into a thick, neat square on her lap.
“All right?” he asked and waited for the recriminations, the blame—some kind of verbal assault that would make him feel like shit but at the same time feel better. He needed the blame so he could accept it, own it, then move on.
Ma smiled. It was one of sadness, then it turned to something else. A brighter stretch of her lips. “I will be once we get out of here. That inspector is a clever bloke. Made me see what I’ve been refusing to all these years. Nothing but you is holding me to this place—you and memories. And he said that memories go with you—you carry them in a suitcase that’s in your mind—and you’ll be coming with me, too, so there’s no reason to stay. I should have got us out of here years ago but I stuck with what I thought I knew best. My God, I’m sorry, Robber.”
He swallowed the stone of emotion in his throat, the water he’d had still putting in a request to come out. “It’ll be all right, Ma, you’ll see. I’m sorry, too—sorry for my part in this. I knew better but still let myself be drawn in by them. You taught me right from wrong, and although I knew it wasn’t the good thing to do, I ignored what you’d told me. I’m such a stupid, useless—”
“No. No.” She stood, blanket in one hand, the other raised high, palm toward him. “No one gets to run my Robber down, not even Robber himself.” She lowered her arm to her side. “Now then. Let’s make one thing clear, all right? We’re human. We make mistakes. And we’ll always make them. It doesn’t mean we’re bad people, just folks who are stumbling along as best we can. No one’s given a map or an instruction booklet when they’re born. We don’t know everything. Life is about learning, and now we’re going to learn some new things. And I’m glad. I’d already started to feel as though I was becoming stagnant here, that the world had passed me by so much already that there was no chance of me ever doing anything I dreamed of. Well, now I can. And what about this? Your old ma’s going to become a mature student.” She straightened her shoulders.
Robby straightened his, the last thing he wanted to be doing. What he wanted was to walk into her arms and be hugged like she’d hugged him when he’d been a kid. He wanted to tell her he was proud of her, that she had more balls than he’d ever have. He worried, though, that if he did that, he’d start crying and wouldn’t stop. The kind of cry that would leave him wrung out and listless. So he gave her a brilliant smile then turned and left the room, making his way down the hall back to the kitchen. Then frowned, because…
When had that window been opened?
He rewound his mind, trying to remember if it had been open or shut when he’d been in here with Thax Man. Shut. Yeah, it had definitely been shut.
The second he stepped foot inside the kitchen he knew. The air bristled with menace, and menace itself stood in front of the table in the form of Damien. Robby’s knees buckled and, so strange that he would think it at a time like this, he wondered how the fuck Damien had even fitted through the window. How he’d climbed inside without knocking something off the draining board.
“Hello, Zeus,” Damien said. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Chapter Nine
Matt parked a little way down the street from the house Robby had told him about and cut the engine. It was a bit decrepit—looked as though it was under renovation. Standing out from its counterparts, it drew the attention. He reckoned the neighbors would see it as a right old eyesore. If it hadn’t belonged to Starky, the neighbors might have complained about the state of it.
The lawn—if it could be classed as such—was overrun with weeds, tall buggers that possibly reached knee height. Some of them wavered beneath the front windowsill in the breeze. Thistles, from what he could make out, prickly bastards that had the evil ability to spear through gardening gloves. Paint-splattered scaffolding crept up the front wall, the re-tiling job on the roof forgotten for now, gray tarpaulin covering what Matt presumed was a hole. The windows had been whited out with circular patterns where someone had applied whatever it was to stop people from peering inside. That alone was a warning bell. Was this house really being done up, or was it used as a place to take people like Robby?
A torture house?
He wouldn’t put it past Starky to keep it just for things like that. Gangs usually had several dwellings that appeared innocent but were anything but. Places to gather for meetings, selling drugs or to interrogate folks. How much evidence did the inside of this house hold? Evidence of crimes committed, where blood had streaked the floors, walls and ceilings during torturing sessions, washed off later by a clean-up crew but not washed well enough? Blood was the devil to get rid of, and although it appeared to be gone, it was usually still there.
A bit like memories. You don’t know they’re in your head until something happens to trigger their emergence and they’re revealed. Then they’re right there, shouting at you, making you uneasy.
Forensic officers would have a field day in a house like that.
A therapist would have a field day in a mind like mine.
Aaron handed him a brown paper bag that contained Matt’s lunch, saving Matt from seeing his memories floating through his head. Matt opened it to find a cheese salad sub, and he dug it out, the crinkle of the clingfilm sounding louder than usual. That told him his nerves were too taut, that he needed to relax for a few minutes.
They ate without talking in between bites, Matt thinking about how things would go down and whether they’d find anything worth finding. He hoped they would. The sooner they got this case sorted, the sooner he could take some leave. He was tired. He and Aaron hadn’t gone on holiday in a while. They’d booked a week in the Seychelles for a fortnight’s time.
This shit needed to be over.
Before he could imagine sun-drenched beaches, the shuffle of the ocean, and the laughter of holidaymakers having a good time, he glanced in the rearview to see another car drawing up. PC Jacobs was at the wheel, a second constable beside him and another in the back seat. He couldn’t work out who they were, but the extra coppers might well come in handy.
“We got the warrant, then, if those two are here,” Aaron said, scrunching up his wrapper then popping it into his brown bag, which he stuffed into the door cubby that was already bulging with crap—a Coke can or two, more fast food bags, and multiple parking receipts clinging on to the cans for dear life.
“Doesn’t matter if we didn’t. You know we
’ve got cause to enter. We think Fox is in there, don’t we? Yes, we do. And we have a warrant out for his arrest. We think a crime was committed in there. A warrant to search this place is just to cover our arses. You know how slimy some of these lawyers are who deal with gang members. It’s like they enjoy getting the little fuckers a walk-out-of-jail-free card.”
Aaron hmmed. “It pays their wages. Everyone’s got to make a living.”
“Yeah, but there’s ways and there’s ways. Who the hell would choose to get criminals off?” Matt tossed his brown bag in the passenger footwell. It bounced off Aaron’s foot then settled beside it. He brushed crumbs off his suit, annoyed that a piece of cheese had landed on his tie and the butter attached to it had left a greasy stain. He never could keep himself as tidy-looking as Aaron. “Ready?”
He got out of the car, not waiting for an answer, and stood on the path. He held a finger up, indicating to Jacobs that they remain where they were for now. No sense in their uniforms alerting whoever was inside that they were in a deep pile of shit.
While Aaron walked around the car, Matt took a deep breath. He strode along until he reached the house then went up its path and, once he got to the door, knocked on it. Not expecting anyone to be in—or thinking if they were, they’d ignore him—he was surprised when the door opened. A scrawny lad stood there, not too far out of his teens. Ginger hair, red, sweaty cheeks and auburn eyebrows that rose high at the sight of Matt. Then those cheeks blanched.
Matt raised his hand to signal to Jacobs. The PC would know one of them would need to get round the back in case someone else inside legged it out that way. The uniform from the back seat loped off in that direction.
Showing his identification, Matt said, “Detective Inspector Blacksmith, Detective Sergeant Thaxter. We have a warrant to search the premises. Name, please.”
The kid blinked—a lot—and the amount of pimples on his face had Matt feeling sorry for him. How did some young lad, seemingly straight out of college, think joining a gang was his best option? Or had it been his only option? Had he even had a choice in the matter?
“Um… I’m Lee Livingstone. My uncle won’t be happy with me letting you in without asking him first, so I’d better give him a ring.” He shuffled from foot to foot and slid his hand into his front jeans pocket.
“Uh, stop,” Matt said. “Take your hand out of your pocket.”
Lee did so and held both hands up. “I don’t want any trouble, man.”
‘Man’ sounded odd coming from someone who didn’t look like a gang member.
“No trouble—unless you give us some,” Aaron said. “And it doesn’t matter whether your uncle’s happy or not, mate, we’re coming in. Step aside, please, and allow an officer to pat you down.”
The kid would do as he’d been told, Matt reckoned. Meek as arseholes, Lee was, and, as suspected, he moved away from the door.
After Matt beckoned for them, PC Jacobs and PC Vasquez—is that his name?—joined Matt and Aaron on the path. They all went inside, Jacobs checking Lee’s pockets, then the PCs went upstairs, Aaron heading for the kitchen. Matt closed the front door and jerked his head at Lee so the lad went with him into a room on the left. It contained a desk, a seat behind it, and a dining chair opposite alongside an armchair. Nothing to write home about. No papers on the desk. Not a thing to indicate this was an office used regularly.
A shout came from upstairs—PC Jacobs’ voice—then the thud of Aaron’s footsteps as he ran up there. Again, Matt jerked his head at Lee, who left the room to climb the steps, Matt close behind. He didn’t want the lad out of his sight. One, because he didn’t want him going running to Starky yet, and two, because he didn’t want to be accused of planting anything considered incriminating in the house.
Matt found everyone in a bedroom. He stood in the doorway on the landing, far right, while Lee was to his left. “You stay there,” he warned him, giving a glare others had said made them want to shit their pants.
Matt stared inside the room. The wooden floorboards were wet, and a gray washing-up bowl with soapy water in it also held a blue, plastic-handled scrubbing brush, which floated on the surface, bristles up.
Light-pink bristles…
“Been doing a bit of spring cleaning, have you?” Matt asked, staring at Lee.
Lee shoved a finger in his mouth and gnawed on the nail. He shook, and Matt reckoned the lad would come clean sooner rather than later. He had that air about him, of someone unused to having to deal with the police. Someone new to gang life, unsure of himself and how he was supposed to act in a situation like this one.
“Tell you not to say anything if the police came and found something naughty, did he?” Matt prodded.
Lee didn’t answer.
“If you’ve not been doing anything wrong and it is just a bit of cleaning, you can speak, you know. It would be in your best interests,” Matt said. “Although, judging by that splash of blood there—the splash you hadn’t got around to washing away—I’d say you’re better off keeping your mouth shut. Then again, if you tell me where—or who—the blood came from, you’d be classed as cooperating, and that’s also in your best interests. There’s help available for you, did you know that? You don’t have to live the life you’re living.”
You can’t save the world, Matt…
Lee lowered his head.
Okay. I tried to help.
A table stood to the right, beneath a window, bearing evidence of more blood, blatant in the sunlight that breached the white-circled substance on the glass. Some slender gouges—made by a meat cleaver hitting the surface?—had been freshly made, while others had clearly been there for some time.
“There’s a chair with coiled rope on the seat in the other room, sir,” Vasquez said. “Bit of blood on the rope, some droplets on the floor.”
“All right, back downstairs, then,” Matt said. “It’s time for forensics to take over.” Then to Lee, “And you, mate, are coming with us down the nick.”
Lee bolted, trundling down the stairs with a clatter of footsteps. Matt cursed himself for not getting Lee to stand to his right, away from the stairs, and he darted to follow him. But Vasquez barged past and made it out of the room and to the stairs before Matt even stood a chance. Matt let the PC deal with it and watched, crouching to see Lee scoot out of the front door, Vasquez a meter or so behind him, arm outstretched to grab Lee’s collar but not quite reaching it.
“Fuck it,” Matt said and stood. His back clicked.
Aaron and Jacobs came out onto the landing, resigned expressions on their faces, as if they wanted to say that these things happened.
“I fucking had him with me, right there,” Matt said, pointing to where Lee had stood.
“Can’t be helped, sir,” Jacobs said and shrugged. “To be honest, he didn’t look the type to run.”
“No, and I let my guard down because of that.” Matt sighed. “They’re all taught to run, I bloody know that. Damn it. That’s a lesson in how not to become lax just because some kid looks innocent, someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly. And he said Starky’s his uncle, so I should have known.”
“Splitting hairs here, but he didn’t,” Aaron said. “He just said uncle, didn’t give a name—but his name is Livingstone. Katrina’s nephew? So yeah, Starky’s nephew by marriage.”
Matt could have kicked himself for not picking up on that surname. Was he losing his touch or what? Was he so tired that certain things weren’t sticking in his brain?
“If I can just say, sir,” Jacobs said. “I did a deeds search on this place before we came out and it belongs to Starky.” Jacobs blushed, as though he thought he’d spoken out of turn.
“Good work,” Matt said to put the PC at ease. “At least we can get that fucker on something, although, knowing him and the way he works, he’ll say someone must have been here, broken in, and this blood and whatnot is nothing to do with him.”
“Let’s just be glad there is blood here. It’ll be Robby’s, I’ll bet, among
other people’s,” Aaron said. “I’ll ring for forensics, shall I?”
Matt nodded, then the scrape of footsteps snapped his attention back to the front door. He went halfway down the stairs, bracing himself for someone other than Vasquez to appear. He needn’t have bothered. The PC entered the house and glanced up at him, out of breath, cheeks flushed from exertion.
“Lost him, sir. Well, I didn’t lose him. Someone picked him up in a car at the end of the street. Purple Golf.” Vasquez panted. Bent over and put his hands on his knees. “But I got the reg number. I rang in to see who the car belongs to. Damien Fox.” He panted again. “Shit, I need to visit the gym more often,” he muttered and seemed to creak back into a standing position.
Matt grimaced. “Brilliant stuff, Vasquez. So that fucker was probably on his way here, then.” He turned to put a question to Aaron, but he was still on the phone to the station. Had Damien been on his way here to clean up the blood or…? “Jesus, we need to find that car. If things are as I think they are, Livingstone is in danger. If he’s Katrina Starky’s nephew, and we think Damien killed her, and Livingstone was here when Damien tortured Robby…”
“Already on it, sir,” Vasquez managed, his ragged breathing slowing somewhat. “There’s an APB out on the Golf. Shouldn’t be long before it’s spotted. And fuck!” He blushed. “Sorry for the language there, sir.”
“Sod the language. What’s wrong?” Matt asked, his heart rate skittering as he walked down and stood beside the PC.
“Someone else was in the car with the driver.” Vasquez’s cheeks grew even ruddier. “Should have said so sooner. Sorry again. Livingstone got in the passenger side. This other person was in the back.”
“Did you get a good look?”
Vasquez nodded. “It was a young male. He turned and stared out of the rear window. Caucasian, brown hair, red hood pulled up.”
Matt’s stomach muscles spasmed. “Red, you say?”
Vasquez nodded.
Shit. Robby? How the fuck…?
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