Memory sticks, he thought bitterly. That’s all my life has been. One big dirt file in that bastard’s memory, where nothing can be hacked and nothing can be deleted.
The last time Damon had tried to break out of his control, Rivett had shown him what he called a souvenir, from that brief, happy evening he had spent in the Albert Hotel. A tyre iron, with something stuck to it. Black hair and matted blood. “Her crowning glory,” he had said. “Remember? Pity she had to step out of line …”
So Damon did as he was told, copying the private detective’s files across to a piece of plastic and metal, watching it disappear into the depths of Rivett’s sheepskin coat.
“Ta very much, Damon,” the older man got to his feet. “I’ll be round the same time tomorrow.” He made his way to the door and then stopped on the threshold, leaning against the frame. His dark eyes glittered as they ran up and down Damon’s waxy countenance. “You better get some rest, boy, you’re looking a bit green around the gills. Why don’t you have a nice, afternoon kip? You’re gonna need all your wits about you later, in’t you?” He winked. “Spying tonight …”
Damon forced the corners of his mouth up into a smile, and prayed that his guts would hold, at least until Rivett had seen himself out. When he finally heard the back door slam, he dived back into the filing cabinet, to the bottom drawer this time.
The one where he kept the vodka.
28
Thorn of Crowns
March 1984
“Here he come,” DS Andrew Kidd passed the binoculars across to Rivett. “Home to his mum, like a good little cub.”
Rivett peered through the back window of the Transit van that Kidd and his partner, DS Jason Blackburn, were using to keep Wolf under obs. Posing as painters and decorators, with splattered overalls and ladders on the roof rack, an ashtray brimming with the dog-ends of roll-ups, tabloids open at page 3 and discarded food wrappers adding to their air of authenticity.
“The She-Wolf,” added Blackburn, as the spluttering of their target’s Norton engine brought a twitch to the net curtains in an upstairs window, a face appearing behind the glass. “Look more like Vera Duckworth, don’t she?”
“But don’t be deceived,” said Kidd. “We reckon this is where he keep the stash.”
Wolf cut his engine, kicked down the bike-stand and dismounted his iron steed. While he undid the strap of his open-face helmet, he surveyed the low-rise estate in front of him, his eyes travelling from left to right, pausing to acknowledge the blue-rinsed figure of his mother with a raised hand, and then looked around the car park.
The three men ducked as he glanced in their direction, then resumed their vigil as the biker leant down to take something out of the pannier on the side of his hog. A package, wrapped in a plastic shopping bag.
“In a whole week of watching him,” said Kidd, “that’s been the same every day. He don’t make no other regular stops and he don’t carry that package into anywhere else. That’s either drugs or money in there.”
Wolf took his helmet off and ran a hand through his unkempt mane of grey hair. He slowly turned his head, taking in another hundred and eighty degrees of his terrain before making his entrance into the stairwell at the side of the block.
“I see where he gets his looks from,” said Rivett, as the lights came on along the first runway and Wolf reappeared, making his way to where his mother now stood on her doorstep, narrowed eyes darting furtively around in a mirror image of her offspring’s sly demeanour. As he reached the door, she reached up to put a hand on his shoulder, plant a kiss on his whiskery cheek and then usher him inside.
“He go up there to kip,” said Kidd. “Don’t usually leave until late morning. And he don’t come out carrying nothing visible. We reckon she make up all the wraps for him, so he can hide ’em in his leathers.”
“A mother’s love,” said Rivett. “How touching.”
“Yeah,” said Kidd. “But if you were him, who would you rather trust? The She-Wolf or that bunch of mangy cubs he run with?”
“Good work,” Rivett smiled approvingly at his apprentice. “You’ve earned yourself a warrant.” He took the document from inside his jacket pocket.
“Should we go in now?” asked Kidd.
“There’s no rush,” said Rivett. “Let’s enjoy ourselves. Let them get comfortable first.”
* * *
While his deputies went to deliver their tidings to the She-Wolf’s front door, Rivett took a stroll around the back of the building. There was only about a ten-foot drop down from the flat’s windows, and he wondered if the Wolf would be bold enough to attempt this manner of escape.
The flats backed on to what was designed as a garden and kiddies’ play park, back in the ’60s when the estate went up, but had now mutated into a communal dump. A muddy scrub, pitted with discarded fridges, car bumpers and the skeletal remains of a burnt-out motor scooter. Not for the first time, Rivett marvelled at how these vermin could afford the appliances they discarded so thoughtlessly on their weekly cheques from the DHSS. Then the sound of a dog barking, rivalled in ferocity only by the accompanying yowls of a female voice, diverted his attention back to the first-floor flat.
As if on cue, a window opened. Wolf’s shaggy face appeared at it and he took a few seconds to scope out his descent. Crouching behind the nearest fridge, Rivett watched the head go back in, to be shortly replaced by a leather-clad arse. Wolf began to shimmy his way out of the window, dangling by his fingertips and swinging there as he extended his full length down, leaving about a four-foot drop.
The noise from the She-Wolf’s flat increased to include banging, crashing and smashing, and an outraged shout from what sounded like one of Rivett’s deputies in distress. More lights pinged on in windows across the estate, illuminating the Wolf’s descent. He dropped onto his feet and only wobbled momentarily as he landed. It looked like he’d had plenty of practice getting out of tight spots like this in the past.
Satisfied he was still in one piece, the biker turned towards his hog. But the din from the flat that had masked the sound of his departure had also prevented him from hearing the soft soles of Rivett’s shoes creeping up on him. He only knew the DCI was there when he felt something cold at the back of his neck, and heard a sharp click.
“That was quite impressive,” said Rivett. “Can’t wait to see what you do for your next trick.”
Thoughts blipped through the wired Wolf’s brain simultaneously, chief amongst those being: There’s a gun in my neck and Pigs in’t supposed to carry firearms.
What came out of his mouth was just one strangulated: “Whaaaat?”
“I know,” the voice hissed in his ear, “let’s have a race, shall we? See what you’re really made of, man to boy. Go on, get on your bike and piss off out of here. I’ll chase you.”
Wolf stumbled as he ran towards his bike, convinced he was about to get used for target practice. His fingers scrabbled for the keys in his jacket pocket and he dropped them, unwittingly kicking them forwards, underneath the wheels of his bike. By the time he had recovered them, flung his leg across the saddle and revved up the engine, the pig – or whatever he was – was behind the wheel of his black Rover, smiling at him.
The car’s headlights came on as Wolf’s iron steed flew out of the car park.
As he turned left down South Denes Road, away from town and down the side of the docks, where there were fewer lights and less traffic to negotiate, Wolf remembered what Rat had told him, from the other side of the cell bars.
“Don’t touch Gina, she’s protected. Just sell the gear and stay out of her way. Otherwise, he’ll come for you too.”
But Wolf had been sure Rat’s brain had been turned to mush by the black-eyed bitch he’d been screwing. He didn’t reckon any pig would give a toss if he put her in her place. As far as Wolf could see, she’d had it coming a long time. Women weren’t supposed to run things. This was men’s work.
He accelerated past the hulks of container ships that lin
ed the quayside. The sky was turning a deepening blue, the inky stillness that descended just before dawn, and both Wolf and his pursuer were able to run through a succession of red lights without anybody getting in their way.
The pig didn’t bother to put his siren on. Each time Wolf glimpsed back at him in his wing mirror, he had the same expression of amusement on his face, his elbow leaning casually over the side of his door, like he was out for a Sunday drive, the gun still in his hand. Again, the biker wondered whether he was actually genuine filth at all.
Warehouses flashed past as the road bent around to the left. They were at the mouth of the harbour now and, as Wolf negotiated the corner, he could see the burning rim of the sun begin to shimmer above the dark, flat line of the sea. Glancing back in his wing mirror, he saw the Rover begin to gain on him.
Wolf twisted his wrist hard against the accelerator. Adrenalin and fear coursed in his veins like a snakebite as the bike shot forward. By now, he was going as fast as the machine could take him, but the Rover’s bumper was drawing dangerously close to his rear mudguard. Despite a lifetime’s experience of never looking back, his grey eyes seemed pulled of their own accord to stare at the reflection of the man behind him, his grin widening on his face, revealing his teeth, as his more powerful engine nudged him effortlessly forward, the gun in his hand levelling with Wolf’s petrol tank.
There was a shower of sparks as metal scraped metal with a sickening rattle and scree. The bike jerked under Wolf’s legs, skidding sideways across the road in the direction of the harbour wall. Before he even had time to open his mouth to scream, he was pitching towards the concrete balustrade, free-falling into the air for a second that seemed to spiral out into a slow-motion eternity. Calmly and coolly, a detached spectator at his own suicide, Wolf’s mind processed the fact he had been completely outmanoeuvred by a pig.
Then he slammed into the wall.
When he opened his eyes, he was looking through a red mist. He could hear a loud hammering inside his skull, but it took him a moment to realise it was the sound of his own heart, pumping out arterial blood from the leg that had twisted at such an angle it was a mercy he couldn’t turn his head to see. Wolf felt as if he were hovering somewhere just over his body as he tried to focus on the face in front of him, to hear the sounds those moving lips were making.
He realised the pig was opening his jacket, rummaging through the pockets, taking out the score of wraps he had hidden there. But Wolf was fading too fast to resist. He didn’t have time to feel outrage, anger, regret, nor even to register the depth of the pain he was in. The hammering noise seemed to merge in his head with the roar and hiss of the sea and he felt himself being lifted.
He comprehended one last sentence as it dropped from the killer pig’s lips: “This is my town, boy.”
And then he was falling again, falling down towards the sea, the icy deeps of eternity.
* * *
Gray rubbed sleep from his eyes as he got in the front of his unmarked car. The results of an all-night stake out at the Golden Sands Holiday Park sat slouched and silent in the back, radiating outrage that their plan had failed. Two teenage boys, the masterminds behind a string of recent opportunist burglaries, had been seen burying something in the dunes by the park’s security guard. He’d found a bag of jewellery and trinkets and called the police – then he and Gray had sat up waiting for their return.
They were South Town estate kids from a notorious family, bred into thieving and petty crime. Gray could remember arresting their older brothers and their uncles before them. It wouldn’t be long, he thought with a sigh, before they graduated to borstal and beyond.
Dawn was breaking as he pulled out onto the road, a big yellow sun rising like a fireball above the horizon. The wind, always strong along the unsheltered tip of the beach, brought foaming tips to the waves and filled his ears with its whistling moan.
Gray checked the road ahead, his eyes travelling in a southwards arc towards the statue of Nelson that guarded the entrance of the port.
Underneath the statue, he made out a shape. It looked like a man pushing something big and lumpy over the harbour wall.
* * *
The cells were close to full that morning; it had been a busy night. Kidd and Blackburn had come in just ahead of Gray, with a prisoner they were all calling The She-Wolf. Roy Mobbs booked in the teenage thieves that followed her with the manner of one who thought he’d seen it all, only to discover there were still fresh surprises out there in the world. Said that Kidd had tooth marks in his ankle.
Gray understood when he looked in on the She-Wolf – far from the Gina Woodrow type, there sat a little old grandma with a blue rinse and an even darker scowl on her face.
A couple of hours later, as he went back through the office on his way out, he caught a drift of conversation floating from the huddle around Rivett’s office door – the DCI and his favourite deputies debriefing.
“ … lost control of his bike as we went around the corner,” he heard Rivett say. “Skidded clean across the road, hit the wall and splat,” he punched his fist onto the palm of his hand, “threw him right over the harbour wall. By the time I’d got out of the car I reckon he’d sunk. Couldn’t see him floating around, anyway. Most probably broke his neck with the impact. I’ve got the coastguard out fishing for him now, fuck knows if we’ll ever find him though.”
“Nah,” opined Kidd, “I doubt it. Tide round there would have ripped him straight out to sea.”
Blackburn gave a throaty chortle.
It wasn’t until he was back in his bed, drifting off to sleep, that it came back to Gray what it was he had seen, the strange images in his mind suddenly making sense.
Rivett pushing a suspect over the harbour wall. Turning, as he finished, to salute the statue of Admiral Nelson.
29
The Killing Moon
March 2003
In the front seat of his car, Sean checked his messages. Mathers had received everything now, even the DNA sample that had been picked up at the train station just before Sean had driven to Sheila’s. It was now at the lab, being analysed. Charlie Higgins had come back to him too. John Brendan Kenyon was not a name that showed up on the Police National Database, no chemical traces there of Noj to compare and contrast. Higgins’ recorded voice held a trace of concern as he relayed the message. “Be careful with those farm boys, won’t you?” he said before he signed off.
Sean eyed the dashboard clock. Time for one call before he had to move. As the numbers connected, he wondered where she would be. Sheila had told him, on the way out, that Francesca didn’t live far from here. Shared a house with her father on the edge of Brydon Water, was always out walking her dogs along the old marsh wall.
But when she picked up, the sounds of the busy newsroom surrounded her.
“Just stepping outside,” she said, “where I can hear you better. Have you had an interesting afternoon?”
“Very,” said Sean. “How about you?”
“Well, I think I’ve been stalled,” she said, “by a very determined press officer. Apparently the subject is much too busy to take an interview request at the moment. But don’t worry, I put my time to good use anyway.” The background noise receded and Sean pictured her coming out of the office and down the stairs, Pat’s eyes narrowing as she passed by her desk.
“That old colleague of mine in London has had a result,” Francesca went on, “on both the organ grinder and the monkey’s assets. I’m getting the data from him tonight,” there was a slight echo to her voice now, like she was standing in the stairwell, “and I’ve asked him to send it home, rather than here. Is it OK for you to meet me there later?”
“Yeah,” said Sean, “I think that’s a good idea. Only I’m still not quite sure what time later will be. I’m heading back to the station now and there’s someone else I need to talk to after that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Just call me when you’re free and I’ll give you directions.
It’s kind of off the beaten track.”
As she spoke, Sean felt a prickling down his neck, a sensation not caused by the cold, but by the certainty that someone was watching. He turned in his seat, looking back towards the house. Sheila’s cat sat on the doorstep, illuminated by the porch light the social worker had left on for her husband, licking at one of its raised front paws and staring at him with eyes like twin orange moons, reflected in the car’s rear lights.
“You still there?” Francesca said.
“Yeah,” Sean turned back, shaking his head. “Yeah, I got you. I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Take care, Francesca.”
“I will,” she said, a trace of amusement in her voice. “See you later, Sean.”
* * *
Sean pulled out of Sheila’s drive and up the narrow lane that led back to the main road. Just before he reached the junction, headlights momentarily dazzled him. A Land Rover, bouncing into the lane, veering over to one side as it saw him, across the grass verge. Sean steered hard right, his outer wheels mounting the side of the bank from out of which the hedge grew, brambles and hawthorn raking against his windows. The two vehicles managed to manoeuvre past each other, the other driver raising a hand in thanks as he passed. Sheila’s husband? wondered Sean. But he didn’t see the man’s face.
* * *
Francesca reached the top of the stairs, level with the eyes of her secretary. Pat was talking to someone on the phone, her expression terse, her lips turned down at the corners. She didn’t return Francesca’s smile as the editor walked past, but continued to speak in a voice much softer than her usual brusque tone.
“That’s right,” Francesca heard her say. “Yeah, I most certainly will.”
When she got back to her desk, the Call Waiting light was flashing on her phone.
* * *
Noj sat in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering light of a circle of candles. Black for binding, shape-shifting, repelling negativity and protection. Purple for the third eye, psychic ability, hidden knowledge and spiritual calm. Blue for wisdom, protection, opening blocked communication and spiritual inspiration.
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