“Dirty cops cost lives,” replied Lennox. “Not content with skimming the profits? Three people go down as a result?”
I didn’t move a muscle. I couldn’t look at Lennox. I couldn’t look at the gun. I sensed that he was just about holding it together and no more.
“Dangerous talk,” whispered Lowe, shaking his head.
I was on the outside looking in. The feeling was a familiar one. It was obvious that Lennox and Lowe had a connection to the past, in the past.
Lennox looked as though he was starting to lose it. He was looking down the barrel of a gun. We were on the wrong side of the official line and Lowe was a man who obviously covered his tracks well.
Answering a question with a question. It was a technique I had frequently used until MacKenzie told me it was a weakness. It was a cover, a front, a dodge, he’d tell me during sessions. It stalls for time and turns corners and ends up back at the start. In other words, it gets us nowhere.
Three people. Two parents. One Alfie Harris.
“Did you kill my parents?” I asked Lowe, breaking up the dialogue between Lennox and Lowe. It was the most important question I would ever ask. It even trumped: “What could I have done?”
“Did I kill two deadbeat drug dealers?” Lowe asked, reinventing the question.
I didn’t respond. I was smackdown stunned.
Lennox spoke instead. “The deal was going down. Lowe turned up. Negotiation isn’t one of your strengths, no?”
I studied Lowe’s face as Lennox talked and could tell that he was unnerved. The swagger, the bravado had just been turned down a notch.
Lennox’s voice picked up. “What happened, huh? Not getting a big enough cut? Someone higher up the powder chain edging you out? Or were you sending a message? I don’t know motive, I just know where the bullets went.”
I pulled the board into me, wheels facing out. Deals, profits, negotiations. I felt my history slipping away from me. I’d never had the paperwork, now I didn’t even have a version of events that I recognised.
“No witness, no win,” scoffed Lowe recovering composure. “No win,” he continued, “no happy ending.”
He stepped closer to Lennox and lifted his gun. “Listen, this is what happened, right here, right now. I had to take immediate action when I saw you attacking this young, defenceless girl in an underpass. When you refused to put your hands up, I had to take you down. There will be no questioning this version of events,” he looked over at me, “because she is an unreliable witness; a disturbed child who has been in and out of therapy all her life.”
Light on his feet, the signature dodge, Lennox seemed to shimmer as Lowe pulled the trigger. I was expecting a head-breaking noise in the confined space of the underpass but it was more like a strike of wind, a dull thud.
Lennox fell forwards, no hands went out to break his fall. There was a sickening thud as he went down. Then he didn’t move. Lowe, realising that his target practice was off, raised his gun once more to finish the job.
I’ve been over-thinking all my life. I’ve trawled over feelings, reactions, emotions and rejection. I’ve thought, analysed, talked and thought some more. Sometimes, like this time, thinking got you nowhere, so I reacted instead. I lifted the skateboard and swung it horizontally, moving forward into the swing so I had my full weight behind the blow. Lowe saw it coming just too late, around about the moment my board battered into the side of his head. He appeared to disintegrate more than fall. The tension in his knees seemed to turn to dust, he eventually went down, sank forward, slowly down, then rolled onto his side. He was still conscious but in no state to give chase, not immediately.
I picked up the gun and didn’t look back. The hardest part was leaving Lennox but I’m rough edges and steel when I need to be. I ran. I kept moving. I didn’t look back. When I burst out of the underpass into the daylight I hurled the gun as hard as I could into the tangle of undergrowth. Out of sight, out of mind. I didn’t understand a loaded gun; I couldn’t risk another bullet. I certainly couldn’t risk running into the school waving a firearm either. No prizes for guessing how that one would go down.
Mrs Martel was on the phone when I hurtled through the door into the office. She hung up, stood up. “Where’s Lennox?”
I stood in front of her, the full impact of what had happened, and the shock of it all, suddenly kicked in. I stood staring at her, attempting to speak but my breath was a series of gasps, sharp sobs drowning out my words.
“Angie, what’s happened. Where is Lennox? He was concerned when you didn’t show up. He went to meet you.”
“He… n-needs… help,” I managed to gasp, then the shakes kicked in.
Mrs Martel was suddenly in front of me, hands on either side of me, holding me, supporting me. Not letting me fall but not letting go.
“Tell me where he is,” she demanded.
“It’s not safe,” I gasped.
“I’m phoning the police.”
“NO,” I screamed making her jump. “He is the police.”
“I know who he is,” said Mrs Martel calmly. “I also know who to call.”
Her control, her decisiveness and her action made me so hysterically grateful, I started to sob. Don’t let anyone catch you crying, I ignored this advice. I simply stood there and sobbed bitterly, lost, confused and sick with the fear that Lennox had disappeared for good. I had left him behind. Lennox Jones disappears, break, break, break.
Mrs Martel was talking to me, telling me what was going to happen, someone was going to sit with me while she went to find Lennox. She sounded fearless, undaunted but I knew she was seriously underestimating someone like Ronnie Lowe.
After she had left I heard sirens. I saw blue lights flashing through the office window. I felt overwhelmed. I saw my parents in a park. Then I watched them disappear. I knew too much, I’d seen so little. I was an unreliable witness. I was the loneliest girl in the world.
25
Lennox: triggerman
The typed words underneath the photograph didn’t hit home at first: Chief Inspector Ronald Lowe, City of London Police. It was just a rank, a name, a location. I wasn’t thinking names; it was all about the face – an unforgettable, unforgiving face.
In that several-second assessment, that dumbfounded realisation, looking at the headshot, I saw that 15 years had carved subtle differences: more bloated, less defined jawline, receding hair. Not enough to make a difference. Not enough to disguise the triggerman.
I wasn’t thinking about the surname or working out who he was, I had turned my panicked attention to Angie. Her phone call. Louise telling her that the house wasn’t safe. She wasn’t safe. We weren’t safe.
I pushed the photographs back across the desk and started heading to the door.
“Lennox?”
“Angie.” I looked at the clock that was only ever consulted when sessions were over. “She should be here by now. I’m going to meet her.”
“Be careful. Come straight back. I’ll make some calls,” said Mrs Martel, clipped and in control. “This is the man?” She held up the photograph of Ronald Lowe. “You are absolutely sure.”
I nodded grimly. The person I’d thought about killing over and over again. “One hundred per cent sure.”
When Ronnie Lowe had stepped out into plain sight in the underpass I realised that somehow I was coming to an end – an end of the flashbacks trapped in another person’s life. Alfie Harris had been and gone. I stood there as Lennox Jones. Someone who knew too much.
I knew he was going to pull the trigger. I had seen it all before. This man didn’t send out warning shots or make mistakes. One shot. He finished the job.
I make mistakes but I learn from them too. I had died like this before and now used it to my advantage.
I knew his position, his shooter’s stance, the extension of his arm, his control, his aim. I knew what he would do. His breathing was steady, not even the slightest shake of the hand. He had his gun level, he would take a centre shot at the
bridge of my nose; between the eyes. He was unemotional, predictable, a problem-solver, a professional, a killer.
I counted down. I matched his concentration. I even listened to his breathing, which was much slower than mine. I replayed the scene in my head, right down to the very last detail. This time I didn’t scream. This time I dodged.
I’m not faster than a bullet. I’m not stronger than guns. I waited for the roar of the bullet to tear me apart but, spot the difference, he’d used a silencer this time.
I’m used to taking a fall but not like this. I fell incredibly hard. The ground rose up to meet me and continued its own kind of earthquake right through into my bones. I was a shockwave of vibrations but, weirdly, felt surprisingly little pain. Perhaps, like everything, death gets easier the more times we do it.
I seemed to be seeping into the ground but at least that told me I wasn’t dead. I could hear his heartbeat. He was smashed out on the ground next to me, a sprawled, blood and sweat-stained mess. Had he been shot? He must have been shot. I desperately wanted to blink but it felt as though my eyes were pinned open to the point of no return, an involuntary action to maintain consciousness.
I watched his eyes begin to flicker, furtive and streaked with rage. He had turned feral, a wild animal at his unpredictable worst when trapped. He still hadn’t lifted his head but he was desperately looking around. I knew he wanted his gun. I followed his gaze across the ground, our eyes, searchlights, swept across the dark corners of the underpass. The gun still had the power to end me.
He slowly pulled himself up into sitting position and hollered with rage, expletives spewing out of him. The sound bounced off the walls and was reabsorbed in my head. Hell, it hurt. I tried to sit up but a violent spasm of nausea forced me to bring my knees up to my chest. I couldn’t see the gun and I couldn’t see Angie either. I allowed myself to exhale.
Lowe was now standing, well, almost. He was stooped slightly, hands on his thighs in an attempt to distribute his weight more evenly. He didn’t look shot or wounded to me. Then again, someone like him could probably rise from the dead within seconds.
I heard a siren somewhere and it seemed to register with him or at least reconnect him to the situation he was in. He gave up on the gun and straightened up. He straightened out his version of events too. He stood over me and hissed, arm extended, using his finger and thumb as a gun. “I used reasonable force to deal with what was clearly becoming a threatening situation.” He grinned, his eyes remained cold.
I could hear my heartbeat. I stared back at him with my unblinking eyes and croaked, “Good luck with…”
The full force of his boot landed on my windpipe and this finished my sentence abruptly, like a full stop too soon. I thought the blackness was from the sole of his boot, then I realised I had finally closed my eyes. I was gone.
26
Lennox: tomorrow
I saw the cap first. It was the one with the red love heart logo. She was wearing those quirky, round sunglasses even though she was inside the ward. She’d almost bitten the black nail varnish off her nails. Hell, she’d almost bitten off her nails.
“I’d work more on your core,” she said, staring down at me, “help with those trickier turns.”
I smiled and patted the bed. She sat down. “I’m serious,” she added. “This hospital bed will turn you to mush.”
“I’m relaxing, recovering. I’m making the most of the hospital heatwave.” I let my tongue fall out the side of my mouth.
She laughed and said, “You can’t beat central heating in summer time.”
“The windows don’t open.”
“That’s cause people fall out,” she answered, taking her cap off and using it as a fan. “Quickest way down.”
“I get out tomorrow,” I said. “Best feeling ever. No, wait, that would be dodging a bullet.”
“You didn’t dodge a bullet, babe,” Angie corrected.
“So it grazed me.”
“Bullets hit or miss. There is no grazing,” she said.
“Whatever, I’m still alive.” I rolled my eyes. “Give me some credit.”
“You have serious soft tissue wounds.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I said.
There was a pause. She frowned and said, “We have to talk. Mrs Martel has arranged a meeting. Are you up for it?”
“I’m more than up for it. I could have been out of here days ago, breathing in air that isn’t set at 40°C. First-world problem: over-protective parents, eh?”
Angie raised her eyebrows. I pulled an apologetic face. Idiot moment, again.
“Your parents are cool,” she said smoothly, no harm done.
“Did you go over to my house?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Everything okay?”
“It will be,” she said, putting her cap back on and pulling it down over her eyes.
“Did you speak to my dad?”
She nodded.
We didn’t speak much about Lowe though. To be honest, at first, we hadn’t a clue what had happened to him. We did know that the police had got to him just about the moment he was bringing his boot down onto my face.
I pictured him laughing off the incident. So there’s been a shooting? Hey, no one got killed. He would have been utterly confident that his version of events would hold stronger than mine. Then I guess everyone, even Chief Inspector Ronald Lowe, City of London Police, makes mistakes. Sometimes just one is enough. He didn’t finish the job. I’m still here.
27
Angie: corruption
“Did you speak to my dad?” he said.
I nodded. I told Lennox I had been going out of my head trying to work out what to do. Jasmine and Davie Anderson had left behind more than just a will. I discovered there were also bank accounts in my name. Lennox had said, “I know a man who knows about finance.”
So I took him up on his offer. His father, Max Jones, helped me get my funds in order, way, way, over and above what I’d asked him to do. He divided, multiplied, moved bank accounts and sorted me out in every way, including the sale of the house. It never felt so good to downsize.
I didn’t want Lowe’s dirty cash but I’m not stupid. I wasn’t going to make an emotional decision, a hurried decision. I was going to make a smart one because it had to last me a lifetime. Call me a hustler or a thief, a chip off the old block, I didn’t hand all of it over to the State. I reckon there are different ways to give back to the street. There was one special way for me.
It’s not every day you get to purchase property in order to turn it into a skate park: a memorial park for Rob Lee, a brother, a son, an inspiration, a professional skateboarder, a campaigner for the Olympics.
I had to fill in the blanks because Lennox had no idea what had happened in the underpass. He thought I’d shot Lowe so I set him straight and explained about the skateboard cracking off Lowe’s skull. He said, “Goddammit, I knew you’d been sent to save me.” I said, “No one likes a know-it-all.”
We do know that the police arrived just as Lowe was putting the boot in. We didn’t hear much more after that. Now we’re getting more details. According to Mrs Martel’s “sources” Lowe was still in police custody. He obviously hadn’t managed to charm his way out of this one. So much for containing the situation. Someone else said he was looking at a long time behind bars, which is the worst curse for a police officer. Seriously, you don’t want to end up in the same place as the people you put away.
This is what we also know. Ronnie Lowe had built a career based on intimidation and corruption. He thought he owned the police. He thought wrong. I guess you can corrupt all the people some of time and some of the people all the time but you can’t corrupt all the people all the time, not even Lowe.
Players, dealers, liars, killers, the stories and circumstances could be interchangeable. No one’s ever sorry for what they did, they’re just sorry they got caught.
Another day, another bit of information. No one had Lowe’s back. The
big players on the street were leaving him to sort out his own mess. His dirty colleagues were deserting him, some covered their tracks, others sold each other out, a few disappeared. No one was prepared to take the fall for him. You learn how to protect yourself, no?
Louise was completely broken by everything but somehow managed to haul herself together enough to assist the police, the uncorrupt ones who had saved Lennox and helped Mrs Martel with the case files. Lou gave a detailed version of events during her married years, or as much as she could. She said she had no idea of the extent of Lowe’s corrupt involvement in the underworld. I suspect no one ever will completely.
She did, however, confess that, all those years ago, she had tried to find out more about Alfie Harris. She wanted to know what had made him shoot her sister. His death wasn’t enough justice. She needed answers. She said she just wanted to talk to people who might have known Harris, who might have been able to shed some light on the senselessness. Then she found out that Harris wasn’t a drug addict, which confused her. She wanted to find out more. She didn’t get very far. Lowe shut her down with his fist in her mouth.
“Ronnie told me that I couldn’t ask any more questions. He said that I wasn’t allowed to talk about Harris again, ever,” she whispered. “He made it clear that I wasn’t to question him or talk to anyone about the extra money he made or the midnight hours he kept. He said that he would leave me alone, disappear. I just had to keep my mouth shut. Or I would be the one to disappear.”
From how I see it, Lowe exploited Lou’s weaknesses, her desperate dependency on him, her lack of confidence in herself, the belief that she would be better off with him than without him. She soaked up his lies, she overlooked the large drops of cash that appeared out of nowhere and she never asked any more questions. She gradually revealed that it was a violent, controlling marriage built on emotional blackmail and fists. She said she was grateful when he finally left her for someone else. I believed her.
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