‘You look fine.’
‘Right.’
Helen watched Ruston run fingers through her shoulder-length hair. She probably dyed it every three or four weeks, but now the roots were coming through. Helen could hardly blame her for not caring too much after what she’d been through. Then she saw the half smile that told her this was a woman who was used to being told she looked a lot better than ‘fine’.
‘What about you?’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘When’s the baby due?’
‘A couple of weeks, officially, but you know they can never be sure about these things. You got kids?’
‘Patrick’s got a couple. From before . . .’
‘Anyway.’ Helen reddened as she patted her belly. ‘He could be putting in an appearance any day, basically.’
‘You know it’s a boy?’
‘It’s a feeling.’
‘Exciting.’
‘Scary. More scary now, you know . . .’ She turned away and found herself staring at the print above the fireplace. For want of anything else to say, she asked where it had come from, and Ruston explained that she and Patrick had picked it up on holiday in Thailand. ‘I always wanted to go,’ Helen said. ‘Nearly went with an ex once, but . . .’ She stopped, realising what she’d said. Wondering how such things worked.
How long was it before a ‘dead boyfriend’ became an ‘exboyfriend’?
‘Do you want to talk about the accident?’ Ruston leaned towards her, using her good arm to push herself forward on the sofa. ‘It’s fine if you do. I’ve been talking about it a lot.’ Before Helen could respond, the door opened and Patrick returned with the drinks. He handed them out, then made himself scarce again. When he had gone, Ruston smiled and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘He’s been doing his best to look after me,’ she said. ‘He’s worried, you know? Well, you heard him before.’
‘It must have been terrifying. In the car.’
Ruston nodded. She looked as though she were still terrified. ‘It happened incredibly fast. I know everyone says that, but one minute this car was alongside me and then there were the shots. Next thing, I was in the ambulance.’
It was probably the way she remembered it, Helen thought. Not that she could blame the woman for being selective, bearing in mind who she was chatting to over coffee.
Then I was ploughing into this bus stop and I distinctly remember your boyfriend flying across my bonnet . . .
‘I’m sorry,’ Ruston said. It looked like she was close to tears again.
‘What were you doing in Hackney?’ Helen asked.
That seemed to hold the tears at bay. Ruston stared at Helen as though she were failing to get a joke. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? ’
Helen was embarrassed. Faked a laugh. ‘The copper in me, I suppose. Routine questions, all that.’
‘Do you want to know if I’d been drinking as well?’
‘I’m sorry. Please don’t be—’
‘I’d had one glass of wine and I was well under the limit. I know that for sure, because your lot took a blood sample in the hospital. Very nice of them.’
‘It’s standard procedure.’
‘I was coming back from a friend’s,’ Ruston said.
Helen nodded, still embarrassed, asking herself the question that Ruston’s partner had avoided. Why on earth was she sitting here making polite chit-chat with this woman? She thought about what Deering had said, how talking to those who had been involved with his dead wife had helped him. The same thing was certainly not working for Helen, yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She couldn’t have known what she would discover about Paul, the doubts and suspicions they would foster, but this particular conversation was never going to make her feel better, was it? Perhaps that was the point.
Was she punishing herself for what she’d done?
‘Did you think you were going to hate me?’
Helen blinked. It was as though Ruston had known exactly what she had been thinking. ‘I’d thought about it,’ she said. ‘I thought I might, but I knew that would be stupid. It was your car that hit Paul, but it wasn’t your fault. It was the man who fired the gun who killed Paul.’ Ruston nodded, like she was grateful. ‘Did you get a good look at him?’
‘I told you, it was so bloody quick. But I went through hundreds of pictures anyway. Mug-shots or whatever. They all started to look the same after a while.’ Ruston’s hand flew to her face. ‘God, I don’t mean that in a . . . racist way. I mean, I was so tired and full of painkillers. Christ, I’m still full of painkillers.’
Helen waved it away and they both managed to laugh. The sun was streaming in through the large windows at either end of the room, bouncing off the varnish on the floorboards. The music had been turned off in the kitchen and upstairs, and for a few seconds there was silence.
Helen drained her tea, said, ‘He was pissed.’
‘Who?’
‘You said you were under the limit; well, Paul certainly wasn’t. He’d been at some copper’s retirement piss-up, on the beer all night. Maybe if he hadn’t had so much to drink, he might have been able to get out of the way. I don’t know.’ She looked around for somewhere to put her empty cup. Eventually leaned down and placed it on the floor. ‘Anyway . . .’
‘Was he a good bloke?’
Helen thought about the affair. About Paul’s face when he found out. About his face eight days ago, paler than the sheet, on the mortuary slab. ‘Too good for me,’ she said.
Ruston sucked in a long breath then and it exploded from her a second later as a sob. She struggled to bring her crying under control, staring at her feet and telling Helen how sorry she was; fighting to get the words out.
Helen reached into her bag for more tissues and passed across an unopened packet. Nodding like it was all right. Feeling a sudden twinge of resentment for this woman; for someone else who seemed a damn sight more upset about Paul than she did.
At the stash house, business had been slow since Theo had arrived, but it had been slow for the last few days. The police presence on the street was not enough, would never be enough, to stop it completely, but there were always a few dealers that little bit more cautious, a few customers who preferred to shop somewhere where there were more hoodies on the street than blue uniforms.
Theo was half watching MTV. Some rap star he’d never heard of showing off his purple-baize pool table, while a kid called Sugar Boy crashed around in the kitchen, making them both tea. A handgun sat on the low table in front of the sofa, next to Theo’s mobile and the notebook in which he had to keep a record of cash in and merchandise out.
‘In case the taxman needs to see the accounts,’ Wave had said.
There was cursing from the kitchen, then, ‘This milk smells seriously rank, man.’
‘I’m fine, anyway,’ Theo shouted.
He’d give it another half hour, then see what his mum was doing. He knew she’d want to see him, that she’d have cooked enough Sunday lunch for half the people on the estate. That an hour or so would perk her up, even though she’d be disappointed Javine and the baby weren’t there and would give him a hard time about it.
On the way across from the flat, he’d walked past the spot where Mikey had been killed; past half a dozen bunches of dying flowers leaning against the wall or lying in the gutter. The ink had run on most of the notes, blurring the traditional messages from his family. The text-speak tributes from those who knew him less well.
‘RIP Mikey. U woz the best. Gone but not 4-gotten.’
All that.
There had been a small ceremony on the Saturday, when the flowers had been laid. Theo hadn’t left any himself. Flowers didn’t seem right for someone who had done what Mikey had done to that whore. He had hugged Mikey’s mum, though, right after he’d hugged his own, feeling like she was going to crack his ribs as she held on to him, her croaky voice whispering shit in his ear.
A few people had said things, youth workers and
community leaders whatever they were, and Mikey’s mum looked embarrassed when people started turning towards her. But she didn’t make one of those speeches. You know, how Mikey had been such a good boy, how he wasn’t involved in drugs or anything like that. Theo had known Mikey’s mum for ever and she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t lie to herself or to anyone else; same as his own mum.
They’d be starting the mural on Monday, Easy said.
Theo didn’t know who would be doing it, but they’d picked a piece of wall near to where Mikey grew up - same place he’d been shot, more or less - and they were going to spray-paint a nice picture as a tribute to him. Everyone in the crew would tag it when it was finished. Let everyone know they were still tight.
Sugar Boy came through from the kitchen, put a mug down in front of Theo. Said, ‘I found some powdered stuff in the cupboard.’ There were white globules floating on top of the tea.
Theo said thanks and ran through channels on the television while he watched Sugar Boy play with the gun. The kid had been fondling it like it was one of his girlfriend’s tits all morning, talking about how someone should be made to pay for Mikey. Looking at Theo like he was the one who should be thinking about doing it. Like he was the one with the big reputation because of, you know . . .
‘Show them who we are, man,’ Sugar Boy said. ‘Teach these fuckers a lesson.’
Not that anyone knew which fuckers it was.
On the TV, an old bloke in a smart suit was talking about some business opportunity or other, and Theo thought that if he was going to put some proper money together, he could seriously do with one. That it was a shame he couldn’t draw for shit. Not even a stick man.
He reckoned that, as growth industries went, painting murals for the likes of Mikey was a pretty good bet.
TWENTY-TWO
The bathroom in Sarah Ruston’s flat was every bit as tasteful as the rest of the place: wood and chrome, frosted-glass bottles. Helen took it all in as she sat, the gleam and the sweet smell of it, and thought again about moving.
About having to move.
The flat in Tulse Hill was still full of Paul. It wasn’t that she was trying to get away from him - after all, she had plenty to feel guilty about already - but she felt like she should do what they had been planning. Or at least what she had been planning for them.
If she stayed there, she knew that it would crush her, coming out of the walls for her in the night. She would not be strong enough to bring up a child. Her hands cradled her belly, fingers moving back and forth. ‘We need to get out,’ she said quietly. She glanced up and caught a glimpse of Paul turning away from the shaving mirror. ‘Don’t get arsey, Hopwood, you’re coming too . . .’
She flushed and washed her hands, sniffing at the blocks of scented soap in a wooden bowl on the shelf. She watched herself in the mirror folding the towel, placing it carefully back on the heated rail. Christ, she couldn’t wait to get back into jeans again. Not to be breathless and pissing every ten minutes. To get a different kind of look from people when she walked past.
She hated this. Hated being the dumpy cow in the stupid dress.
‘Why couldn’t you just have gone out and shagged somebody yourself? Evened things up. I couldn’t really have blamed you.’
If she were being honest, Helen had no idea what Paul’s plans had been. She hadn’t been sure two weeks ago, and now it seemed as though Kevin Shepherd and Frank Linnell and God knows who else probably knew better than she did. She felt a small shudder pass through her, remembering the look on Shepherd’s face outside the flat. And Linnell’s voice on the phone.
‘I know who you are . . .’
Now she knew who he was too, or what he was, but she still felt like she needed to see him. Suspicion could crush you just as easily as guilt and bad memories. She needed to know the truth.
She spat into the sink and rinsed it away before she left the bathroom.
Sarah Ruston was waiting at the front door as Helen came down the stairs, and Patrick came trotting down a few seconds later to join them. To usher Helen out. He had changed and looked as though he’d just stepped out of the shower.
‘Thank you,’ Helen said. It was clear from the look she received in return that Ruston had no more idea what she was being thanked for than Helen herself did. ‘And thanks for the tea.’ Added to the two large ones she’d had with Deering, she felt like she was drowning in the stuff.
‘No problem,’ Patrick said. ‘I’m sorry about what I said before. Just . . . with what Sarah’s been through, you know?’
‘It’s not exactly been a picnic for her,’ Ruston said.
‘Course not. I was . . .’
‘It’s fine,’ Helen said.
Patrick nodded, struggling for something else to say. ‘Are you actually investigating what happened yourself? I mean, is that allowed?’
‘I’m not investigating anything.’
‘Do you think they’ll ever find the boys in that car?’ Ruston asked.
‘I wouldn’t put money on it.’
‘Have they got anywhere at all?’
‘I haven’t heard anything,’ Helen said.
Ruston lowered her head and opened the front door. Helen said thanks again and moved quickly towards the street, desperate to get out before there was any more crying. Patrick took a step after her, holding up his hand like it was something that had just occurred to him, but unable to disguise the fact that he’d been burning to say it since Helen had arrived.
‘If you do talk to the police who are . . . on the case, I wondered if you might be able to do us a favour.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘It’s the BMW. I just need to know if they’ve finished with it. I mean, I know it’s written off, but it’s been ten days now or something and until we get it back, we can’t, you know, get the insurance sorted out.’
Eight days, Helen thought. Eight days since Paul was killed.
She said she’d see what she could do.
It had been easy to get inside and take the kid’s gun off him. What kind of a name was SnapZ anyway?
As soon as he’d heard the lock turn, Clive had stepped from where he’d been waiting, out of sight of the spy-hole, and pushed the boy back through his front door. He’d done no more than straighten his arms, smashing huge fists into the boy’s chest and sending him back down the narrow hallway, as though a few thousand volts had been passed through him.
The flat was at the end of a landing on the second floor. Billy had been keeping watch from the other end, and, once Clive was inside, he quickly joined him. They took the handgun from the pocket of the kid’s leather jacket while he was still writhing on the carpet.
‘The stuff isn’t here, man. There’s nothing here. Jesus.’
Clive and Billy lifted SnapZ up and dragged him through to the small living room. He collapsed onto the settee and looked up to see Billy’s gun in his face. Watched as Clive crossed to the stereo, pressed PLAY, waited for the music to start, then turned up the volume.
‘What’s this racket?’ Billy asked.
Clive shrugged. ‘Might get noisy.’
‘There’s no money either, I swear,’ SnapZ shouted. ‘Just what’s on me.’
‘We’re fine for money,’ Clive said.
‘Take it, man.’ SnapZ reached round, his eyes fixed on the gun as he struggled to pull out his wallet.
Billy slapped it from his hand and pushed the muzzle of the gun into his forehead. ‘You got trouble hearing?’
SnapZ winced and closed his eyes. Waiting for it.
Clive picked up the wallet and opened it. He took out the notes and pocketed them, then tossed the empty wallet back onto the floor. ‘Looks like business is going pretty well,’ he said. He shrugged when SnapZ said nothing and sat down on the chair opposite. ‘We just need a few words. A bit of information. The odd address. OK?’
‘I just knock the stuff out,’ SnapZ said. He was pressing himself into the back of the settee, as far away from Bil
ly’s gun as possible. ‘I don’t know nothing about what goes on higher up. Names and all that.’
‘We’ve got names,’ Clive said. ‘It’s just confirmation, really. Kind of like double checking.’
He asked his questions and SnapZ gave the answers like he was sucking in his last breaths; the fear rising in him, off him, as he realised what it was they were talking about.
His part in it . . .
Clive said thank you and stood up. He walked across, leaned down and drove his fist into SnapZ’s face. ‘That’s for talking to me how you did earlier. Our conversation through the door.’
Billy watched the boy trying to stop the blood and laughed. ‘Fucking KFC . . .’
‘Take him through there.’ Clive nodded towards the bedroom.
Billy hauled SnapZ from the settee and pushed him across the room, blood still leaking from his shattered nose onto the dirty green carpet. After a couple of uncertain steps, SnapZ veered right suddenly and threw himself into the bathroom, desperately trying to lock the door behind him. Billy shook his head. Clive walked calmly across the room, lowered his shoulder and eased aside the door.
Said, ‘No point.’
Billy stepped past him and leaned down to drag the boy out, then smacked him across the ear with the gun when he started screaming. For a few seconds there was only a low moan, and the bass-line from the next room, like a racing heartbeat.
Clive picked up the gun from the table. ‘Too young to be playing with one of these,’ Clive said. ‘Too young to be a man when someone takes it away from you.’
Billy pushed SnapZ into the bedroom, then down onto the unmade bed. SnapZ pulled up his legs and buried his face in his knees, smearing blood across his jeans.
‘Lie down,’ Billy said. ‘And turn over.’
‘What you going to do, man?’
Billy hit him with the gun again. ‘Don’t be so disgusting.’
Clive stood in the middle of the living room and looked around. The place was a shit-hole, the worst he’d seen. He didn’t understand why these people didn’t use the money they were making to try and better themselves. Why they didn’t do something about how they lived.
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