He didn’t give a toss how they made their money; he wasn’t judging. How could he? As it went, he liked a smoke himself at the end of the day to even himself out a little, but he still thought it was shameful that they didn’t make more of an effort. That they wasted what they’d made on gold rings and training shoes.
Looking like rap stars and living like fucking tramps.
‘Are we going to get this done, mate, or what?’
Clive turned when Billy shouted. Saw him through the open bedroom door, standing over the bed. The kid face down.
‘It’s just that I’ve got a Sunday roast waiting indoors.’
Clive nodded. He picked up the remote to turn down the music and flicked open his phone.
Theo’s mum always drank a glass of wine with her Sunday lunch. She always got sentimental and talked about how Sunday had been his father’s favourite day. How he used to say that it was a day for families. And after lunch, there was always cards.
They played gin rummy, and today Angela was thrilled with how many times she managed to beat her big brother, punching the air as she laid the winning cards down round after round. Theo usually let her win a few hands, but today she needed no help. He couldn’t focus for more than a few seconds; found himself drifting away. Angela and his mother grew short with him, as time and again he sat there doing nothing when it was his turn.
Afterwards, he sat smoking while his mum cleared away, and Angela bounded over, still beaming. ‘Champion!’ she sang.
‘You were lucky, man. You got all the cards.’
‘Pure skill.’
She sat at his feet, facing him; her thumbs flying across the buttons of her DS, murmuring to herself as she fired at monsters, collected treasure, whatever game it was. He looked down at the top of her head. His mum had done something different with her hair that Theo had never seen before; braided it in some new way.
‘How’s school?’ he asked.
‘OK.’
‘Only OK?’
She glanced up from her game. ‘It’s great.’ She dropped her eyes back to the screen, screwing up her mouth in concentration as she focused on the action. After a few seconds she looked up again and let out a long sigh, like she’d just been distracted from vital scientific research. ‘What?’
‘It’s fine . . .’
She lowered the game. ‘I’m about to get killed by aliens anyway,’ she said.
He wouldn’t have wanted his sister to be miserable at school, but there was still that notion of getting away, of them all getting away; now becoming a fantasy into which he was escaping more and more. It would be that much more of a non-starter if it meant dragging Angela away from somewhere she was happy. Of unsettling her again.
It wasn’t her fault that he’d got himself into this mess. Wasn’t anybody’s fault but his own, didn’t matter what the papers or anyone else said.
‘Be good if you could come to school with me,’ Angela said. ‘You’re clever, so you could do all the things that are too hard.’
‘Sounds OK.’ He nodded like he was thinking about it, said, ‘We’ve got a problem, though.’
‘What?’ Dead serious.
‘I think people might suss me. I’m big for a ten-year-old, man.’
She shrugged, like it was a minor detail. ‘You’re clever, so you can work that out.’
‘Right . . .’
‘I’ll still do games and art and dinner-time, and you can do everything else, OK?’
Yeah, he was a regular genius. Clever enough to be wondering whether his mother would have anything to say when it was his turn; while the crew sent their serious text messages and Angela laid flowers on the pavement. Clever enough to be messing up everything with Javine and neglecting his baby son while his friends got shot down on the street.
He leaned across to stub out his cigarette, listening to the tinny melody from Angela’s game playing over and over.
Were they ever his friends?
He thought about Ransford and Kenny. The football boys back in Chatham. Thought about them without feeling the tightness in his chest that came on whenever he went down to see the boys on the estate, out to earn his living.
They were more than friends; they always said that. Bredren. More than family even, that’s what being in the crew means, but Theo never believed that shit for one minute, no matter how many times he touched fists and did the ‘look how serious we are’ nodding thing. Not Mikey or SnapZ; not really. Certainly not Wave. Easy was the closest, the oldest at any rate, but things were strange with him now. Had been ever since they’d climbed into that Cavalier.
Clever enough to have killed someone to earn himself a promotion. Angela smacked him on the knee to get his attention. ‘You all right, Theo?’
He looked across to see his mother standing in the doorway, running a tea-towel across a plate. Watching him, with something in her eyes that made his chest tighter than ever.
Another smack. ‘Theo?’
He turned back to his sister and lied.
‘Billy all set then, is he?’ Frank asked.
Clive looked into the bedroom. Billy was ready, but he couldn’t say the same about the kid on the bed. He’d been thrashing about and shouting until Billy had indicated, rather forcefully, that he should keep quiet and stay still. Clive had heard the voice of a terrified child and seen the dark stain on the sheets beneath him. The kid had been well cocky before; on the other side of his front door with a gun near by. But that stuff usually fell away quickly enough near the end.
‘Yeah, he’s keen to crack on,’ Clive said. ‘Got roast beef waiting for him at home.’
‘Sounds good,’ Frank said. ‘I’ve sent one of the builders out to pick me up a sandwich.’
‘How’s it coming?’
‘They seem to be grafting hard enough, but I’m not sure if that’s just because I’m here. That bloke doing the cornicing and stuff knows what he’s doing, though. Looks lovely.’
‘Want me to come over, so you can get home?’
‘Meet me at the house later,’ Frank said. ‘We can see where we are.’
It was only the slightest shift in tone, but Clive understood well enough that they weren’t talking about the pub renovation any more. This was the way they always did it; had to do it. Frank wasn’t stupid and knew how everything worked. High-tech monitoring systems, intercepts and all that. If anything was ever produced, transcripts or whatever, there was no way it would stand up in court. The only people doing well out of that sort of nonsense would be Frank and his brief.
It was second nature now, and it helped that they knew each other so well, that they had developed a shorthand.
‘I’ll call before I come,’ Clive said.
‘Fine. Just so we can sort out the rest of the schedule.’
Clive took a pride in how he went about things; same as he did with any job he was doing for Frank. He was businesslike and never took this kind of work lightly. At the end of a day like this there’d always be a stiff drink or two taken, didn’t matter how long you’d been doing it. Maybe a smoke, too, if it had been more than just the one job.
‘I’d best leave you to get on then,’ Frank said. That same little shift in the voice, like a cloud going over for a second. ‘OK?’
Clive closed his phone, crossed to the stereo and turned up the volume again. By the time he reached the bedroom the kid had started shouting again, and Clive had to sit down on his back to keep him from coming right off the bed. ‘Easy,’ he said, reaching for the pillow and pressing it across the back of the kid’s head. He leaned all his weight into it and gave Billy the nod.
Billy stepped across, light on his feet, and picked his spot.
There was a muffled thud and a scorch mark, not much bigger than the burn from a discarded fag-end; black and ragged at its edge. Clive had seen something like this a few times in films, American gangster stuff, and for some reason there were always a few feathers flying about afterwards. In slow-motion sometimes, like snow i
n a globe. The men who’d done the job always looked blank and strolled out of the room, while some kind of music came in, and the feathers floated down like they’d been shooting fucking chickens or something.
He’d never seen anything like that in real life; it was always just this. They probably did it that way for a nice effect. Or maybe, Clive thought, he simply never dealt with anyone who had feather pillows.
TWENTY-THREE
Helen helped her father clear away the lunch things, then dried while he washed up. When she and her sister were younger, they had enjoyed being part of a small production line while their mother put her feet up, with Jenny putting the dishes away and the three of them telling bad jokes or singing along with the radio. Today, Helen and her father went about their tasks in relative silence.
Her father had got a large steak and kidney pie in from Marks and Spencer and opened a can of beer. He’d talked her through his previous day’s activities - the circling in the Radio Times of TV shows to be watched later, the lunchtime pint with the bloke two doors up, and the cup of coffee with the nice lady over the road - while Helen nodded and cleared her plate, the breakfast-time vomiting session having left her ravenous as usual.
‘And how was your Sunday?’ he’d asked.
She’d said something suitably non-committal, not keen to answer the questions that were sure to follow if she mentioned the lunch with Roger Deering and the afternoon she’d spent at Sarah Ruston’s. She told him that she’d had a quiet evening in.
Watching her father finish his lunch, she’d taken her cue to apologise for the argument they’d had two days earlier, when he’d been putting the cot together. It hadn’t been her fault, but that had never really mattered where her dad was concerned. He was a sulker, same as Jenny.
He’d looked across the table at her, reddening. ‘Don’t be so silly, love. It’s me who should be saying sorry. I felt rotten all day yesterday.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Miserable old bugger, I am.’
This was a first. She knew how badly he wanted to protect her, and she felt a twinge of sympathy for a man whose big hands did not fit easily into kid gloves.
Helen had caught on pretty quickly to the fact that her condition was something of a ‘get out of jail free’ card. With anything from an argument in the Post Office to a spot of mild shoplifting, pregnancy gave you a certain amount of leeway. After all, it wasn’t a good idea to argue with a pregnant woman, to let the poor thing get over-emotional, to stir up those unstable hormones. Throw in a recent bereavement and it was becoming obvious that you could get away with murder. Being up the duff and widowed meant never having to say you were sorry.
She said it again anyway - sorry that her father had been feeling rotten - while making a mental note to start being a damn sight nastier to people.
‘I was right about that cot, though,’ he said.
Once the washing-up was done, her father turned away from the sink, drying his hands on a tea-towel. ‘You’ve still not had a good cry, have you, love?’
Helen laughed and rubbed at the last plate. ‘Are you kidding? I was blubbing at Midsomer Murders last night.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Drop of a bloody hat . . .’
‘For Paul,’ he said. ‘You’ve not cried for Paul.’
Helen put down the plate as her father stepped across to her and she began to cry again, but for all the wrong reasons. He shushed her and rubbed her back, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, smelling his aftershave and moving her cheek against the soft material of his shirt.
‘Told you,’ she sobbed. ‘Drop of a bloody hat.’
When she’d pulled away and put the plates into the cupboard, they talked about the funeral. There was still no news on the date, but Helen guessed that it wouldn’t be too long before the body was released. She told him that Paul’s mother was still being awkward. Helen did not want any flowers, being all for donations to a police charity instead, but Caroline Hopwood was as traditional on that score as she was when it came to the choice of music.
‘It’s understandable.’
‘Is it? I’m carrying her bloody grandchild.’
‘I’m sure she’ll come round.’
‘I don’t know how much I care, to be honest,’ Helen said. ‘I’m just not up to fighting about it.’
‘Do you want me to have a word?’ her father asked.
Helen remembered the awkwardness at the party for Paul’s thirtieth, the stilted conversation on the single occasion that her father had met Paul’s parents. She remembered the jokes that she and Paul had made about it afterwards. ‘I’ll sort things out,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
Her father nodded and opened the fridge. Brought out a trifle that he’d picked up along with the pie.
Helen smiled. ‘Pushing the boat out,’ she said.
‘I was going to ask if I could help carry Paul,’ her father said. He cleared his throat. ‘Carry the coffin. You’ve probably got his mates doing it, members of his family, I suppose . . .’
‘It’ll be coppers,’ Helen said. ‘An honour guard, in dress uniform. Paul’s mum wants the full ceremonial bit. Twenty-six-gun salutes, trumpets, the whole thing.’
Her father nodded, impressed.
‘I’m kidding.’
‘It’s not a problem, really. Just thought I’d volunteer.’
‘You’ll probably need to carry me.’
‘I don’t know if I’m up to that,’ he said.
She stood close and watched as her father dished up a large portion of trifle. ‘I should probably be getting back,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take that over to your girlfriend? Mind you, you’ll need to watch your waistline if you want to get anywhere with her.’
‘Who says I haven’t?’
She punched him on the shoulder, looked around for her bag.
‘Call me when you get home,’ he said. ‘Or later. Doesn’t matter.’
Helen nodded. ‘If I’m in any fit state. Midsomer Murders is on UK Gold every bloody night . . .’
Helen’s car was parked more or less opposite her father’s front door. Crossing the road, she froze at the squeal of tyres and watched a black Jeep accelerate away from the kerb fifty yards to her right. As it passed her she could see that there were two men inside staring straight ahead, and she wondered if she’d seen a similar car, maybe the same car, outside her own block a couple of days before.
She was telling herself that she was being ridiculous, that there were a lot of black Jeeps around, when her mobile rang. It was Martin Bescott, Paul’s DI at Kennington.
‘We’ve got some more of Paul’s stuff,’ he said.
‘Oh? I thought I took it all.’
There was a pause. ‘We found a second locker. Paul’s . . . replacement wasn’t too keen on taking his old one, so . . .’
Helen said she understood. Coppers were more superstitious than most.
‘Had to force the bloody thing open in the end.’
‘Can’t you just give it to charity?’ she asked. ‘Save me, you know . . .’
‘Well, yeah, there are some old trainers, a few other bits of kit. But I thought you’d probably want the laptop.’
Now it was Helen’s turn to pause.
‘Helen?’
‘I’ll pop over and get it,’ she said.
Theo had spent most of the morning at the stash house, stuck there talking shit with Sugar Boy, who had been sent over by Wave when SnapZ had failed to show up. Theo had been hoping that the first day of a new week would be a good one. That the money might start coming in a bit faster and that he might start feeling less jumpy, a bit less like someone waiting for something bad to happen.
He’d been well out of luck on both counts, and as soon as it was anything like lunchtime, he’d jogged back over to the flat to share a sandwich with Javine.
He’d barely sat down when Easy showed up, his fat, ugly pit-bull straining at the leash on Theo’s doorstep. He’d bought the
thing as soon as Wave had got one; laid out seventy-five pounds to some Essex wide boy knocking them out round the back of the Dirty South and managed somehow to get the stupidest beast on the estate. Wave said that someone must have kicked the thing in the head when it was a puppy. Easy seemed to like that. Thought that he and his sick-in-the-head dog belonged together or something.
Javine started mouthing off as soon as she heard the yapping. She couldn’t stand the dog and didn’t want it anywhere near her or the baby. Theo tried to pull the door behind him when she started losing it shouting that she didn’t want any dumb animals in her house, didn’t matter if they had four legs or two.
Easy shrugged. ‘Let’s walk,’ he said.
They strolled around the estate first; Easy enjoying the attention from the kids by the garages, the dirty looks from a few of the older women - the mothers and sisters - as he watched his dog do its business in the scrubby square of grass, parading around what passed for a playground before they cut out onto Lewisham High Street.
It was seventy-something degrees and rising. Easy wore a silk shirt, open over a vest, rust-coloured, like his combats and trainers. Theo had picked out low-slung jeans and a Marley T-shirt, the Timberlands he’d bought after the break-ins he’d done with Easy three weeks before.
With the bit of cash he hadn’t put away.
‘How’s tricks, Star Boy?’
Theo told Easy that tricks were OK, that he hadn’t seen too much of him the last few days. Not since Mikey.
‘Been busy, T.’
Theo nodded back in the direction of the stash house, where he’d left Sugar Boy holding the fort. ‘Things are pretty slow.’
‘Exactly. Got to whip up new business where you can, you get me?’
‘So where you been whipping it up?’
‘Here and there, man.’
‘Anywhere you shouldn’t?’
‘Meaning?’
‘When we went robbing, when we turned them whores over. Maybe that was stepping on someone’s toes, all I’m saying.’
Easy threw a hard look Theo’s way, almost knocked over a girl wheeling a pushchair. She swore at him and he ignored her. ‘Whose toes? Fuck you talking about, man?’
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