‘We’ll all help,’ Jenny said.
When she’d mentioned her state of mind, Helen had not been thinking about the funeral. For a second or two, she came close to telling her sister everything - Linnell, Shepherd, the stuff she thought was on the laptop - but decided against it. She felt a need to tell someone, but knew that she would be more comfortable talking to Katie or even Roger Deering - someone with no axe to grind - than she would ever be talking to Jenny or her dad. There was no logic to it, she accepted that. She could think whatever she liked about Paul, could decide that he’d done despicable things behind her back, but she couldn’t bear the thought that anyone else might judge him.
In the end, Helen decided to go down a road that was well known to her sister. ‘It’s Adam Perrin,’ she said.
Jenny put down her water. ‘You’re not inviting him, are you?’
Helen laughed, though it had crossed her mind that he might turn up. It would be easy enough for him to get the details, after all. ‘I think he might have been calling.’
They’d met on a residential course, a little over a year before. He was there with several other firearms officers and had seemed the least obnoxious as they had laughed and talked too loudly in the hotel lounge. Helen had been drinking rather a lot around that time, putting it down to stress at work, but she certainly wasn’t looking to get involved with anyone. She’d enjoyed the chat, the flirting. He was well built, with short blond hair. Different from Paul . . .
‘You think?’
‘Calling and not saying anything.’
Jenny looked as confused as Helen felt. She didn’t know why the man she’d had the affair with had come into her mind. Why she’d been imagining their phone conversation, the stinging comments that she’d hoarded up, waiting for a chance to deliver them:
‘Sniffing round widows. That’s very classy, even for you.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Helen.’
‘You should at least have waited until I’d buried him.’
‘Is that what you think about me?’
‘I don’t think about you at all.’
‘I only slept with you, you know?’
‘I don’t really remember.’
‘I didn’t kill anyone. And you put plenty into it.’
‘Yeah, well, I was drinking then . . .’
It felt good to lash out, even if it was only in her imagination.
The waitress arrived. They sat back in their chairs and let her lay down the plates. Jenny waited a minute, got stuck into her starter, then said, ‘You should see him again.’
‘What?’
The place wasn’t busy, with only a few other tables taken, but the sound carried easily and both of them turned down their volume.
‘I don’t mean straight away, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Later, maybe.’ Helen had lowered her head, was shaking it, and Jenny waited for her to stop. ‘You felt something for Adam. You know you did.’
‘It was a fling. It was stupid.’
‘It happened because you knew something was wrong between you and Paul.’
‘I was the one who messed things up, OK?’
Jenny said nothing, just looked embarrassed, aware of the people behind her.
‘You were just thrilled about it because you never really liked Paul in the first place.’
‘I never liked seeing you settle for something,’ Jenny said.
‘Bollocks.’ Over Jenny’s shoulder, a woman at the corner table was craning her neck. Helen looked right at her until the woman turned back to her dinner, then spoke again in a whisper: ‘That’s bollocks, Jen . . .’
The tension that Helen had feared was crackling across the table. Eye contact was impossible, and when Jenny reached across to pour more water, they both stared hard at the glass.
‘You never really said about the baby.’
‘It’s Paul’s,’ Helen said.
‘You never said, that’s all.’
‘It’s Paul’s.’
The main course arrived, and they spoke about their father after that, about Jenny’s kids, but the conversation was half hearted and sporadic. Helen’s lamb was perfect, and she was hungrier than she thought she’d be, but still she couldn’t finish.
It was late, and Theo was at home watching a DVD with Javine when Easy called round with cans of lager and some weed. Javine grudgingly took a joint off Easy and told him to keep the noise down, but said nothing else and sat there glued to the screen, refusing to be driven off to bed. Easy made a comment or two about the movie and rolled his eyes, until eventually Theo took the contrasting hints from both of them and told Easy they should take their beers outside.
They shared a joint and stared down over the wall that ran along the edge of the walkway. There were two girls riding bikes around in the dark, and a young couple on the tyre-swings in the centre, swaying slowly, next to each other. He couldn’t see them, but Theo knew that the kids would be standing around on the far side of the garages near the street. They’d be winding each other up and staring hard at any car that drove past, making sure everyone knew that they didn’t give a shit.
Theo thought they were like baby rats.
‘What was all that with the pool yesterday?’ Easy asked.
‘I wasn’t in the mood, that’s all.’
‘Let me know next time you’re not in the mood. The cash comes in handy.’
Three floors below them, the boy on the swing shouted something to the girls on the bikes. One of them shouted back and rode away into the shadows; into the cut-through that led to the neighbouring estate.
‘You thought much about Mikey and SnapZ?’ Theo asked.
‘Thought, Thank fuck it wasn’t me!’
‘What happened, I mean.’
‘Everyone knows what happened, T.’
‘Thought about why, though?’
Easy sighed out smoke. ‘This that territory nonsense again, man? Whose toes I been stepping on, all that?’
‘No . . .’ It was a warm night and Theo was wearing a vest. He glanced down at the thin material stretched against his chest; watched it shift as his heart thumped underneath.
‘Been talking to Wave,’ Easy said.
The material began to move a little faster.
‘You remember the triangle thing?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Things need to change a bit, yeah? With what’s been happening. Some different people going into the house and a few new faces coming in at the bottom. Working the corners and running and all that, you get me?’
Theo nodded. Job opportunities for a few of the baby rats.
‘It’s a chance for you to move up, man.’
‘You moving up, then?’
Easy slurped at his beer. ‘You move up same time as I do, Star Boy. The two of us get to watch over things together. It’s a cushy number, T, I swear. Keep an eye on how it’s all going and pass it on to Wave. You’d be like my - what is it? - my lieutenant or something.’
‘Let me think about it, man.’
‘Nothing to think about.’
‘I’ll see.’
‘What?’ He nodded back towards Theo’s front door. ‘You want to talk it through with your girlfriend?’
Theo said nothing.
Easy stepped closer to him, the mocking edge to his voice replaced by something darker. ‘You better really think about this, you get me? This is fast track we’re talking about now.’
Theo was already thinking. About the extra money, and the fact that things could hardly get any worse. About how much his last move up had cost him.
‘What you said before: “Thank fuck it wasn’t you . . .”’
Easy shrugged. ‘What?’
‘We were all in that car, man.’
‘So?’
‘Mikey and SnapZ. And Wave. You and me.’
The remains of Easy’s joint went sailing over the wall and down. He was breathing heavily. Theo watched the slow shake of the
head, the attempt to find an expression of shock or disbelief. But he could tell he was suggesting something that had already occurred to Easy himself. ‘You’ve fucking lost it, Star Boy.’
‘It’s not a coincidence, all I’m saying.’
‘You had a bang on the head or something? That bitch been chucking pans at you, man?’
‘We should talk to Wave, maybe.’
‘That stuff I wrote about you . . .’
‘Be careful, that’s all.’
Easy smacked a hand against the wall as he spoke, the anger building. ‘All that crap, that testimonial or whatever . . .’
‘I’m shitting it, Eez, don’t mind telling you, yeah?’
Easy was in Theo’s face then; pushing his beer can against Theo’s neck and spraying him with spit. ‘You can shit yourself all you want, yeah, but don’t talk your pussy-arsed rubbishness to me. I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to see you thinking it. And I don’t want to see you open your mouth with this any more. You get me?’
Theo nodded.
Easy pushed himself back, and stared for a few seconds, then hurled his can fast and hard at Theo’s chest. He was already walking away as the beer flew everywhere and the can bounced and spun on the floor.
The shouting had brought Javine and one or two others to their front doors, but Theo didn’t look up. Just watched the can frothing on the concrete walkway, and the beer running like piss and dripping down onto the grass below.
Paul and Adam Perrin had been laid out in the coffin together, both in their best dress uniforms, head to toe, like children sleeping in the same bed. They weren’t bothering with a lid, for some reason, and as soon as the first clump of earth hit their faces, they sat bolt upright together, their timing perfect, like a double-act, spitting out dirt and laughing.
‘It’s fine,’ Paul said, looking up at Helen. ‘Not a problem, I promise.’
‘What about going with both our names?’ Adam asked. ‘What about Adam-Paul?’
‘Paul-Adam sounds a lot better,’ Paul said, and the two of them were suddenly fighting. It was played for laughs, though, and they flapped their hands at each other, like a pair of old women swinging handbags, getting sillier by the minute until the vicar had to shout at them from the graveside; letting them know in no uncertain terms that they were upsetting the mourners and that he really needed to get on.
Helen woke up.
The pillow felt sopping and spongy, and the baby was kicking and kicking. Like he’d had enough, heard enough; was ready to come out and make her feel better.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Wave knocked on the door of the stash house, yanked at his dog’s chain and ordered him to sit. He waited, then leaned close to the door to shout; told Sugar Boy that if he’d been asleep he was going to get woken up with a good kicking.
‘No sofas and PS2s when you’re back on the corner, you get me?’
It was Friday and Wave was keen to go about his business. To get what he’d come for and call in at all the other places he collected from. Pass on the takings to the usual faces and pocket his commission; get himself papered up good and proper for the weekend.
No need to queue at the ATM, and he didn’t need a PIN.
He dug out his key and opened the door, pulling back the dog to let him know who should cross the threshold first. He raised his voice as he stepped inside, slammed the door shut, letting Sugar Boy know for sure that the Wave was about to come crashing down on him.
Sugar Boy was sitting on a wooden chair next to the sofa. Wave took a step towards him, the pit-bull straining in front, but stopped when he saw the two men move out: one from the bathroom; one from the bedroom at the back.
Each man had a gun. Both had been fitted with silencers.
Sugar Boy started to cry.
Wave dropped the dog’s lead and reached towards his pocket, but the smallest shake of the head from the bigger of the two men was enough to tell him he was being seriously stupid. He raised his arms, said, ‘Just take all the cash. I’ll show you where.’
The older man turned and shot Sugar Boy, then turned back quickly and shot the dog.
Wave cried out and dropped down, scrabbling across to throw his arms around the dog. He pressed his face to the animal’s neck and squeezed, only dimly aware of the fact that Sugar Boy was still alive; of the moans coming from the other side of the room. He opened an eye in time to see the older man step across the low table to finish off Sugar Boy with one in the top of the head.
‘Right, now then,’ the big man said.
Wave pushed himself up to his knees and took a deep breath. He tried to speak but it came out as babble. There was blood in his hair and smeared across the side of his face.
‘You can tell us about the money if you like, but it won’t help.’
‘I’m getting paid anyway,’ the older man said.
‘This is about Paul Hopwood.’
‘The fuck’s he?’ Wave spluttered.
‘He was a police officer, waiting for a bus.’
Wave raised himself a little higher, spread his arms; getting it. ‘This the Hackney business, yeah? Shooting at that car.’
‘The Hackney business,’ the big man said.
Wave looked relieved. His shoulders dropped and he managed something like a smile. He ran hands through his hair. They came away bloody. ‘This is a serious fuck-up then,’ he said. ‘Lines of communication and all that. That was a complicated business.’
‘Pretty simple from where that copper was standing.’
‘There’s stuff you need to know.’
‘So, tell me . . .’
Clive listened while the man on his knees reeled off the facts that he hoped might save his life; while he tried to stay calm and pass on his information. Clive was certainly interested, putting together what he was being told with something that Jacky Snooks had said.
Piecing it all together, ready to tell Frank.
When Wave had run out of steam, Clive asked if there was anything else he thought might be important. Wave said that he’d told him everything he knew and was trying to stand up when Clive shot him twice in the chest.
Clive and Billy exchanged looks, each letting the other know that they had done well. Then they dropped the guns into the canvas tool-bag that Billy had brought with him.
‘You want to look around?’ Clive asked. ‘See if you can find this money he was on about?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Up to you.’
Billy said that he wasn’t too bothered, so they started to tidy up.
By the time Helen had got back the night before, there had been a message from Jenny, saying that she hadn’t meant to upset her; that she was sorry if she’d said the wrong thing. There had also been a message from Roger Deering, asking how she was doing. And another hang-up which may or may not have been Adam Perrin.
Listening, she had thought about whoever had rung her bell and walked away. Her run-in with Kevin Shepherd. About the black Jeep she had begun to look for every time she left the house.
She called Jenny in the morning and left a message to say that everything was fine. She didn’t bother calling Deering back. The dream had left her oddly positive and she’d woken feeling good about having things to do; things that had to be done. While they might be unpleasant, they would not involve chasing her own fat arse, hating herself for what she was doing and growing to hate the man she would have to bury in a few days’ time.
She called Paul’s mother and they talked through the arrangements. It was the warmest conversation they’d had in a while. Helen realised that not knowing when and how she would be able to say goodbye to her son had made Caroline Hopwood unusually awkward and unable to deal with people. She could only hope that, now things were finally being organised, there might be a similar return to normality in herself, too.
There needed to be, if this baby was going to have a mother worthy of the name.
They sorted out the music and the flowers, an
d Helen was assured that the vicar conducting the service would make a good job of it. He was someone they’d known a long time, Paul’s mother told her, and he had officiated at Paul’s sister’s wedding.
‘So he knows the family . . .’
Caroline had been as super-efficient as ever, and had already drawn up a contact list. Helen was asked to call any friends with whom Paul’s family had had little contact. This was more or less the same group of people she had told about his death almost a fortnight earlier. She phoned Gary Kelly and Martin Bescott, other colleagues, and some of the lads Paul played cards with every now and then. She tried to keep each conversation short and sweet, and was grateful when she got the chance merely to leave a message.
One call was always going to be harder than the rest, but it was one Helen had promised to make. She knew instinctively that he would be there, invited or not, even though his name had certainly not been on the list Paul’s mother had made.
‘Helen . . .’
‘Oh . . . yes.’
‘Your number came up on the phone,’ Linnell said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. I was just calling to let you know about the funeral.’
‘That’s good of you. I was starting to wonder.’
‘They’ve only just, you know, released Paul’s body.’ Helen was pacing around her living room as she spoke. She could hear music in the background. The volume dropped suddenly and she heard Linnell clear his throat.
‘I’ve got a pen,’ he said.
She gave him the time and venue for the ceremony itself. She didn’t say anything about what they might be doing afterwards and was grateful he didn’t ask.
‘What about flowers?’ Linnell asked.
‘You don’t have to.’ Helen had already foreseen the scenario of Paul’s mother browsing among the wreaths, asking who had sent each one and how they were connected to Paul. ‘In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’
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