In the Dark

by Mark Billingham

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to come,’ she said.

  He looked uncomfortable in his suit, with his neck bulging slightly above a collar that was clearly too tight. ‘I just wanted you to know that we’ve seen the crime scene manager’s full report.’ He lowered his voice. ‘That we’ll be making an arrest tomorrow.’

  ‘Right.’ Unless something she didn’t know about had happened, she had a good idea who they would be arresting. ‘I’d like to be there.’

  The look said that he’d been expecting that reaction. ‘I’ll see what I can arrange,’ he said.

  She told him she was grateful. ‘What about the people in the car?’

  ‘Well, we know we’re looking in the right place.’

  ‘A gang war.’

  ‘Not exactly. We traced the owner of the stolen Cavalier when he tried to make an insurance claim. He didn’t want to tell us very much.’

  ‘Surprise.’

  ‘But we persuaded him to come down and take a look at the bodies of the boys who were shot.’

  Helen nodded. She knew that police officers could be more persuasive than usual when it came to catching someone who’d killed one of their own.

  ‘He identified two of them as being in the group that had nicked his car. So, as I said, we’re in the right place.’

  ‘But . . .?’

  ‘It’s not a gang war. Or if it is, it’s pretty one-sided. So, we don’t know who’s shooting these kids, but we’re fairly sure they’re . . . the right kids.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, this isn’t really the time. I just wanted to let you know we’re getting there . . . and to say “sorry”.’ He flicked the order of service against his fingers. ‘And . . . good luck.’

  ‘Do you have kids?’ Helen asked.

  ‘One on the way,’ Thorne said. ‘Not anything as far gone as yours, but . . . on the way.’

  ‘Well, best of luck to you, too.’

  He was already turning to go, smiling at Helen’s father who was passing him in the other direction, on his way to the car.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Friend of Paul’s,’ Helen said.

  Her father held the car door open and she slid in next to Paul’s parents. Last one in, her father sat opposite, moving his jacket quickly out of the way so that the undertaker could close the door. He leaned across and patted Helen on the leg, asked how she was bearing up.

  They were back at the house by four. Paul’s father opened the living-room doors on to the patio while Caroline and a few of her friends laid out the food. The sandwiches were on platters from M & S. There was cold chicken and pasta salad, cakes and mixed berries.

  ‘No sausages on sticks,’ her father said.

  Helen sat on a sofa out of the sunlight and talked to Gary Kelly, who perched on the arm, trying to juggle a paper plate and cup. She told him how good his reading had been.

  ‘I fluffed one of the lines,’ he said.

  ‘Nobody noticed.’

  ‘I just wanted it to be perfect.’

  She reminded him about Paul’s guitar and told him to come round and pick it up whenever he wanted.

  ‘We were singing that night,’ he said. ‘The Rolling Stones at the top of our voices. The woman at the bus stop told us to shut up.’

  ‘That was usually my reaction when Paul started singing,’ Helen said. She watched Kelly wander back to the table to refill his glass. He looked as though he wouldn’t be straying too far from the drinks, and she couldn’t blame him.

  She wasn’t alone for long. There were perhaps thirty people in the house, and she couldn’t count too many who didn’t come across at least once to ask if there was anything she needed. If there was anything they could do. She usually just asked for more water or another sandwich.

  Jenny and Tim came over after an hour or so to let her know that they were leaving. There was a babysitter to sort out. Helen told her sister how attentive everyone had been, and how wearing it was becoming.

  ‘People are just being nice,’ Jenny said.

  ‘I suppose.’

  Jenny leaned down to kiss her. ‘You’d be pissed off if everyone ignored you.’

  ‘It’s weird, though,’ Helen said. Not a single one of them mentions . . . you know what.’ She pointed melodramatically at the bulge beneath her dress. ‘I don’t believe they haven’t noticed. I know black’s supposed to be slimming, but that’s bloody ridiculous.’

  Once her sister had gone, Helen sat returning smiles until her face started to hurt, then wandered out onto the patio. She found Paul’s father sitting on a low wall, smoking. He looked as though he didn’t want anyone to see him.

  ‘Paul used to do that,’ she said. ‘He’d sneak out on the balcony. Like I didn’t know.’

  Paul’s father took a long drag. ‘You women always know.’ And another. ‘We can’t get away with anything.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He was a sly little sod, mind you, even when he was a kid.’ He smiled sadly through the smoke, remembering. ‘You never knew what he was up to.’

  The old man didn’t seem to want to say too much more after that, so Helen walked around the garden for twenty minutes, until her legs began to ache and she had to go back inside to use the toilet. Afterwards she sat near the door, thanking people as they began to leave. She was able to tune out after a while, to pull the right faces while she thought about what Deering had told her, and what Thorne had said outside the chapel.

  She knew now that the break-in the previous night had been no ordinary burglary, and it was a fair bet that the boys who had been in that Cavalier when Paul was killed had not been acting alone. Now, somebody was killing them. Perhaps the person who had hired them wanted to make sure they could never tell anyone.

  ‘God bless, love.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She wondered if those investigating Paul’s death were starting to put the pieces together themselves. Or if she knew more than they did.

  ‘We’ll be thinking of you.’

  ‘I know you will. Thank you.’

  After conferring with her father, she let Paul’s mother know that she was about ready to head back. It was never going to be an easy get-away.

  ‘We just presumed you’d want to stay.’

  ‘I know you’ve got a houseful already.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly. We’ve made up beds for you and your dad.’

  ‘I should really get back,’ Helen said. ‘I think I need to be close to home, you know?’

  ‘This is your home too, Helen.’

  ‘All the same . . .’

  At the door, Caroline Hopwood hugged her and said that she wanted to do everything she could to help in bringing up her grandchild. It would be lovely if it was a boy, she said. She didn’t have a grandson. Helen promised to let her know as soon as there was any news and, when her father drove them away, she waved from the car window, all the way to the first corner.

  It was gone nine o’clock by the time they reached Tulse Hill, and although it was still light and sunny outside, the flat seemed cold. Helen was exhausted, but she hadn’t known quite how badly until she’d waved her father goodbye and all but fallen through the front door. She made herself tea and got out of her dress and tights. She sat on the balcony in her dressing gown and tried to let things settle.

  ‘Sly, even when you were a kid then, Hopwood?’

  She wondered how long it would be until she stopped talking to him. If it would happen before she could no longer see his face clearly.

  Inside, she took the order of service from her bag and smoothed out the crease in the card. It ran through the picture of him on the back. In the end, the music chosen by Paul’s mother had been nice, but Helen was still angry with herself for not standing up to her a bit more.

  Worried it had looked like she didn’t care.

  She searched through Paul’s old Queen albums until she found the track she wanted. ‘Who Wants to Live Forever?’ was still playing on repeat fifteen
minutes later, when she slipped into bed.

  She lay there as it grew dark, listening to the music and wishing that she could tell Paul about the day. That they could laugh about it. Wishing that it had still been like that between them before he’d died. Wanting to curl up, and to smash things, and to hurt whoever had left her feeling like this. Whoever had scooped the hole out in the middle of her. She lay there, and the kicks inside were like little screams.

  She was due to have her baby in two days.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘I thought it was nice,’ Laura said.

  ‘They’re usually . . . nice, though, aren’t they?’ Frank had carried a tray of breakfast things through to the conservatory. It was a gorgeous morning and he enjoyed looking out at the garden while he ate and flicked through a couple of the papers. ‘“Nice” is so bloody . . . safe, though,’ he said. ‘Don’t you reckon?’

  ‘People like to feel safe when they’ve just lost someone. How else would you want them to feel?’

  ‘Just for once I’d like to see a funeral that says something about the person who’s died, you know? That tells you a bit about what they were really like.’

  ‘I thought what that police officer said was really moving, and the readings . . .’

  ‘Yeah, nice, I know.’ Frank shook his head. ‘That copper was probably saying the same thing he says at every one of these. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting people should be dancing around and telling jokes or anything like that, but there should be a bit more . . . celebration or whatever. And a bit less God poking His nose in wouldn’t hurt, either.’

  Laura smiled. ‘I like all that, too.’

  ‘Paul didn’t have a religious bone in his body, and his girlfriend doesn’t strike me as a God-botherer either, so what’s the point?’ He took a bite of toast and sat back in his chair. ‘Paul would have hated all that. He’d’ve sat there taking the piss out of the vicar or trying not to fall asleep.’

  ‘I think somebody got out of the wrong side of bed.’

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t have a great night.’ He stared past her, out across the back lawn. The garden looked good, though he needed to tell the lazy sod that did it to take a bit more care with the edging. ‘I’ll seriously miss him, that’s all. Need all the friends I’ve got, my time of life.’

  ‘You’re not old, Frank.’

  ‘Feels like it sometimes.’

  ‘Course you’ll miss him,’ Laura said. ‘I’ll miss him, too.’

  ‘It would have been great if yesterday had been about him a bit more, that’s all I’m saying. His personality, you know?’ He flicked crumbs from his shirt onto the plate. ‘Maybe I’m just getting awkward as I get older.’

  She came and sat down next to him. ‘Maybe you’ve been to too many funerals.’

  The Clapham branch of the Workz was probably much the same as all the other high-end gyms and health clubs across the city: chrome, steel and smoked glass; extra-fluffy towels and chi-chi toiletries; a hefty annual membership fee which was a decent incentive to go twice a week for a few months, until you realised that life was too short to waste time on a rowing machine.

  Helen sat in the corner of the salad ’n’ smoothie bar, flicking through a brochure while she waited. She’d been on the phone since before seven, organising things, and it felt good to have mapped out her day already. This would be a nice way to kick it off.

  She watched Sarah Ruston come down the stairs from the women’s changing room; watched her toss a bag onto a chair and walk across to the bar to order something. Her hair was tied back, damp, and she wore a sleek, black tracksuit with red piping. The face seemed much improved, even from a distance, though her arm was still in a sling.

  Looking pretty good, though, all things considered.

  Ruston turned, sucking at the straw in her drink, and saw Helen stand and wave. Her eyes widened, and after a few seconds she picked up her bag and walked across. ‘What are you . . .?’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve not got very long, I’m afraid. I’m supposed to be meeting Patrick.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Helen said. ‘I’ve only got a couple of minutes myself.’

  Ruston sat down on the edge of a chair. Her eyes stayed low and she noticed the brochure on the table. ‘Thinking of joining?’

  ‘Well, it would be nice to get back in shape once I’ve got rid of this.’ Helen smiled. ‘But at six hundred quid a year, I think I’ll just try and do a bit more walking. Maybe go mad and buy a workout video.’

  ‘Yeah, it is a bit steep,’ Ruston said. ‘I wouldn’t bother, but membership comes with the job. They’ve got one of these places near the office, and we get to use all of them, so . . .’

  ‘So, why not?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re a bit bloody keen, though, aren’t you?’ Helen nodded at the sling.

  Ruston tried to smile and lifted her arm. ‘Actually, I took it off when I was working out, and I only did an hour on the treadmill. Probably get rid of it for good next week.’

  ‘Even so.’

  Ruston sipped at her juice.

  ‘I always think it’s weird,’ Helen said. ‘Coming to places like this, sweating like a pig and trying to keep your body beautiful, when you’re filling it full of shit the rest of the time.’ She looked for a reaction. ‘What is it? Crack? Coke as well, I should imagine.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I mean you wouldn’t step straight off the treadmill and walk into a pie shop, would you? Doesn’t make any sense.’ A female employee in a tight white coat walked close to the table. Ruston looked up hopefully, but Helen paid the woman no attention. ‘Slumming it a bit, though, I would have thought, going all the way across to Lewisham to buy the stuff. Isn’t there some nice city boy in an Armani suit who could have sorted you out?’

  The blood had left Ruston’s face fast, the all-but-faded bruises a little paler suddenly.

  ‘You must have owed them plenty,’ Helen said. ‘I mean, you’ve got to have one hell of a hold over someone to make them do what you did. Something like that. Or maybe you were so off your Botoxed face that you didn’t even think about it . . .’

  Ruston cried for almost a minute. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and kept her head down; there wasn’t too much noise. Helen watched, and loved it.

  ‘I don’t need to hear a sob story,’ she said, when Ruston finally looked up. ‘You know, before you start wasting your breath. I think, considering where I was yesterday, I might be the wrong person to try that out on, don’t you?’

  She’d let them get all the details later, in an interview room, but Helen could hazard a decent guess. A City high-flyer with a high-maintenance lifestyle and a very expensive habit. Credit cards long maxed out and debts piling up, until the supplier you’re into for serious money comes up with a novel way to pay off what he’s owed. The lovely house around the corner was probably mortgaged up to the hilt, unless the older, richer other half was taking care of it.

  At that point Helen wondered how much Patrick knew.

  ‘I didn’t have any choice,’ Ruston said.

  Helen could have flown across the table at her then, told her that the choice between settling a bill or killing someone might normally cause a person to stop and think a bit. She could have punched every word of it into her.

  ‘They threatened to hurt my family.’

  ‘What do you think you did to mine?’

  Now, Ruston was fighting to get it out over the sobs; clawing at the arm of her chair and shaking her head; wiping away the snot with a sleeve. ‘I didn’t know anyone was going to be killed. They didn’t tell me anything. They just showed me where . . . what speed to drive at . . . I didn’t know who . . . the . . .’

  ‘Who the target was?’ Ruston opened her mouth, but all that came out was a cracked whine, like a nail on a blackboard. ‘You drive a car at someone, it tends to do a lot of damage.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘You will be.’

&nb
sp; Helen stood up and moved around the table when she saw Patrick come breezing across the atrium towards them. She leaned down and took a firm grip on Ruston’s damaged shoulder; said it nice and calmly, so Ruston would know she meant every word. ‘I wish you’d broken your neck.’

  If Patrick was at all thrown at seeing her, he didn’t show it. He jerked a thumb back towards the entrance. ‘What’s all the excitement? There are two police cars outside.’

  ‘Sarah might be tied up for a while,’ Helen said. She could see two officers in the reception area, brandishing warrant cards at the woman behind the desk. A couple more were on their way in, pushing through the glass doors. She’d thank them on her way out.

  She stopped in front of Patrick before she left. ‘Just to let you know. I couldn’t give a fuck about your BMW.’

  Theo carried his plate across to a table in the corner, then went back for a couple of tabloids that had been read and left sitting on the counter. It would kill half an hour, maybe. He guessed that this was what it was like to lose your job, except that there hadn’t been any notice, and getting laid off didn’t usually involve wondering when you were going to get a bullet in your head.

  Everything had fallen apart since they’d found the bodies in the stash house. The police had gutted the place and the sniffer dogs had gone crazy. Now it was just one more empty flat in the block. All the business had ground to a halt, with punters buying elsewhere and everyone in the crew standing around on corners wondering what was going to happen; when someone was going to tell them what to do next.

  A few days before, Easy seemed to have got things sorted - smoothing everything over and reorganising the stock and the selling. But Theo hadn’t seen him since Saturday night. Nobody had. Truth of it, he was getting sick of the others asking what Easy was doing and where he was.

  Theo had called him plenty of times, but Easy’s mobile was switched off or the battery had died.

  Or whatever.

  There was still stuff about the murders on the front pages, but nothing he hadn’t seen before. Seemed like they were just rehashing old stories to keep up sales, while they were waiting with bated breath for the next one. Like they knew it was coming. He thought about how Easy had gone mental outside the bar; how he’d nearly given them another body to get all worked up about.