by David Mark
TWELVE
7.52 p.m.
Adam fiddles with the car radio, searching for distraction. Nothing seems to satisfy. The classical station is too funereal. Each concerto is suddenly a dirge, a tribute piece to a fallen general or lost love. He flips to a commercial station. Somebody is singing about their heart being in a headlock, and Adam wishes, not for the first time, that ears were fitted with the same benefits as eyes. He wonders whether ear-lids may be the next evolutionary step. He switches off, angrily, and listens to Tilly sing a song of her own. She’s bouncing around in her car seat, holding aloft a Happy Meal toy she has found, smiling at herself in the mirror.
‘… mold Ocdonald ee-i-o … tinkle minkle starr …’
Adam wishes he could just stay put in the moment. To catch his daughter’s eye and make her laugh until bubbles pop from her nostrils. Instead he keeps drifting back to Larry. To the questions the confident little DCI had thrown his way; about the apocalyptic words his father had stuffed down his throat all those months ago. He feels suddenly disgusted with himself. He doesn’t want to look too closely at the thought, but he knows on some level that a man is dead because he, Adam Nunn, was too shit-scared to have a proper conversation with his parents. He gave three grand to a private investigator rather than push his own mum about how he actually came into the world. He tries, again, to fathom himself out. He feels a fool. He completed more than two years of a degree in biological sciences and yet he had never questioned a damn thing about his own blood. He keeps thinking of all the forms he’s filled in over the years; medical histories, with their sections for hereditary conditions. He’s been worrying for months that his own future contains the same vascular dementia as his father. Worrying about diabetes and angina. Every time he’s lost his temper he’s heard his mother’s voice ringing in his head: You’re just like your father. He feels as though the last few strands of rope anchoring him in place have frayed down to nothing. Feels adrift, unsure even what to hope for.
‘Daddy. Daddy – man. Man!’
Adam glances to his right. A seventy-something man is waving at him from the pavement as the car sits, immobile, at the junction. He’s wearing a three-quarter-length wool jacket, black trousers with a neat seam, and polished shoes. He looks well-to-do. He’s waving at Adam in a way that suggests he wants his full attention rather than an acknowledgement. Adam squints. Too old to be a copper. A threat? He looks capable enough, despite his years.
‘Daddy. Who man?’
Adam glances around. The estate is quiet. No traffic. No noise save the breeze and the gulls. He could drive away. Put his foot through the floor and screech off in a plume of smoke. Instead he checks his mirror then winds down the window. ‘Help you?’ he asks the man.
‘He any better?’ asks the old man, bright and perky, as he crosses the space between them.
Adam looks blank. He frowns. Suddenly recognition dawns. ‘Mr Santinello?’
‘Malcolm, please,’ he says, his voice betraying more than a hint of accent. ‘I told your mum I’d pop round.’
Adam’s head fills with half-remembered images. Mr Santinello. His father’s boss. His friend, too, for the best part of forty years. He took over his immigrant father’s construction firm in his mid-twenties, and turned it into a thirty-man operation. Billy Nunn worked his way up from apprentice to foreman-fitter, and eventually, took charge of the sub-contract teams that Santinello used on jobs further afield. They were close. Loyal to one another. He’d paid Billy’s wages even during the eight months he was off sick with his burns, and invented him an office job close to home while he convalesced. He was a frequent visitor to Adam’s home as a child, and was always full of funny stories and enthusiasm. Adam hasn’t seen him since his father’s retirement party (a lavish affair that Santinello had funded and hosted, and turned into the social event of the season) but the sight of him is suddenly a warming, cheerful thing.
‘I’ve been meaning to catch up with you,’ he says, leaning in. ‘Your mum. She told me.’
Adam isn’t sure how to reply. Told him what? ‘Sorry, mate – you’ve got me there.’
‘Said your dad was getting things mixed up. Saying things he shouldn’t. Upsetting people. Upsetting you, I mean.’
Adam turns down the radio and gives the older man his full attention. ‘I don’t take anything he says seriously,’ says Adam, managing a smile. ‘Like you say, he’s confused.’
Santinello doesn’t seem satisfied. His hands, gripping the frame of the open window, are white at the knuckles. ‘He’s a good man, your dad. Doesn’t deserve to be thought of as anything else.’
‘I don’t think of him as anything else. He’s old. Poorly. But I come see him nearly every day and if I could do more then I would.’
‘That’s good. Family’s what matters, Adam. Don’t ever forget that.’
Adam nods, as if the words are some piece of revolutionary philosophy. He notices the gold medallion dangling at the older man’s neck and feels an odd frisson of jealousy. It’s gold and chunky and matches his designer labels. Adam would like such a piece. He wishes it were around his own father’s neck; an heirloom awaiting collection. At once the thought repels him. He fights with his warring emotions, trying to push down the two halves of himself as they kick and scrap within him.
‘Working hard, are you? Always were a clever one. I know you’ve had your problems but you’re looking well. Family of your own now, I hear. Good for you, mate. Did I hear you’re in security or something? Your mum always sounds so proud of you. I always hoped you’d come work for me some day but your father, he said you had your own plans. Good for you, my friend, good for you …’
‘Daddy! Man funny. Meet Tilly.’
Santinello looks past him, to the back seat. His face pleats into a huge smile when he sees Tilly. ‘Oh, bambino – you are a poem!’
‘Yes,’ says Tilly, nodding, solemnly. ‘Am.’
‘I bet your dad adores her,’ says Santinello, giving his attention back to Adam. ‘She’s a true beauty. Bet you’re proud.’ Then, pointedly: ‘Got your father’s eyes.’
Adam manages a nod of thanks. He doesn’t know why Santinello flagged him down or what his words really mean. Is he referring to the adoption? His real parentage? He can’t imagine his mother ever opening up to anybody about her deepest and darkest secrets but her friendship with Santinello goes back to before Adam’s birth. He would surely have been aware of what was happening. Adopting a child is a lengthy process. There would be meetings, paperwork, endless forms, a paper trail. Adam feels a sudden urge to be direct. To simply ask him.
‘It’s typical, you seeing me like this,’ laughs Adam, ruefully. ‘I’m a wreck – creased to high heaven and desperate for a bath. It’s been a hell of a day.’
‘Oh yeah?’ asks Santinello, making goo-goo eyes at Tilly. ‘Work, is it?’
‘Mix-up with the police,’ says Adam. ‘Don’t mention it to Mum though, you know how she worries.’
‘Coppers – honestly you do have the luck,’ says Santinello, shaking his head. ‘Been misbehaving?’
‘Friend of mine. Business colleague, I suppose. Suffered a mishap. Coppers needed some background. I had nothing much to give them.’
Santinello takes a breath. The silence of the estate hangs heavy as a shroud.
‘Trying to get some answers for me actually,’ says Adam, staring straight ahead. ‘Some of the things Dad’s said since he’s been poorly – they’ve wriggled about in my brain a little. He was trying to find some answers for me. I feel like the worst type of bastard if it led to him getting caught up in something that cost the poor sod his life.’
Santinello nods, not really listening. Turns his attention back to Tilly as if Adam hasn’t spoken.
‘Least said, soonest mended,’ says Santinello, quietly. ‘One of your dad’s mottos, that. Had it tattooed on his chest before the fire. All come off now, of course. Well, you’ve seen for yourself. Goodness he was a tough nut. Barely shed a tear, e
ven as he watched his skin fry like bacon.’
Adam decides to shut up before he wastes any more time. He’s getting nowhere. He’s due back at Grace’s and he wants to take a couple of turns around the ring road to make sure there are no coppers following him. He doesn’t need to be here, trying to nudge an old man into revealing memories he’s kept locked up since 1971.
‘He’ll be pleased to see you,’ says Adam, trying on a smile for size. ‘You’ve always made him laugh. Mum too.’
‘Good woman, your Pat.’
‘Thanks. She can be hard work but her heart’s in the right place.’
‘They all can,’ laughs Santinello, looking more relaxed. ‘My daughters say I’m a dinosaur, old-fashioned; a relic. All because I revere women? How does that make sense? How can I be sexist for thinking women are better than us? I mean, they’re different, of course, but definitely better.’
‘I’m not sure you’ve understood the whole message …’ begins Adam, and is relieved to feel his phone vibrate in his pocket.
‘I’m pleased I’m an old man,’ grumbles Santinello, warming to his theme. ‘I don’t understand the world the way it’s going. Ladies behaving like trawlermen: drinking and swearing and shagging; blokes signing off work for weeks because they’re sad and need to watch daytime telly until they’re better. Nobody gets a slap any more – not even when they deserve it, and if you try to solve somebody’s problems they tell you you’re denying them their chance to work through their pain. Whole world’s going to the dogs. My Angelina, now – God rest her – she was a real lady. Dressed nice, looked the part, cared for me and the kids, didn’t nag, smiled when she got a present and held my hand when things were tough. And now my daughters say she was a fool; that she was downtrodden and I dominated her. Dominated her all the way into a bloody big house and three holidays a year, I said. But that was wrong too …’
Adam gives an obliging smile, though he’s not really listening. He has a text message from Grace. An instruction to call her at once. She thinks she may have done something impulsive and silly.
‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to shoot,’ says Adam, as politely as he can. ‘It’s been good catching up. We should have a proper chat some time.’
‘I’d like that,’ says Santinello, and seems to mean it. ‘I make my own wine. Not very strong but very tasty. And I’ve some old photos of your mum and dad in their glad rags that you might want to keep for the little one. I’ll let you get on. Ciao for now.’
Adam nods again and pulls away from the kerb, flicking the headlights back on to carve two great yellow circles in the darkening air.
‘Home to Mum?’ he asks, looking at Tilly in the mirror.
‘Daddy home?’
He just smiles. Pretends not to understand what she wants.
THIRTEEN
9.11 p.m.
Waldo’s Snooker Club takes up the whole top floor of an old art deco building on the main drag through Romford. It doesn’t look as splendid or luxurious as it did when the interior boasted crushed velvet upholstery and curtains thick enough to stop bullets from a drive-by shooting, but it’s still got plenty of character. There are scars on the parquet floor that were put there in the Sixties by men who fought one another with bayonets and coshes. A forensics team could come swab the skirting boards and find themselves a who’s who of household names. Alison Jardine enjoys having access to this quiet office. It isn’t a grand affair – just a pleasant, green-painted square with a big desk and an Anglepoise lamp, watched over by black-and-white photographs hung haphazardly on the wall. The guy who runs the place always makes himself scarce when Alison comes to do the rounds. Leaves her a black coffee in a thermos and empties the bin before he leaves. Doesn’t even straighten the photos unless they somehow mess with her feng shui. Alison is grateful for the gesture – for his acquiescence to the natural order. Things belong to other people, up until she wants them for herself.
‘That can all be taken care of,’ says Alison, smoothly, into her mobile, sitting back in the battered swivel chair. She’s talking with an associate from Silvertown: a friendly money launderer, who’s struggling to persuade a sitting tenant off his land down Silvertown way. She feels at once like his priest and psychologist – absolving him of guilt while convincing him he doesn’t deserve the bad things that happen to him. She hears herself talk, and realizes afresh just how very good she is at what she does.
‘He’s bitten off more than he can chew and he just needs a way out that allows him to keep his dignity. He’s been sold a pack of lies. We’re all reasonable people, aren’t we? Compromise isn’t a dirty word. And he may have a point – he has been on that land for the past nine years, and while I know you’re going to say that it’s not your fault you got sent down, it does leave us in this tricky situation. But look, we’ll talk to him. He’ll see sense, don’t you worry. Keeping the peace means a lot to me – my father too. Come back to me when you have a figure in mind and we’ll take it from there. You look after yourself now. Be lucky.’
She hangs up. Rolls her eyes. Lights a cigarette and tunes back in to what her son is saying. He’s lounging against the wall; jogging trousers and a muscle vest, chunky gold chains and a baseball cap with a flat brim. He has earrings in both lobes and a tattoo of a bird of prey on his neck. It was done by his mate, against Alison’s advice, and looks to Alison like a tubby parrot rather than a majestic eagle. It’s distinctly boss-eyed and she feels it looking at her wherever she goes, as if it were the Mona Lisa. Alison has heard it said that a mother’s love is blind, but she has never been short-sighted when it comes to her only boy. He’s an ugly, rat-faced, little specimen who, at twenty years old, has yet to master the art of having a conversation without thrusting both hands down his jogging trousers and cupping his gonads. She loves him, but not in any way that makes her want to touch him, look at him, or spend time breathing him in.
‘… all this pretending to be a businesswoman – makes me fucking sick. Just go in there, wrap the cunt in barbed wire and plug him into the wall! Hints are no good. We don’t need subtlety. Put me on it, Mum, I’ll sort the fucker …’
Alison sighs as she considers her boy; questioning, not for the first time, whether the doctor threw away the best part of him when they disposed of the afterbirth. He has always been difficult. Even in the womb he used to feel as though he were wearing football boots. He was born with fingernails like a pop star and clawed her to ribbons on the way out. Wouldn’t sleep as a nipper. Late to walk and talk. Tantrums like an animal. Forever getting sent home from school for bullying the other kids; for torturing the class pets; for telling the teachers he was going to torch their cars, then making good on his promises when they dared doubt him. He would have been expelled were his surname not Jardine. He’s always appreciated the special treatment that the moniker ensures. These past couple of years, since he buddied up with a group of boy racers in souped-up muscle cars and baseball caps, he’s been acting like he’s untouchable. Telling everybody he’s Old Man Jardine’s grandson. Then, when it means nothing, telling them just who Old Man Jardine is. It makes Alison question where she’s gone wrong with him, and Alison doesn’t like to doubt herself. He doesn’t get it, that’s the trouble. Born too rich. Doesn’t understand the art of things being understood, but left unsaid. He even brings his friends back to the house to bother the old boy and try and talk him into sharing stories. Offering to help him. To join the team. Go on the pay roll.
Timmy pushes himself away from the wall and picks up the snooker cue from the floor. He starts twirling it between his fingers like a martial artist. Alison lifts another stack of envelopes from the open leather bag at her feet and places them on the table, then unlocks the desk drawer. It contains two fountain pens, a letter opener, two porn magazines and a wodge of cash the size of a house-brick. She picks out the blade and starts opening the post. She’s spent the morning driving between her various business concerns, picking up mail, showing her face, arranging deliveries.
She likes this part of the job. Likes the look on the big blokes’ faces as they wait for her words of approval. She matters, and she’s mattering more by the day. She’s cost people loved ones and built a boat of broken bones without ever admitting it to herself. She worries, sometimes, what will happen when her father’s illness finally claims him. Who she will be. Whether Irons will still be there. Whether the boys at the clubs will start pinching her arse and calling her ‘darling’ and the envelopes they hand over will grow thin. It’s a thought that troubles her, so she doesn’t address it. She does what she can, while she can, and when her worries get her hot under the collar, finds that fanning herself with a stack of fifty-pound notes relieves the worst of the tension.
Timmy is rambling about some lads who tried to race him last night. Two souped-up Peugeots full of rowdy bastards who reckoned they could force him off the road. Sorted ’em, he’s saying. Burned ’em off. Met ’em again later in Burger King car park and got in their faces. There was more of ’em than us but they were shitting themselves. Spat on the bonnet of their cars and they didn’t say a word. I reckon they knew. Knew who I was, like …
Alison mutters words of feigned interest as she slices open the envelopes. He did her proud the other night at The Rose but her hopes of him learning from the experience and behaving like less of a twat, appear to have come to nought. She wonders whether he has told any of his ridiculous friends about what he did. Wonders, if it came down to it, whether Irons would remove the risk if he ever thought Timmy was too much of a liability. She curtails the train of thought. It’s unhelpful. Turns her attention back to the paperwork.
There are a few bills, some legal documents, offers of credit cards. A notice to stop work on one of their building projects due to health and safety breaches. A letter from the council warning her father, still the named proprietor, that the new smoking ban was compulsory and that there had been complaints from a punter thrown out of his bar in Limehouse. Usual stuff. Problems to be solved but nothing to worry about.