by David Mark
Bosworth says nothing. She calls up the next image in the file. Francis Jardine, in his heyday, small and wiry and tough as old leather. It’s a colour image, but his beady eyes are black as ink.
‘Would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ says Bosworth, softly. ‘Headline-grabber.’
Deakin considers the suggestion. Shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, flatly. ‘No, it fucking wouldn’t. It would be like finding out you’d just pissed off the devil.’
Bosworth weighs it up. ‘It’s their MO,’ she muses. ‘The location; the wounds – that’s why we’re here, after all. And if the old man’s still alive, why not his monster? He’s no spring chicken but we don’t know he’s dead. And even if not, just because we’ve got nothing on Alison doesn’t mean she’s clean. That name carries a lot of weight.’
‘We go to the boss with this and we’ll be laughed out the building,’ says Deakin. ‘Money laundering. People trafficking. Who’s buying up Newham and what do they want it for? That’s the brief. This is what comes with cherry-picking, Cass. Francis Jardine’s off-limits. Daughter too. And certainly not that … thing …’
Bosworth drains her tea, a bad taste in her mouth. She imagines the front page of the Evening Standard. Imagines a Queen’s Police Medal around her neck. ‘Your snouts and mine, they all say the same thing. Big man. Scarred. Old. Kills like cancer …’
‘I’m not making the case, Cass,’ says Deakin, flatly. ‘Not telling the boss we’re interested in interviewing the boogeyman.’
Bosworth gives a snort of laughter, and the impulse to do the right thing fades away. She closes the laptop, decision made. She’s going to leave things alone. Larry Paris’s death is somebody else’s problem. Adam Nunn, and whatever secrets he’s hiding, have nothing to do with her investigation. If she’s lucky, Nicholas Kukuc will turn up dead and she’ll be able to make a case that he was responsible for this particular corpse, and no doubt a few others as well.
They stand, grateful to have reached an understanding.
As they head for the door, neither takes the time to look up. Were they to do so, they would perhaps glimpse the tiny black device secured to the flickering strip-light on the dirty ceiling. They might trace the transmitter to the adjacent interview room, where a digital transmitter relays it on to an unregistered mobile phone: confidential information pouring in like water.
As Bosworth closes the door, laptop tucked under her arm, she feels a moment’s disquiet, as if she has shirked a duty, or chosen the easy path. She forces herself not to indulge in the sensation. She is paid handsomely to make such choices. She does what is best by those who pay her wages. And she is certain that to pursue Jardine’s monster would cost the taxpayer dearly. The funeral bills alone would amount to a fortune.
PART TWO
SIXTEEN
The 11.42 South Western service from Portsmouth Harbour to King’s Cross
October 27th, 12.48 p.m.
Visibility is down to yards. The view from the window is blurry, dirty. The landscape flashes by too quickly to be anything more than colours and shapes. House, barn, house, village, dark green, light green, water, industry, house, house, a new development of red bricks and brown roofs, house, graffiti-daubed siding, deserted station, pocket of trees, birds speckling the sky like tea leaves in an empty mug, a scattered handful of livestock, green, green … The countryside swishes by in frames of paper snowflakes and black doilies; through the twisted, patterned arms of bare, soot-darkened trees.
Adam sits and tries to read the newspaper one more time, but the words are as vague as the landscape and his eyes just seem to blur and sting. He looks at his watch. Not long now. Wishes it nearer. Wishes it further away.
He gets up and walks like a cross-country skier, holding onto backs of chairs and headrests, to the toilet. Checks his reflection, and doesn’t mind it. Not showy. Not deprived. Not making a statement, other than casual indifference. Grey suit trousers with a neat seam, black vest, zip-up black cardigan, matching suit jacket and expensive, Crombie coat. Fifty-pound shoes with embroidered tongues. Hair the right side of messy. Dark eyes.
He texts Zara. Apologizes for his quietness these past two nights, staring at the wall as if stripping off the paint, lost in his thoughts – too preoccupied to return a kiss.
I love you, Zara. You make me the best version of myself. I know I’m hard work. I promise, I’ll be worth it. I’m working through some stuff but you’re my certainty, I swear. xxx
He returns to his seat, and fidgets.
Texts his Mum.
Sorry if I’ve been a bit off with you. You’re the best. Love you.
Deletes it without sending.
Thinks. Chews on his lip. Cleans his fingernails with his fingernails. Tries to check his teeth for crumbs in the reflection of the window, but finds his near-transparent image uncomfortably weak and inconsequential. Looks at the time and curses.
House, farm, town, green, green, field, pocket of trees, red bricks and brown roofs …
On …
On.
Raindrops jewel the lenses of Alison’s sunglasses and plaster her hair to her face. She makes no move to wipe away the droplets or to push the lank strands behind her ears. A rat-tail of fringe has worked itself behind the arm of the designer specs and hangs like a sodden shoelace against her damp cheek, blotched with hastily applied make-up and a mascara splatter-pattern.
The walk in the bracing rain has done nothing to clear her head. Her brain feels muddy. Her insides fit to burst. She walked through the snooker club with her practised swagger, but when she made it to the office she toppled over, reaching the desk for support and hauling herself into the chair. She’s been lost to herself for days. She’s failed to return important phone calls; let debts go uncollected, palms ungreased. She’s been lost inside her own head, running down corridors and trying the locked doors of rooms she has worked so hard to forget.
‘Pam,’ she mumbles, the way she has countless times since the voice bled out from the answerphone. She had an extra slug of gin in her orange juice at breakfast time. Sent Jimbo out to pick her up a bottle of Mateus Rosé from the shop on the corner, then had to shout at him and send him away when she uncorked it and took a sniff. This was always their drink. This was what she and her best pal used to neck while they listened to T-Rex and did each other’s make-up and called each other silly names.
‘Call her back,’ she mutters, glaring at the telephone, eyes unfocussed. ‘It’s probably bollocks. Probably lies. A copper, trying it on. Some chancer. Think bigger than this. Come on. Be who you are.’
She hears her own voice as thin and far away. She is a teenage girl again, asking Daddy what has happened to her friend. She is standing still as a cardboard cut-out, listening to the screams carry across to the big house from the gamekeeper’s lodge. She is listening as Daddy tells Irons to hold himself together: to leave the Dozzles alone; that there are alliances to be considered before something as simple as revenge can be entertained. And then she is looking into the tear-filled eyes of Priya, the personal nurse hired by Mr Jardine to look after all of Pamela’s needs. And she is telling her the grotesque, painful truth.
‘She couldn’t take it. There was too much sadness in her to go on. I’m so sorry, jaanu. She swallowed her bandages – stuffed them down her throat and swallowed and swallowed until she couldn’t breathe …’
Alison sits with her chin cupped in her hands, nibbling the expensive glittered beads from the tips of her pink-and-white fingernails, wishing she had somebody to talk to. Her friends are ladies of a certain age who don’t really know how to talk to her. Her eyes glaze over as they criticize the men in their lives; as they compare the prices of Bahamian holidays and fantasize about the masseur at the private clubs where they have themselves pampered and preened to some foul approximation of beauty. Perhaps she could call up an old school acquaintance, eager to pretend their teenage years were more fun than they really were. The men in her life are fleeting, and purpose-picked
for their lack of sensitivity. She feels utterly alone.
Alison jumps as the phone on the desk rings, loud and bright, cutting through the low base thump of the rock music, which blares through from the snooker hall.
Sniffing, wiping her eyes, she picks up the receiver.
‘Snooker club,’ she says, drowsily.
‘Hi, look, I hope this is the right number. It’s stored in my phone.’
‘Yes?’
‘Look, this is Adam Nunn. I’m on my way up. I tried phoning the number that your text came from but got no reply, so I’m trying this number. I just wanted to say the train’s running a wee bit late so don’t think I’ve bottled out or anything …’
Alison feels the world tip; a buzzing in her head. She squeezes the phone.
‘I don’t understand …’ she begins.
‘So I’ll see whoever’s meeting me at the station, yes? Is that right?’ The phone crackles and cuts out for a second, before the voice reappears, faintly.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ she says, panic rising. ‘Did somebody contact you? Who was it?’
‘I’m sorry, you’re cutting out …’
‘Was it a man?’
‘I’m losing you …’
‘A young man or an old man?’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
Alison drops the phone and pushes herself back from the desk, her hands in her hair, her mouth half-open. Him, she thinks. Pamela’s boy. You spoke to him.
For the first time since she embraced the reality of who she was and stepped into her father’s shoes, Alison doesn’t know what to do.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this train will shortly be arriving at Leigh-on-Sea. On behalf of myself and the rest of the team, I would like to thank you …’
The train slows, and Adam blunders his way to the door. He leaves his paper on the table. He likes to travel light. Unencumbered. He was always the same at school. Pen in his top pocket; Portsmouth FC shirt under his uniform on PE days.
The train rattles to a halt and Adam looks through the grimy windows at a bleak vista of grey pavements and metal railings; a constellation of pinched cold faces and feet clad in sensible shoes. He pushes the door handle. Nothing happens. Pulls. Nothing. Pushes again, and out, with force, left foot first, onto the platform.
The wind cuts like a Stanley knife. The hairs on his arms rise up like the topmasts of a ship-in-a-bottle. Adam thrusts his hands in his pockets and sets off through the dozen or so passengers and guards in a direction that looks like it’s the exit. He catches himself mumbling, asking himself questions about where he should be going. Up some stairs, across a platform, down some more, past pigeons and chewing gum, graffiti and litter, through London accents, past kisses hello and goodbye, feelings rising in him like a bruise, and then into a softer, more natural light, oozing through from a high window. He walks past the ticket office, feels the air grow colder, fresher, wetter, and emerges onto the street in front of the station.
Three taxis sit in the rank in front of the station. The car park is half full, and the main street beyond is a damp, flickering tableau of young mums and pushchairs, old ladies under umbrellas, well-wrapped couples holding hands, shivering office workers holding greasy bags of pastry and running back to desks. Adam feels like shrugging. Lighting a cigarette. Stamping his feet.
I’m here, he’s thinking. Now what?
Three doors swing open on a white Golf GTI in the car park. Four people get out. Three young men, one young woman. The men can’t be older than twenty, and are dressed like a boy band on its arse. Tracksuit tops over polar necks, or stripy T-shirts. Tracksuit bottoms tucked into white socks, which feed into whiter trainers. Two wear baseball caps, another, who got out the driver’s seat, wears a woollen hat over curly blonde hair. His tracksuit has a more expensive sheen to it, a fancier label. None have shaved, or look like they need to very often. The girl is dressed similarly, but her tracksuit bottoms are pink and her jacket is a white, hooded waterproof. Her hair, the colour of sunflower oil, is scraped back to reveal dainty ears skewered by large golden rings. She is carrying an empty bottle of Dr Pepper, and holding it as if it were a child. All are smoking cigarettes, and with the doors of the vehicle open, a cloud of smoke is curling upwards to freedom from the inside of the car.
The doors close, and the four communicate something important to each other with a series of shrugs, grunts and nods of the head. They see Adam, and there is more muttering. Then they approach, slouching and furtive.
Adam would not let these people into a nightclub. Were he Prime Minister, he would not let them breed.
The one in the bobble hat accepts the girl’s hand in his and they take the lead. Getting closer, Adam realizes they are both good-looking, but senses that this will change before they hit twenty-five.
‘Hi,’ says the young man in the woollen hat, smiling, showing nice teeth and extending his hand. ‘We’ve been asked to collect you.’
Adam pauses for a moment. Something feels wrong. He doesn’t like to make snap judgements about people but there’s nothing about this group of people that suggests they are in the employ of an untouchable crime boss. They look as though they should be standing at a bus stop, eating a sausage roll and sharing a joint.
‘You all right?’ asks the leader, jerking his head back as if tugged by a string. ‘Staring like a goldfish, you are.’
Adam closes his mouth. Fixes on a smile. ‘Much appreciated,’ he says, taking the youngster’s hand in his. It is soft, and warm. ‘I’m Adam.’
The four smile and shrug and look at each other, then the girl says, ‘You’re quite nice looking.’
‘That’s sweet,’ says Adam, surprised and pleased. ‘You’re a bunch of stunners yourself.’
Nobody smiles.
‘Shall we maybe make a move?’ asks the lad, gesturing to the car, and Adam hears the same accent that he heard on the telephone. His vision of a lawyer in a business suit evaporates.
‘We’re going to see Mr Jardine?’
The others giggle, and there is much smiling between themselves. Adam licks his lips, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry. He’s beginning to feel anxious. There’s a crackle of static in the air, the taste of iron on his tongue. The enormity of the situation suddenly threatens to overwhelm him. It’s a struggle not to give in to laughter – to erupt at the sheer absurdity of where he finds himself. He considers his options. He can say no, get back on the train, and end this now. But he knows that he won’t. He’s in the grip of this thing now. He needs to know more. Needs to understand. More than anything, he doesn’t want to be rude. He gives a shrug. ‘After you.’
The lad in the woollen hat leads them back to the car and opens three of the doors. The others return to the doors where they exited, save Sergio Tacchini, who stands behind Adam, at the rear offside, while the other lad in a baseball cap reaches across from inside the car and opens it. Adam winces into the teeth of the gale as the rain blows in slantwise. Looks up to see a brutish, thick-necked gull glaring at him from atop a razor-wire fence.
Adam senses it before there is any movement. There is a stiffening of the wind, a thickening of the air, and then the lad behind him is on his back, something cold and light and plastic rustling against his face and a hand stiff, bony, on his face and neck. Adam feels strength in the boy’s arms, feels his own lips burst. His instincts spread out from his centre as rays from the sun, and he jabs back with an elbow that catches his attacker in the sternum, with a sound like somebody slamming an encyclopaedia on a wooden desk.
Adam turns his head as the boy staggers away, his hat askew, the bin bag in his hand trailing on the floor. He sees no immediate threat from this side and turns back to the car, just as the wind grabs the half-open door and slams it into Adam’s knees. With a grunt, he bucks back, as the other lad inside the car reaches out and grabs him by his coat, pulls hard …
The other lad, angry, sore, struggling to get his breath, shoves Adam again, hard i
n the back and he pitches forward, banging his jaw on the car roof. He is shoved and pulled, leg banging against the car door, his hands grabbing at the webbing around the roof, and he feels more hands, reaching through from the front seat, dragging, tugging, wrenching him into the space in the tiny car, and he is trying to find room to swing his fists, jaw aching, neck starting to stiffen, adrenaline white water in his veins.
Another shove, a kick to the knee, and then he is inside, weight on his back, shouts and swear words in his ears, a girl’s shrieking laughter, and they are doing fifty mph in second gear, tearing into the traffic on two wheels, one door still hanging open, one boy hanging out and shrieking for help. Adam, thrashing, elbowing, lashing out, sucking the bin liner into his mouth and almost choking as it is wrenched down past his eyes, and his world becomes a dark, angry place.
Adam feels as though he has been turned inside out. The darkness inside himself closes over his face, is pulled tighter, closer, tighter again, until he feels like a made thing, a Christmas cracker toy, a vintage wine bottle melted down and melded, with inferior glass, into something larger and less beautiful.
The blow comes, hard and final. The doors close, the car finds the right gear, and Adam, because nothing else occurs to him, lets his eyes close, and his body fall still and silent.
The only thing he cannot mute is the voice, deep in his head, in an accent at once naughty-schoolboy and ministerial.
Is this what you wanted?
Is this exciting enough for you?
SEVENTEEN
2.12 p.m.
The bag comes off with a flourish, as though a magician is revealing his showpiece. Adam blinks out at a small, cheap bathroom, with dirty blue tiles and white walls and a shower over an enamel bath which is streaked with grey dirt and errant, curly hairs. The room is lit with a bare bulb, and the frosted, small window is ajar. There are strange dark blobs floating in the air in the top left corner of the room. They move as Adam tilts his head. He blinks and they disappear before flooding back like ink dropped on plain paper. When the pain comes, it’s bearable. He feels more numb than anything else – dizzy, disorientated and sick.