“They already have those. Try again.”
“Make them share your vision?”
“Getting warmer,” said Swanson, his eyes twinkling, “try again.”
“Threaten them?”
“Bullseye, Mr Larkin! Best of all, a combination of all three. Focus my team’s minds. Keep them in line. And for that I’d need associates.” Swanson’s smile grew.
The sub-text behind the politician’s words slowly started to dawn on Larkin. “You … conniving little bastard! You set me up!”
“And didn’t you do the same?” Swanson’s expression was suddenly stern, business-like. “I needed results, Mr Larkin. I needed loyalty. I didn’t want any bad apples on our side. I’d known Ian Houchen for years. He’d done some investigating for me before and I knew I could trust him. He and I hatched the plot together. He was going to do it alone, but he decided he needed help to make the plan effective. He mentioned you. I knew of you by reputation and thought you sounded perfect for the job.”
“So you used me?”
“Don’t get high-handed with me, Mr Larkin. It’s exactly what you were doing, and for exactly the same reasons. Putting on a bit of moral pressure.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Not pleasant being on the receiving end, is it?”
Larkin could feel the anger welling up inside. He sat on his hands to stop himself from lashing out. “So what about Houchen? How did he die?”
Swanson’s face lost its smile. “Ah. Well that’s where our story takes a rather disturbing twist. Houchen was killed because he knew too much. And I would like to see his killers brought to justice. But, again, I can’t do it alone. I need your help.”
Larkin was becoming intrigued, despite his better instincts. “Go on.”
“Right,” said Swanson, “I’m taking a big risk in trusting you with this. But I think I can. I think you’re on our side.” His face was earnest, wholly sincere. “In the course of us setting up our – little exercise to keep the troops in line, a tape came into Ian’s possession. A snuff tape. Extremely unpleasant. A recording of the death of Jason Winship.”
Larkin’s heart skipped a beat; his stomach turned over. “How?”
“You might not believe it, but Ian was a very good investigative journalist. One of the best. I paid him well, but he wasn’t one of society’s consumers, so I imagine his children will be well-provided for. He wasn’t the moral crusader type, just a bloody good workman. And he had a God-given gift for nosing out a story.
“Well, he knew someone who knew someone who knew someone … etcetera. You know how it is. The course of his investigations led him to a house in Northumberland which I believe you yourself are acquainted with.”
“Yeah.”
“Unfortunately, his spot of breaking and entering didn’t go unnoticed. Ian was terrified. He came to me and I took the tape and put it in a safe place. The person who owned it wanted it back and sent out his two pet Rottweilers to retrieve it. Unfortunately their efforts were a little over-zealous. The fire was a convenient cover-up.
“That left me with a dilemma. I wanted to expose the murderer, but I didn’t know how. You, on the other hand, were closing in on the paedophile who made the tape. So you were my best bet.”
Larkin was stunned. “But why didn’t you just go to the police?”
Swanson threw back his head and gave a bitter laugh that startled both of them. “You haven’t got it yet, have you? The reason I can’t go to the police is because Jason Winship’s killer – the person you call the Third Man – is none other than Chief Inspector David McMahon.”
Larkin sat there in shock. He couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d found out he’d done it himself. “That’s ridiculous! It can’t be him!”
“Why not? Because child killers and child abusers are supposed to be sick little outsiders with no self-esteem? Oh, he’s all of that. He’s also very good at masking his true identity, and let’s not forget how well-connected the man is.”
Larkin sat in silence, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You still don’t believe me? Then try this. Remember the brother I told you about? The one who had the hellish childhood? Endured experiences that might send anyone a little crazy? Well, that’s him. Look what a monster he’s become. Conclusive proof of the nature-nurture argument, wouldn’t you say?”
Larkin stumbled to his feet. “This is the biggest load of bollocks I’ve heard in my life.”
Swanson stood also, his face deadly serious. “Look, I’ve had to live with the knowledge of what my brother is for years. But I thought it was only theory with him. I thought whatever – tendencies – he had were controlled. I didn’t think he’d take the risk, to be honest. I was wrong. And he’s gone way too far this time. He’s got to be stopped.” Larkin began to walk away. “What about the tape, Mr Larkin? If you saw that, would it change your mind?”
“It would certainly help,” said Larkin.
“And when you saw I’d been telling the truth? Would you help me?”
“If all this checks out, I reckon I would.”
“Then let’s go,” said Swanson, heading for the stairs. But as he reached the top step he stiffened, began slowly to retreat back into the room.
“What’s up?” asked Larkin. Swanson’s face was ashen.
“You might well ask,” said a half-familiar voice, ascending the stairs.
A figure was making its laborious way up, one step at a time. It seemed to be having trouble with its right leg. Nothing wrong with its right arm, though – an automatic was firmly clenched in the figure’s right fist. As the man reached the top of the stairs, Larkin had no trouble identifying Umpleby. And the figure following close behind was none other than Grice.
“Remember the two Rottweilers I mentioned?” said Swanson, turning to Larkin, his voice shaking. “Well, here they are.”
“Dead right,” said Umpleby, a murderous gleam in his eye. “We’ve met your little friend before, Swanson. You mentioned something about going to get a tape. Not much point making two journeys. We’ll all go, shall we?”
23: Showtime
Larkin and Swanson were marched, as inconspicuously as possible, down the spiral staircase and through the main bar of Milburn’s. Larkin was tempted to shout out that someone had a gun against his back and make a dash for it, but the bar was now full to bursting, and it would be impossible to run from the line of fire.
The four men made it eventually to the front promenade overlooking the Tyne. Since it was a warm summer evening, drinkers were spilling all along the waterfront, gossiping, guffawing. The crowds were less sparse than inside, however; it would be easier to dodge through. As he walked, Larkin mentally worked out his escape plan. Unfortunately his thought processes must have shown in his features because suddenly Umpleby’s twisted face was nose to nose with his.
“Don’t even think about runnin’, you piece of shit,” Umpleby snarled.
Larkin looked at him, holding eye contact. “You’re grimacing, Umpleby – what’s the matter? That knee giving you a bit of gyp?”
Umpleby drew back as if to strike Larkin but, aware of the watching crowds, struggled to contain himself. “Funny fucker. You’ll be laughin’ on the other side of your face soon.”
“My mother used to say that,” said Larkin with as much cockiness as he could muster. “I never did work out what it meant.”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Now, go.”
“Where?”
Umpleby gestured to Swanson who stood in front of Grice. The MP’s earlier bravado had disappeared; he looked defeated, crushed. “Wherever he says.”
“It’s not far,” mumbled Swanson resignedly.
They started walking, Swanson leading. Past the newly developed quayside area, all the way to where the completed buildings ran out and the skeletal husks of half-finished ones loomed. Frameworks of steel, surrounded by scaffolding and planking. Four main buildings, all to be interlinked, ten storeys high: the jewel in the Rebirth Of The Region
crown. The area was surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped chainlink fence. The gates were, of course, locked.
“You got a key?” asked Grice insolently. “Or do we have to throw you over the fence?”
“I’ve got a key,” said Swanson, fumbling in his pockets. He found it and began inserting it into the padlock. Before the gate could open, Umpleby placed his hand on top of Swanson’s.
“There’s no guard dogs here, is there?”
Swanson shook his head.
“No cameras? Night watchmen?”
Swanson pointed upwards. “Surveillance cameras,” he said, turning the key, slipping the padlock from its chain and pushing the gate open. They entered the yard and stopped, waiting.
Swanson turned to them. “Look,” he said, his voice trembling, “there’s really no need for all this. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Umpleby and Grice didn’t reply; Swanson took that as his cue to continue. “I’m a very wealthy and influential man. This spot of bother could be sorted out quite amicably — ”
He was silenced by Grice swinging his pistol butt, slamming it into the side of Swanson’s face. He crumpled immediately to the ground, a spurt of blood flying from his mouth.
“Shuddup, man. We haven’t got all night.” Grice’s eyes were shining, as if the sight of blood had excited him.
“We’ve got work to do,” said Umpleby. He dispassionately regarded Swanson’s prone form. “Now, where’s the cameras controlled from?”
Swanson stumbled slowly to his feet. “Construction office. Over that way.” He didn’t look at Larkin, didn’t raise his eyes. He was beaten.
“Get a move on, then.”
The construction office consisted of two portakabins joined together. The first one was set up as a meeting and presentation room: whitewashed, chairs and a table, TV and VCR. The back room was clearly used as an on-site office; battered desks, phones, old, chipped mugs in a dirty sink. On an end table sat two monitors hooked up to a VCR. The surveillance system.
Umpleby motioned to Grice, who crossed to the monitors, switched them off and removed the tape, thrusting it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll deal with that later,” he said.
Swanson crossed to the far wall and crouched down. Larkin realised he was examining a floor safe, cemented and bricked in, raised from ground level to the cabin’s floor.
“In here,” Swanson said, spinning the dial and opening the door. He pulled out a seemingly innocuous VHS tape in an anonymous white card slipcase. He straightened up and passed the tape to Umpleby.
“This the right one?” Umpleby asked.
Swanson nodded, eyes downcast.
“I wanna take a look at it.”
Swanson had expected Umpleby to say that. He moved through the other office and silently set up the TV and VCR. He took the tape from Umpleby and inserted it. The four men sat down in the dark to watch.
“Anybody got any popcorn?” asked Grice, sniggering.
Video static bounced off their faces. Then the tape began.
The first thing that appeared was a bare, brick wall, painted black. Larkin immediately recognised it: Harvey’s cellar. The sound was fuzzy; although the cellar was empty and silent, the atmospherics picked up by the cheap mic gave it a boomy ambience.
Suddenly the camera panned down, jerkily focusing on a young boy, naked. He was lying on the stained mattress Larkin had seen in the cellar. Jason Winship. He seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep; perhaps whatever they had plied him with was wearing off. He looked bruised, wasted.
The camera lurched back, was locked off. Into the frame came a hooded, naked man, middle-aged but in good shape, sporting an erection. He bent over Jason, caressing the boy’s cheek with the back of his hand. Jason’s eyes began to open, and his lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak. But he didn’t get the chance. His mouth was suddenly, and roughly, filled with the man’s penis.
His choking screams and the man’s coarse, rhythmic grunting forced Larkin to turn his head from the screen. He thought he might actually be sick. He looked towards Swanson. The politician’s eyes were unfocused and his lips were moving in a silent conversation with himself. Or his past, thought Larkin.
Larkin looked at their two captors. They were watching the screen impassively: eyes, faces, bodies motionless, like things of stone, guns still clenched in their fists. Impossible to tell if they were enjoying it, or if they too were repelled. Larkin knew, though, that if he made a bolt for the door they’d be on him like a collapsing brick wall.
Drawn by the sort of morbid interest that compels an onlooker to a road crash, Larkin’s eyes reluctantly returned to the screen.
Jason was putting up quite a fight. He was scratching and clawing at the masked man, with all the strength his small form could muster. His tormenter had had enough. He took the boy firmly by his shoulders, fingernails biting deep enough to draw blood, and brutally smacked his head against the wall.
Immediately the lights went out in Jason’s eyes. Free of the man’s steadying hands, the boy slid down the wall, leaving a glistening slug-trail of blood just visible on the black brickwork.
The man, panting with excitement and exhaustion, pulled off his hood. DCI David McMahon. His eyes were lit by a dark light, and his lips were drawn back into a feral grimace. He carefully moved Jason back onto the mattress. Then, smiling, he knelt down and went to work.
What happened next was the most clinical and all-encompassing form of lust and brutality Larkin had ever witnessed. Jason was sadistically beaten, his fingers snapped, his bones broken. He was repeatedly buggered. One man’s hatred and self-loathing was forced into and on the young boy’s body. As the attacks built to a frenzied crescendo, Jason began to regain consciousness; McMahon, seeing this, put his hands round Jason’s neck, squeezing hard, lips drawn tightly back over his teeth exposing white, bloodless gums. As the final sparks of life were leaving the boy, McMahon reached orgasm. Then the body fell, lifeless and limp, from the man’s hands.
McMahon straightened up and made his way round the room, like a victorious athlete doing a lap of honour in the Bizarro Olympics. After that, he moved to the camera, leered into the lens, and switched it off.
The screen returned to static.
As Grice removed the tape, Larkin realised his face was wet with tears. Grice noticed this and turned on him.
“You fuckin’ soft shite,” Grice sneered. “Look at the state of you.”
“I always cry at love stories,” Larkin snarled back.
“You soft shite,” Grice repeated contemptuously.
“Is that what your dad used to say to you when he was fucking you up the arse?” Larkin spat.
Grice landed Larkin a left-handed hook which connected with his cheekbone, knocking him off his chair and sending blinding flashes to his eyes. Larkin immediately sprang up and lunged for Grice’s right arm, the one holding the automatic. Slow-witted, Grice didn’t have the speed to defend himself successfully, and Larkin made a grab for the gun, yanking his wrist down hard, praying he could do some damage. Grice groaned, his hand went limp and he dropped the gun. Larkin swiftly fell to his hands and knees, reaching for it, but Grice countered with a vicious, booted kick that caught Larkin under his left collarbone and sent him sprawling.
He lay there on the floor, holding his injured shoulder. All he could see was the barrel of Umpleby’s automatic, pointed straight at him, the black tunnel an unblinking eye watching his every movement.
“Finished your lovemaking have you, boys?” Umpleby jeered. He turned to Swanson, who was so still he could have been struck by paralysis. “Not much of a mate, are you? Where’s your sense of loyalty?”
Swanson flinched; Larkin could tell that the politician was almost catatonic with fear.
“So this tape,” said Larkin, pulling himself painfully to his feet, “is this what you were looking for at my place the other night?”
“Yes,” replied Umpleby. “And we’ll pay you back for what you did to
us.”
“What I did to you? You destroyed my CD collection. If anyone is entitled to revenge, it’s me!”
“You’re not in a position to do anything,” said Umpleby smugly.
“I can set a few things straight,” Larkin continued. “I didn’t have a clue until tonight what was going on. I suppose I should be flattered by the attention.”
“Be what you like,” replied Umpleby, sneering.
“Why are you doing this?” asked Larkin.
Umpleby rounded on him. “Why d’you think? We get paid. You spend all your life being ambitious, working your bollocks off to get to CID, up to Special Crimes – because they’re the tops, they’re the best coppers there are,” said Umpleby bitterly. “You specialise in murder cases because that’s where the prestige is. And then you get there and you find … what? Nothing. You notice other cops have got nice little sidelines going; Drugs, Vice, Robbery … all on nice little earners. Chances to skim. But not us. We just get less money and the satisfaction of a job well done.”
Umpleby sat down, seizing the opportunity for self-justification. “McMahon got wind of how we felt. And he made a proposition to us. Bit of looking the other way, bit of strongarm – that sort of thing.”
“By strongarm, I take it you mean murdering Houchen? And Noble and Harvey?”
Umpleby looked, slightly, embarrassed. “Well … yeah. Houchen – that wasn’t really meant to happen. And the other two – you can’t tell me anyone’ll miss them. We just – did a bit of tidying up. For McMahon.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” asked Larkin. “Covering up for a child killer and a nonce?”
“Did at first. You get used to it,” Umpleby’s brow furrowed. “As I said, we get handsomely rewarded for it. And McMahon’s takin’ too many chances. He’s not going to be around forever.”
“I suppose you’ll see to that.”
Umpleby shrugged non-committally.
“You’re telling me an awful lot,” ventured Larkin, his heart sinking as he began to realise why.
Umpleby gave a cruel smile. “Thought I’d satisfy your curiosity. Wouldn’t want you to die unfulfilled.”
Little Triggers Page 20