The Two O'Clock Boy

by Mark Hill

  Gordon Tallis (44) made the fatal decision to return one last time to the burning building and was overwhelmed by flames.

  Firefighters arrived at the scene late on Wednesday night and battled the blaze into the morning, but the building was gutted by fire.

  Sergeant Harry Crowley of Hackney Police told the Express: ‘Gordon was a respected figure in the local community. He loved those kids, and it was absolutely typical that he went back inside – he was a man who cared too much.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Flick slapped the desktop angrily. When she looked up, the cleaner had returned and she blushed. ‘I’m sorry. Just one more minute.’

  Of all the people, it had to be him.

  Another body was discovered in the blaze, but has yet to be identified. Police are concerned for the safety of 14-year-old Connor Laird.

  ‘Connor is a vulnerable lad,’ said Sgt Crowley. ‘He panicked during this awful tragedy, and we ask him to come forward – if only to let us know he’s safe and well.’

  Hours earlier, Mr Tallis had welcomed High Court judge Leonard Drake and his wife Myra to the home on a special visit, as reported in the Hackney Express last week. The blaze destroyed the building in the early hours, as last week’s Express went to press.

  Him. She was still annoyed at seeing her father’s name.

  ‘Get a grip, Flick,’ she muttered.

  A photograph below the article showed the aftermath of the blaze. A double-fronted three-storey house was gutted, its windows blown out, the broken timber of its roof protruding into the sky like the ribcage of a vast animal. A fire engine was parked in the foreground of the photo and two police cars. Figures pointed up at the smoking husk.

  It all seemed so long ago, so irrelevant. Except that it wasn’t. Flick had never been one of those coppers who put her faith in instinct. She trusted the process, and liked to build cases slowly and methodically, accumulating layer upon layer of evidence. But she sensed that this photo, these clippings, held the key to the deaths of Kenny Overton and his family.

  Flick called Eddie Upson’s number. The clock on the wall said: 6.34 a.m. He’d only gone home a few short hours ago. She realised she was being selfish, and was about to hang up, when he answered.

  ‘Yeah, guv.’ His voice was groggy.

  She picked up a pen and a scrap of paper. ‘Sorry to wake you, Eddie.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He yawned. ‘I like to take a freezing shower first thing, then read the Bible for an hour. What can I do you for?’

  ‘Does the name Connor Laird ring any bells to you?’

  ‘Connor what?’

  ‘Connor Laird.’ She spelled it. ‘L–A–I–R–D.’

  ‘Uh.’ She heard the rustle of his duvet. ‘Nope, should it?’

  ‘What about Elliot Juniper?’

  ‘Juniper?

  ‘Like the berry.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘Deborah Willetts.’

  He grunted, no.

  ‘What about Amelia Troy?’

  ‘Like the artist, you mean?’

  The penny dropped. ‘Thanks, Eddie. Get back to sleep.’

  ‘I’ll be in as soon as I can, boss.’

  She put down her pen. ‘There’s no hurry.’

  Gathering up the cuttings – not noticing a Post-it note flutter to the floor – Flick rested the pile on her lap and closed her eyes. Another wave of tiredness washed over her and she felt her weight slide towards her feet, as if she were melting into the floor. A plinking noise next door jerked her awake.

  The cleaners had gone. The lights in the Incident Room flickered on, and Dudley Kendrick walked in. He waved through the glass as he turned on his computer, taking out a coffee and a croissant from a paper bag. The smell of it made Flick’s stomach rumble.

  Looking at her phone, she remembered that her sister had rung a couple of times yesterday. In the chaos of events she hadn’t had the chance to call her back. Flick had no business phoning anybody at this time on a Sunday morning, but Nina’s kids would already be rampaging around the house, and her sister would be up with them, so no harm done. But when Flick rang the number it was Martin, her brother-in-law, who answered.

  ‘Flick,’ he said, in that Aussie drawl of his.

  Hearing Angel and Hugo screaming in the background, the burble of the radio and the flatulent sizzle of something on the pan, Flick had half a mind to head straight there. Martin’s fry-ups were legendary, and she could do with some cuddles from the kids, maybe grab some sleep. Flick was at their house so often she kept a change of clothes in the spare bedroom, her own toothbrush in the bathroom. Nobody could begrudge her a few hours after working through the night.

  ‘I know it’s early,’ she said.

  Usually, Martin would give her an earful of good-natured abuse for calling so early. But all he said this morning was an awkward, ‘yeah’, and she worried again that something was wrong between him and her sister.

  ‘Nina’s in bed. Coral was up half the night with a tummy bug.’

  ‘Is she okay?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘She’s fine, but mother and child are sleeping off a shit night.’

  ‘It’s just, Nina called me. Do you know what about?’

  ‘You know what?’ She sensed that he was choosing his words carefully. ‘I think she should probably talk to you herself.’

  ‘Is everything okay there, Martin?’

  ‘Do I need a lawyer, Flick?’ He laughed. ‘Look, we’re all great here, but it’s not a good time. Angel – don’t hit your brother!’

  ‘I’ll speak to her later,’ she said. ‘If you think—’

  ‘I’ve got to go. The eggs are burning and Angel’s war with Hugo has just gone to Defcon One. It’s just another day in paradise, Flick.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Lucky you.’

  She waited for a reply, but he’d already rung off. Flick dropped the phone onto her desk and stretched. A walk round the block and breakfast in a local café would be sensible.

  But there was one more thing she wanted to do. Switching on her computer, Flick waited for it to boot up, then clicked on a search engine and typed in: Amelia Troy.

  17

  Elliot burned with guilt and shame when he saw Owen Veazey at his usual table in a tatty pub clinging to the edge of an estate in Harlow. Owen had been a regular for donkey’s years. Elliot remembered seeing him there a decade ago, when he was still knocking about on the edges of the local criminal element, and the place had looked rundown even then.

  Low and squat, and built with the same bleak functionality as the maisonettes that surrounded it, the pub was hunched at the end of a paved precinct where half a dozen anorexic trees were planted in squares of mud and dog shit. The pub’s entrance and its windows were topped by half-closed shutters, like metal eyelids, which protected it from vandalism when it was shut, and its customers, a shabby swarm of derelicts and old fellas, from the attention of the local constabulary during its highly irregular opening hours.

  If you were unfortunate enough to be wandering in this part of town before breakfast on a Sunday morning, you’d be hard pressed to know it was even a pub. The sign had fallen off years back, and it was in nobody’s interest to put it back on again.

  Wall lamps threw sour brown light over the scruffy interior, despite the hard winter glare outside, so that Elliot felt like he was trudging along the bottom of a muddy pond. A few Sunday-morning diehards sat at the bar watching girls twerk and grind on a music video. A fruit machine burbled against a pillar, bursting occasionally into a noisy instrumental version of ‘U Can’t Touch This’ as lights raced up and down its panels.

  ‘Sit yourself down, Elliot.’ Owen rose in greeting. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  He was an older man, with a tanned, wrinkled face and neat short back and sides, pressed trousers, comfortable loafers, and a mustard golfing sweater. He owned a number of these jumpers, Elliot remembered, in a variety of colours. When Owen sat, he carefully lifted t
he creases of his trousers, a proper pair of slacks, between thumb and forefinger. He was an incongruous sight in this grubby pub, dressed in his Pro-Celebrity tournament clobber, while everyone else pitched up in shapeless grey joggers and football shirts.

  ‘It’s been too long, Elliot.’ Owen’s soft voice was often lost against the whirl of the fruit machine. ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘You too, Owen.’

  A wiry, sharp-faced man with a harelip came to the table, four pints wedged between his stretched hands.

  ‘This is Perry,’ Owen gestured at the man, ‘an associate of mine. We saw you coming and took the liberty of getting you a drink. It’s cooking lager, I’m afraid, not much demand for microbreweries around here.’

  ‘Cheers, Owen.’ Bren slurped his pint.

  Elliot didn’t recognise Perry, and didn’t care for the way the man barely acknowledged them. Instead, the newcomer licked a finger to turn the sports pages on a tabloid.

  Owen sipped his pint. ‘We don’t see you around any more.’

  The way he talked, it was like they were close friends who had drifted apart. But the truth was Elliot could count on one hand the number of occasions he had met Owen. The last time had been when he had just met Rhonda and was spending every moment he could with her, when it was a revelation to him that he might live an honest life. But everyone around here knew about Owen Veazey: his reputation, the kind of activities he was mixed up in. Lending money wasn’t the half of it. Elliot had for once used some common sense and kept his distance.

  In fact, now that he was here with Owen and his charming friend Perry, Elliot was fast coming to the conclusion that he was on the verge of making a terrible mistake and hardened his resolve. Owen’s terms, he decided, would have to be bloody good. Elliot would take a lot of convincing about the loan. If he didn’t like what he heard, he would get up and walk out.

  ‘Life takes you in different directions,’ he told Owen.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth?’

  The old man clocked Elliot smearing his sweaty palms on his jeans. ‘I appreciate how difficult it is for you to come to me. Nobody in their right mind, let’s face it, would approach Owen Veazey for money. You’d have to be mad or desperate. Which are you, Elliott, mad or desperate?’

  ‘A little bit of both, probably.’

  Owen nodded. ‘Tell me what it is you’re after.’

  The fruit machine whirled excitedly as a couple of blokes fed coins into its slot, and Bren turned to watch them play.

  ‘A short-term loan.’

  ‘How much are we talking?’

  ‘Thirty grand.’

  The old man raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if working out the numbers. ‘That’s a lot of money at short notice, even for me.’

  There was still time for Elliot to go home and fall on Rhonda’s mercy. Tell her how he’d lost the money. The only thing Elliot was guilty of was being a fool – if being a fool was a crime, Elliot would be serving life – but he clenched his fists, certain she would never believe him.

  ‘I’m not going to ask why you need it.’ Owen flicked a look at Bren, who was mesmerised by the machine’s spinning reels. ‘It’s none of my business. But there would be consequences for you and for your family if you borrow money from me. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do,’ Elliot croaked.

  ‘Have a drink.’ Owen gestured to his glass. ‘Bren tells me you’ve a wife and kid.’

  ‘We’re not married.’ Elliot sipped the pint, but the lager didn’t shift the frog in his throat. ‘He’s not my boy.’

  ‘Do you love them?’

  ‘Very much.’ he said. ‘They’re …’

  Truth was Elliot didn’t want to diminish his devotion to Rhonda, and to Dylan, by describing it to Owen. The old man seemed to sense his reluctance, and smiled.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Elliot. I’ve had three – no …’ He frowned at Perry. ‘How many wives have I had?’

  ‘Four.’ Perry’s eyes never lifted from the paper. ‘Last time I counted.’

  ‘That’s right, four.’ Owen grinned. ‘Lovely ladies, all, except the second one. She was a fucking nightmare, to be honest. But as you can imagine, I’m no angel either. Point is, I know how difficult it is to keep a relationship together. So I’m going to put my cards on the table, Elliot, because I like you. We don’t know each other very well, but Bren speaks very highly of you, and that’s good enough for me.’

  Steeling himself for the conditions of the loan, Elliot resolved again not to agree to Owen’s terms straight away, not to make any rash decisions. He didn’t want to be paying him back till the end of days.

  ‘I could lend you money.’ Owen clicked his fingers. ‘I could lend it to you just like that. But you know how I operate. You’ve probably heard the horror stories. Because if I lend you money, Elliot, you’ll be paying me back for years, decades even. There’d be so much interest on the loan you’d never get the monkey off your back. I’d be on you, and Perry would be all over you, like a second skin. Your relationship with …’

  ‘Rhonda,’ said Bren.

  ‘Your relationship with Rhonda will deteriorate. I’ve seen how this goes, Elliot, many times, and it’s not pretty. I don’t want that to happen to you. Which is why I’m not going to lend you the money.’

  Dumbfounded, Elliot gazed at the bubbles popping on his pint.

  ‘Where most people are concerned, I don’t give a toss,’ continued Owen. ‘I hope you understand my thinking on this.’

  ‘It’s just a short-term loan.’ The machine behind him burst into song and coins clattered into its tray. ‘Until I can find the man who—’

  ‘There is no such thing as a short-term loan. Not in my world.’

  ‘Bren said you—’

  ‘Bren made a mistake. I appreciate his bringing you along, it’s always good to catch up with old pals, but I’m not going to be able to help you.’

  Elliot felt sick. He didn’t want to be in this pub, with its nicotine-stained walls and creaking furniture and tired clientele, the noise from the fruit machine so loud that he could hardly hear himself think. But he couldn’t go home empty handed.

  ‘When Rhonda sees the money is gone, she’s going to leave me.’

  Owen raised the pint to his lips. ‘But at least you won’t be up to your neck in debt.’

  Elliot scraped back his chair and dropped his head into his hands. He was out of options, and would have to fall on Rhonda’s mercy.

  He had no idea how long he was slumped like that when he heard Owen say: ‘Bren, give us a moment.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Elliot heard Bren’s grunt of effort as he climbed to his feet, felt a quick, reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. When Elliot sat up, the blood drained from his skull, making him light-headed.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Owen, ‘I’ve a suggestion. I’m a man down on a job I’ve got coming up. A little bit of breaking and entering.’

  ‘No.’ Elliot physically recoiled.

  ‘Hear me out before you say no.’ Owen moved his glass out of the way, to lean forward. ‘It’s at the house of a retired couple. In your neck of the woods, as a matter of fact. He was a banker, a broker, something like that.’

  ‘No.’ Elliot shook his head.

  Perry threw down the paper. Started probing his gums with a finger.

  ‘I know for a fact, and don’t ask me how, that this couple keep a lot of cash at home,’ continued Owen. ‘We’re talking thousands, tens of thousands. And they’re away right now. So what I’m proposing is—’

  ‘No,’ Elliot said.

  ‘Bren tells me you did some time for burglary back in the day. I need someone with experience, a bit of know-how, to accompany a friend of mine,’ he nodded at Perry, ‘into the house within forty-eight hours, before they come back from holiday.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Elliot stood. ‘That’s not me; I haven’t done that for—’

  ‘I understand. Please, don’t feel insult
ed.’ Owen raised his palms. ‘You’ve a problem and I saw an opportunity. It seemed a way to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.’

  Elliot just wanted out of there. ‘Thanks for the offer, but—’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ The old man rose and clasped his hand tightly. Elliot felt a corner of card stab into the flesh of his thumb. ‘A short-term loan. No interest, no hassle. Could be in your account by tomorrow.’ When Elliot stared, Owen let go. ‘Point taken.’

  Perry nodded. ‘Bye, then.’

  Sunlight burned into Elliot’s eyes when he got outside. He squinted at the business card with Owen’s number on it. He didn’t want it, would tear it up as soon as he got home, that’s what he’d do. Striding across the estate, a flimsy supermarket bag dancing around his ankles, he lit a B&H. Halfway to the van he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Wait, Ell! Hold up!’ Bren waddled towards him, wheezing.

  In his agitation, Elliot had almost left him behind. He turned angrily. ‘What else did you tell Owen about me?’

  Bren caught his breath before he answered. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He knew I’d done time.’

  ‘He asked about you.’ Bren looked confused. ‘He wanted to know the kind of man you are.’

  The kind of man you are.

  ‘He asked me to do a job.’ Elliot’s cheeks pinched as he sucked bitterly on the cigarette. ‘A one-off, he said, and he’d lend me the money, interest free, in return.’

  Bren didn’t seem outraged by what Owen had suggested or, it seemed to Elliot, particularly surprised.

  ‘That’s Owen all over.’ Bren shrugged. ‘He don’t mean anything by it. He’s just trying to help.’

  ‘Trying to help!’ Elliot lurched forward. ‘Hell will freeze over before I do that again, do you understand?’

  ‘Okay, then.’ Bren stepped back. ‘We all know where we stand. No harm done.’

  Elliot walked quickly to his van, wanting to be out of that dismal place. Didn’t care, right at that moment, if Bren came with him or not.

  18