CHAPTER 11
Walking along Finchley High Road, Cuckoo could hear the noise from The Sportsman. It sounded like a party in full swing at – he checked his watch – just after three on a Tuesday afternoon.
At the door of the pub, he paused. The music was loud, punctuated by shouting and laughter. This wasn’t your normal pub atmosphere. This was New Year’s Eve or wedding reception stuff. And since it wasn’t New Year’s Eve, and Abbott had about as much chance of being invited to a wedding as Typhoid Mary, then it seemed unlikely he would even be in there.
Cuckoo was about to turn and go elsewhere when he heard a distinctive voice from inside.
That distinctive voice was Abbott. And he sounded very, very drunk indeed.
Here goes nothing, thought Cuckoo, and pushed open the door.
Inside there were not as many customers as he might have guessed, considering the amount of noise they made. The place was lively but still only half full. As Cuckoo entered, drinkers were raising what seemed to be the latest in a long line of toasts in honour of the memory of someone called Greg.
Cuckoo waited for the toast to end and then made his way to the bar. ‘Abbott,’ he said, placing a hand to the other man’s shoulder. Abbott turned to look at him. His eyes shone, his grin was sloppy, the stink of beer came off him in waves.
‘It’s Greg, man,’ said Abbott. ‘Join us. We’re celebrating the life of Greg.’ He said this last bit loudly, raising the glass, a gesture that was met with a cheer from other regulars.
‘Who is Greg?’ asked Cuckoo.
‘A fallen soldier. A great man. He had cancer. Having cancer is worse than losing a son. I know that now. Yesterday he was sitting where you’re standing. Got taken to hospital. Next thing you know he’s dead. We have to celebrate life, Cuckoo.’
Looking around, Cuckoo saw that what Abbott said made perfect sense. There was a strange sense of wired euphoria among everybody in there. Professional drunks to a man. Broken-down derelicts in waiting. They all knew that they could be next.
‘Abbott, are you in any fit state to talk?’ he asked and was surprised when that drunken sloppy look on Abbott’s face fell away to be replaced by something that might almost have been called alert.
‘Come on,’ Abbott slid off the stool, ‘let’s go outside. Nige, is it all right if we go outside, mate?’
The landlord, throwing Cuckoo a sympathetic glance, waved them away, like mi casa, su casa. Outside, Abbott went to give Cuckoo a hug, but Cuckoo pulled away, holding his hands up. ‘Look, Abbott, I don’t want to give offence, but you’ve smelled better, you know? I thought you were laying off?’
‘I was. I mean, I am.’
‘Just that Greg died?’
‘That’s right. Greg died. I mean, great. If you can’t get drunk then, I mean, that’s . . . when can you?’
‘What was his surname?’
Abbott blinked. His eyebrows bunched together. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘You don’t know but it’s still a brilliant excuse to get pissed? And tomorrow there’ll be another excuse and then another one the day after that. At least now I know why you haven’t been answering your phone.’
‘I have been answering my phone.’
‘I’ve been trying you for about three days.’
‘Have you?’ Abbott looked panic-stricken. ‘God, what if she’s been trying to get hold of me?’
‘She meaning Tess?’
‘No. Britney Spears. Who do you think I mean? We left it that she was going to . . . She was going to contact me so I could go over there one night, for a bite to eat.’ Abbott winked sloppily at Cuckoo.
‘I thought there was nothing romantic between you?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘This is the woman you said lied to you.’
‘She lied to me for my own good. That’s why I love her.’
‘Oh, you love her now?’
‘Mate, I have fucking loved her since the very first moment I clapped eyes on her as a kid. I haven’t stopped loving her. I never will.’ Abbott caught Cuckoo looking hard at him. ‘Yes,’ he said, defensively, ‘even when I was with Fiona.’
‘Yeah, well, I won’t tell her if you won’t. Look, how about we get a coffee inside you, eh?’
As they moved off, Abbott fished around in the pockets of his jeans. Triumphantly he pulled the handset from them. He held up the phone. ‘See? No battery. How did you find me, by the way?’
‘Because you were in here the last time that I spoke to you.’
‘We spoke? When? When did we speak?’
‘A few days ago. Before you went dark. Come on. Coffee. Now.’
When Abbott stumbled out into the street, he was amazed to see that it was only just mid-afternoon. He moved unsteadily along beside Cuckoo, and without the comforting embrace of the pub, he suddenly felt exposed, aware of the wary looks from passers-by, how he suddenly had so much space on the pavement. Some little bit of him that still fed on self-esteem took hold, and he forced himself upright, taking deep breaths so that by the time they had reached a branch of Costa, grabbed a coffee and sat down, he looked and felt almost human.
Cuckoo had pulled a charging cable and plug from his bag. ‘Phone,’ he said to Abbott.
‘Cheers, mate.’ As he plugged in his poor beleaguered phone to charge, he asked, ‘So, was I right? Was she lying to me?’
‘Yes, she was lying to you. Jason Scutter – the same Jason Scutter found guilty of attempted kidnap regarding your brother and then later imprisoned for that and for possessing child pornography – is alive and well and living in—’
‘Not Matlock. Don’t tell me he’s still living in Matlock.’
‘No, he’s no longer living in Matlock. He moved all the way to Derby. He’s supposed to be living there under a new identity but according to the Home Office, he hasn’t been using the new identity, he’s been living under his old name.’
‘Oh yeah? And why’s that?’
‘Well, the reason that he might not feel the need to hide is because he has links to organised crime in the area. He is, apparently, related to the Doyle crew, who basically run the crime in that part of the world. Did you know that? Is that why you asked me to look into his associates?’
‘Wait a minute. Do you have an address for him?’
‘I don’t,’ said Cuckoo, his eyes flicking.
‘Come on. Don’t hold out on me.’
‘Why do you want his address? You’re going to go after him, aren’t you?’
‘I need to talk to him, yes.’
‘Just talk to him?’
‘There are other people in this, Cuckoo.’
‘Dangerous people by the sound of things.’
‘I think I can handle a few Derby gangsters.’
‘The old Abbott maybe.’
‘The old Abbott is in here, mate.’
‘This is a bit more like it,’ said Cuckoo.
‘Don’t patronise me. Do you have an address or not?’
‘Not until you pull yourself together.’
‘I’ve just told you – that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘Sure, and when you’ve done it, give me a call.’
Abbott rolled his eyes. ‘You’re not going to give me it?’
‘Either way, I don’t know it yet,’ said Cuckoo. And that, surely, was a lie to buy time. ‘It’ll take me a few days.’
‘And don’t tell me, I’ve got to use those few days to dry out.’
‘Put a bit of distance between you and your last drink, then we’ll talk. I thought that you were getting yourself straight. Last time we spoke I had distinct vibes. “I just need a purpose,” you were saying.’
‘You don’t think getting drunk is having a purpose?’
‘I don’t think that’s what you meant, no.’
‘Well, OK then, give me one. Give me a purpose.’
Cuckoo exhaled noisily. ‘Christ, it’s all on me now, is it? I’m in charge of keeping you alive?’
>
Now that Abbott’s phone had charged, stuff was happening. Alerts appeared. He reached for the phone, but just as he did, Cuckoo snatched it away. ‘Listen, Abbott, this is serious. I hear what you’re saying. I know that back in special forces you could switch the boozing off at will and pull yourself back into shape when the job required it. But that was before. That was when you were still SF. Alcoholism is a progressive disease. It’s an addiction. It’s not something you can just pull the plug on.’
‘That’s OK, then, because I’m not an alcoholic and not an addict so there’s no problem.’
‘Prove it,’ said Cuckoo.
***
Back on the street, Abbott watched Cuckoo depart, knowing that the other man was right. OK, he told himself, let’s just cap the day’s drinking and then we’ll start anew tomorrow. Inside The Sportsman the wake was still in full swing; if anything, more raucous than it had been before. Even Nigel the landlord was lit up. ‘Well, if it ain’t The Sportsman quiz champ. Can I get you a beer?’
‘Love one,’ said Abbott, assailed by a sudden thirst. As Nigel went off to pull the pint, he checked his messages. There was one from Tess sent a few days ago inviting him to dinner. Had he seen it? He couldn’t even remember. Either way, there was a second text prompting him. ‘Hello? Anyone there? Dinner? Saturday night?’
Abbott fought a wave of panic. Dinner. Tess. Dinner. Tess. Dinnertess.
No fight, no contact, no operation had ever made him feel as off-balance as this. This was the effect Tess had on him.
OK. Calm, calm, calm. So it was only Tuesday. He hadn’t missed the date. He texted back, ‘Love to. Just give me a time and place and I’m there.’
He thought about Tess. About the two of them sitting together at dinner, not in Kettner’s, but in her house. He thought of what Cuckoo had said, and how Cuckoo was right. If he was going to track down Scutter – and if Scutter really was connected – then he needed to be on his game.
He thought about all of that. And by the time Nigel returned with his pint, he was gone.
CHAPTER 12
Saturday night, and a lot had happened since Abbott walked away from that drink in The Sportsman. One thing that hadn’t happened, though. He hadn’t touched a drop.
Arriving back at his digs that night, he’d poured the last of his spirits down the sink. It wasn’t the first time he’d done such a thing, and experience told him that it probably wouldn’t be the last. But it was still a significant act. It was still Abbott saying to himself, Enough is enough.
Before he’d turned in that night, he’d reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted the real reason that his jacket had been so precious to him. Inside was a colour photograph of himself and Nathan at Nathan’s passing-out parade, both in their uniforms, Abbott the proud dad.
Abbott had never wanted Nathan to join up, not when the military had fucked him up, but Nathan had joined anyway – of course he had; he was strong-willed like his father – and once he was there, and when it came to passing out? Well, Abbott had been just about as proud as a dad could be.
And he put that picture on the side of his bed and kept it there. He kept it there the next day when he spent most of it in bed feeling ill but denying himself the cure. He knew that you weren’t supposed to cold turkey on booze. How bad he felt would be a test of how far along the road to alcoholism he had travelled.
The second day, his head was shrouded in a constant fog and his bones ached. There was thankfully no sign of the withdrawal fits that he’d heard about in AA meetings, but even so, it was bad, especially with his alcoholic voice, that AV they always talked about, constantly nagging at him, telling him, Just one drink, just have the one to sort you out. Buy a small bottle. Set yourself a limit of just two a day, OK maybe three a day.
No.
Because what else was it they said in AA? ‘One’s too many, ten’s not enough.’ He didn’t want ‘just one’, because never in his drinking life had he ever wanted ‘just one’. None or many, that was the thing. Preferably many.
At some point he managed to drag himself to the washing machine downstairs, and at one stage he went to the shops, fighting an extra-strong urge to purchase alcohol and coming away with just a pack of sandwiches and a feeling of having scored a major victory.
He got his first decent night’s sleep on Friday night. It was fitful, but at least he slept. During the daytime he visited the barber, got a haircut and then invested in a new black polo shirt. It was a bit of a cheap thing, all that he could afford, but he thought it would smarten him up for a first wear.
Saturday evening, and Abbott dressed. He thought that with his new polo shirt and his freshly cleaned Diesel jeans he looked just smart enough without being offputtingly, desperately well-dressed.
His eyes went to the rucksack that he always carried. In the bottom, wrapped in a towel and fastened with a bungee cord, was the Glock that he preferred to keep close, rather than leaving it in the insecure environment of his B&B room. He’d be taking that rucksack with him, of course, but was it presumptuous to stick a new T-shirt and change of pants inside? More to the point, was it weird to turn up with a rucksack?
Tess was used to him carting a bag around; she wouldn’t question it. Besides, he could distract her by giving her . . .
Flowers. He took a risk and waited until he reached Notting Hill before he went in search of a florist’s. The only one he came across was shut, so he had to make do with a super-market, combining a couple of smaller bouquets to make one big one.
With an A–Z in one hand and his bouquet in the other, he made his way to Tess’s house, thinking that for the first time in what seemed like an age, he felt like a member of the human race. Somebody with problems and God knows how many demons to fight, but someone who was going to face them sober.
Tess’s house turned out to be a large, white bay-fronted villa in a boulevard lined with other, similar houses. There was a weird mix of cars along the street. Gleaming SUVs and high-performance German cars, as well as the odd dusty and dirty relic that looked like it might not have been moved this century.
Abbott regarded the house, shoving his A–Z into his backpack and gripping the flowers, taking deep, nervous imperious, shiny-white front door. He climbed the steps, knocked and waited. He heard movement behind the door and straightened.
The door was opened by a tall, handsome, smiling and friendly guy, who immediately proffered his hand to shake. ‘You must be Alex,’ the man said, ‘I’ve been told so much about you. I’m Phil. Tess’s husband.’
CHAPTER 13
They had it drummed into them in the forces. Never assume. Never assume.
Yet, Abbott realised, as he stepped over the threshold and into the home, still in a state of shock, holding his ridiculous bunch of flowers and with his rucksack slung over one shoulder, assume was exactly what he had done.
It was an assumption that he’d made for one very simple reason: because he and Tess had slept together.
And now, just as it was suddenly apparent that this was an event that had meant hundreds of times more to him than it had done to her – and that in itself was enough to make Abbott want to curl up and die – it had also been enough to dupe his romantic-fool brain into thinking that she wanted to do it again. All that stuff about a ‘return visit’.
All that stuff? What? One throwaway comment? Christ.
You chump. You turkey.
The reception hall was a vast place of white wooden panelling and stylish wallpapers, old money ushered off to one side by the tastefully trendy. Abbott felt engulfed by it all. He tried to pull himself together, still trying as the beaming Phil said, ‘Let me take your jacket.’ He pointed to Abbott’s rucksack. ‘Whoa, you’re not planning to stay the night, are you?’
Abbott still wanting to shrivel up and die said, ‘Just habit.’
‘Of course. From the military.’ Phil leaned forward and in a pretend-whisper said, ‘A little birdie told me it was special forces.’
‘Well, the little birdie knows that I’m not supposed to reveal that.’
‘So I expect you wouldn’t answer my next question, then.’
‘Don’t tell me. Have I ever killed anyone?’
Phil pulled back. ‘No,’ he said quickly, an offended look in his eye. ‘No, that would be crass.’
At that moment, as Phil reeled, Tess appeared.
‘Alex,’ she said, coming forward to hold him in a warm embrace – but a friend-embrace, not a lover-embrace. ‘How are you? How have you been?’ It was all there in her concerned gaze, the reason he had been invited here. Not for the purposes of passion. Never that in her mind. Just out of pity.
Oh, you idiot. You fool.
‘Right,’ Phil clapped his hands together ‘I expect we’d all like a drink.’
‘Perfect,’ said Tess, leading them through into the dining room. ‘Alex, because you’re my friend and my guest, well, I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t want to spend all night cooking. His nibs here will tell everybody that he’s a dab hand in the kitchen and you know he’s not bad as they go, not quite Jamie Oliver and not as bad as my father, but even so, I’m afraid I don’t trust him to a prepare a proper grown-up meal for guests, so I’ve taken the liberty of ordering pizza. Do you mind? I hope you don’t mind. You don’t mind, do you?’
Abbott mumbled something about not minding. Mainly he was concentrating on Phil, who was hovering with intent, waiting for his chance to say, ‘What can I get you to drink, Alex? Beer, wine, gin and tonic?’ with Abbott just waiting to reply, ‘A beer, please, a beer would be perfect,’ wondering if he should have been ordering wine for the extra ABV. Hoping that Phil would be quick on the draw when it came to the refills.
Phil disappeared, leaving Abbott and Tess alone. She put a hand to his arm, a look of concern on her face. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she said. She glanced towards the kitchen. ‘Phil doesn’t know what we talked about the other day. I didn’t think that you’d want—’
‘And what about the other thing?’ hissed Abbott, ‘Does he know about that?’
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