‘You are certainly flavor of the month,’ she says. ‘Keep it up, golden boy.’ Her words could be flirtatious, but her body language is anything but. She turns to go, and trips, loosing her heel in the process. I reach out to steady her, amazed that she is this tipsy already, but then I remember that her and Tina may have been here a while. She reaches for my outstretched hand, and bends to put her shoe back on.
‘Whoops! The bubbles, you... know how it gets...’ she says, but I feel it immediately. In my hand, between mine and hers. It is revealed by a tickle on my palm, then a dullness of my nerve endings across a small section of the skin, as something presses on them. A sliver of paper, or something similar. A ruse.
‘No, of course, it’s ok,’ I say, supporting her, while playing along. She corrects herself, and makes her way back to the table, suddenly surefooted.
I turn back to the bar, as my heart thumps in my chest. The drinks have started to arrive and I take my wallet out of my pocket, to get cash ready. I open it up, and reach in with my right hand - and drop a ripped-off corner of paper towel in alongside the notes. As I take out a sheaf of twenties, just before I close it, I see on the napkin, written hastily in biro:
‘Please help me’
20
I don’t sleep. Not a wink, all night. So much to do. A Santa Claus of preparation.
It’s 6.30am, and I am sitting in the Lexus at an unassuming office complex in Birchwood, watching a low mist rise spectral off a pond in front of the complex front door. Birchwood itself, on driving in, seems to be nothing more than a few blocks of houses interconnected by a series of roundabouts, all of which are completely dominated by the huge office centers that line the circular ring roads.
I’m waiting for the arrival of, well, anybody. I have placed a brown manilla envelope by the front door, labelled ‘F.A.O. Officer Jeremiah Salix’, for whoever next arrives to take in. It will probably go through the usual checks that packages at all governmental buildings go through, but it will pass with flying colors. Unlike myself - if I were to appear at the offices of a UK-based central intelligence network, the digital flags would certainly start waving. A residue of my previous life of associated misbehavior.
The night has been so fitful, and today has emerged as one that is so chock full of activity, that I need to be on it from the first moment. I would feel tired, but I’m too wired by the crackling charge of the impending figurative storm. Today is make or break, and I don’t want to mess nor miss anything.
My itinerary looks a little like this, although this is all subject to change. Now, it’s make sure the package gets inside. Next, I’ll head over to Jack’s to discuss the night before and the offer. Then, it’s Piccadilly Gardens to catch up with this Nigel guy, and find out what the skinny is there. If he’s the killer - and I will know, I’ll take him to Jack. Then Jack can decide what to do, as per his wishes. From there, it’s Zoe. Jack won’t like it, but I need to know what the deal is with her, and I need her to empty her brain into something I can use... for Jeremiah. By this point, he will have worked out whether I am genuine or not.
And then, of course, there is this seriously tricky issue with Carolyn Davison. No amount of staying awake could help me sort that one out, but it was the one that kept me awake and prickling lucid the most.
It could be so many things and I mull them over as I sit and watch the package on the office doorstep. It could be a ploy, a scheme to test my honesty and integrity. If I come to her all guns of chivalry blazing, they could tear me limb from limb for being swayed by fluttering eyelashes, and worse - one of their wives. If it’s not a ploy, and this woman has seen me has a beacon of hope, then that is just as dangerous. If I help her, and get caught doing so, I’m a traitor to the team before I even joined it. Retribution is sure to follow.
Whatever it is I decide to do, I must commit to it. I have no contingency for this, but my sense of duty precludes me from simply turning my back on her. If an innocent woman has been sucked into a situation that she can no longer see escape from, who am I to reject her?
But she may know something. Something valuable, juicy, and above all incriminating. She might know more than Zoe. And that unsettling situation with Zoe might be averted.
Everything is coming to a head. The Berg are waiting for an answer from me, the killer will get identified today, and this situation is fast approaching boiling point.
A security guard slowly opens the front door to the office complex, looking scruffily like an overnight shift is just coming to an end. He has an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a cancerous stalactite. The door is opened, and in flops the package at his feet. He takes it, shakes it, eyes it, then takes it inside.
I start the car, knowing that this day of days is properly underway. No turning back now.
*
The drive to Worsley is short, and almost pleasant, with the roads lightly frosted and empty. I listen to the radio for about a second, on Christ knows what station, but after a lengthy discussion about various celebrity’s Twitter feeds, none of whom I have heard of, followed by whatever happened on last night’s episode of Celebrity Love Triangle or something, I turn it off. Celebrity. Since when did everybody want to be so famous for doing so little?
I arrive in the cul-de-sac where the Brooker’s house is, and crawl to the end. There is a little monday morning activity, but not much. It feels alive here rather than looks it, with nice Sundays to get underway, families to visit, parties to begin, comfortable lives to lead. I park outside the house I am beginning to know rather well, and head up to the door and knock.
I don’t think Jack is going to like my being here so early. Maybe I should have bought him another domineering McDonald’s platter. I knock louder. Still nothing. I head around the back, wondering if gin and juice wake-up calls are part of some ill-advised daily routine. The back porch is empty. I peak through the kitchen windows. No lights on, nothing amiss. The fridge is back in place, in fact everything is in place.
The house is lifeless. Where could he be? I know I didn’t tell him to stay put or anything, but I thought that that would be a fairly logical assumption? Perhaps not. I hope he’s not got himself into trouble.
I begin worrying about Sparkles. About where Sparkles might be, and in turn, where Jack might be. I need some answers now.
*
I’m driving, arrowing into the city centre. I need to be here eventually anyway to see Nigel, but I want to head to the site of the Floating Far East to see if there is anything there at all to suggest Sparkles’ whereabouts, dead or otherwise. On the pavement as I enter the city, I see a grimy old BT pay phone and pull over. I am relieved to see that it is still working, and pop in a couple of fifty pence pieces. I enter the number that I have committed to memory only a few hours before - the NCA central switchboard, and the line is picked up almost immediately.
‘Central Switchboard?’ a voice says with monotonous urgency.
‘Jeremiah Salix, please,’ I reply.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Royal Mail.’
‘One moment,’ comes the response. If in doubt, pretend you know what you are doing. It only takes a second for Salix to pick up.
‘OK, you have my attention,’ he says.
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
‘You just gave me more evidence than the police has managed to collect in over 40 years of trying to take these people down.’
‘I’m happy to help.’
‘Our voice recognition guys are working on a copy of the recording now, but I know they have already confirmed Leonard and Michael.’
‘The others will all check out too. They were all there.’
‘Would you testify? We can grant you anonymity and I can look into immediate witness protection?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t accept that.’
Jeremiah seems surprised.
‘These men are as dangerous as dangerous gets,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how far back your
dealings go with them but it seems from the recording that it isn’t that far. But regardless of what you have done, in exchange for a testimony that will put these career criminals away for good, any past misdemeanors will be erased, within reason, or at least looked extremely favorably on.’
If only he knew the extent of my past misdemeanors, he might feel a little different about such a generous offer.
‘I’m afraid that won’t work. I will give you them on a plate, but I need to be left out of it. I’m afraid if there is to be a cohesion between us, Jeremiah, those are my terms.’
‘Considering the value of the information you have just given us, I will accept that. You mentioned that this situation is to be mutually beneficial. What is it you are after from me?’
‘I want to ask you some questions, and I’d like you to tell me what the NCA knows. I’ll answer honestly any questions that you may have also. I have an objective in mind that I want to fulfill.’
‘Is it criminal?’
‘It is in no way dangerous to the public.’
Jeremiah quietens again, and I can here him exhale reluctantly. ‘OK, fire away,’ he says.
‘The fire at the Floating Far East, two nights ago. That was my doing.’
‘Jesus,’ whispers Jeremiah.
‘I was trying to establish who killed Royston Brooker, and I was led to believe it was Sparkles Chu. I challenged him on this, and he denied it. The situation got out of hand. I don’t know whether he survived it.’
‘He did.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely. As a person of extreme interest we monitor his movements as best we can. Facial recognition picked him up at Gatwick Airport, taking a flight to Manila. He lived, but he is not in Great Britain. Our contacts are trying to find out what his final destination is.’
Hmm. If he is guilty, then I don’t want my ridiculous, overblown sense of duty dragging me across the globe in pursuit. But if he’s not, then I’m cool with this. Very cool. One criminal gang disbanded and sent packing. Our shores are slightly cleaner already.
‘Do you think he did it? Killed Royston I mean?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know. He’s a candidate for sure, but I’m not convinced.’
‘What can you tell me about Royston’s death?’
‘Alerted to the crime scene by a security guard at Manchester Airport, found him while he was doing the rounds. Tied to a chair, single bullet wound to the chest. He was still in his pajamas, looked like he had just got out of bed. It was a strange one, but a lot of hallmarks of a mob killing. The tied to a chair part, suggested an interrogation, but there were no visible signs of struggle at all. The interrogation was verbal and nothing else. He didn’t resist. Either he’s a serious pacifist, or he knew his attacker, and didn’t see it coming. I would say, knowing the type of people he did business with, that we are talking about the latter.’
‘Was he tied up after the shooting, to throw an investigation off the scent?’
‘It’s a possibility, but the coroner was unable to confirm.’
‘I have a contact I’m on my way to see. He spoke with Royston Brooker the night he died. They were friends it seems, and I’d say, given what you have just told me, his relevance is spiking. I’ll let you know the result of my conversation with him.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
‘In terms of the Berg, I’ve got the wheels in motion towards getting you a boatload of evidence. There’s another avenue of enquiry that looks to reap dividends. I need a mode of contact with you. One that will both protect my position, and make you more accessible to me. I can’t keep pulling over to hit pay phones - they are a dying breed.’
‘Fair enough. I think that’s a good idea, if it’s applies both ways. I may need to grab you. But, before we go any further, I have a problem. I need to acknowledge your existence in a formal sense, or any of what you bring me is, however explosive, completely inadmissible. Evidence that could bring extensive prison terms doesn’t just drop out of the sky.’
‘What are you thinking? My anonymity is crucial.’
‘I’m thinking that a formal acknowledgement of yourself as an informant is important but I need your consent to that. If I take what you sent to me to my superiors, and have it authenticated by another gesture of faith so that your first delivery wasn’t a fluke, and my department knows about you, then your evidence can be used to take these people down.’
I was always expecting something like this, and have had to reluctantly make my bed with it. I desperately want my evidence to mean something, and for that to happen I know that an acknowledgment of my existence must happen. I want as few people to know as possible. My true identity must not be sacrificed if any of this is to mean anything.
I could just seek to deliver my justice and nothing else, but I know that, in the grand scheme of things, that is not enough by itself. I can’t do everything. I don’t have the manpower to tie up loose ends. I don’t trust the police and the authorities, but I trust Jeremiah, and if I can give them the foolproof evidence to take this villainy down, that will go such a long way to having a real, lasting effect. Criminality will notice.
‘I can agree to this on the provision that my existence is known only in the most private sense. That’s you, and whatever superiors you need to make sure that everything is above board, but no more. If you need to include court injunctions to make that happen, do so. My identity is never to be revealed. If that does not materialize, you will never hear from me again - and all the material I have to offer will go with me.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Get started on it. Tell your superiors that more evidence is coming later today. That can be the leverage you require to prove my veracity.’
‘You got it. Do you have any thoughts how we can keep in touch?’
I smile. I’m a bit of a hypocrite actually.
‘Are you familiar with Twitter?’
21
I can see him. He is sitting on the concrete benches, sunlight glinting off his hairless pate. He isn’t well built, moreover he looks fairly short and squat. His nerves look to be ratcheted up to a lifetime high, given his erratic glancing about himself. Trying to see Royston coming. Whatever I think of him, whatever connection he has to my clandestine investigation, he looks no killer. But I know too well that that is, more often than not, the norm. Indeed, it is always the quiet ones.
I mobilize from my vantage point a hundred yards away. I was simply leaning against a wall - Nigel doesn’t know me, doesn’t know I’m coming. He won’t be expecting me, as I start walking across the frost-brushed, stone square of Piccadilly Gardens - a little flat, concrete pocket which buildings press right up to, but don’t infringe upon. There a few trees, but they are more token gestures than anything. ‘Gardens’ is a very generous title indeed.
I scrutinize as I stroll, the purpose of my gait reined in so as not to give the game away just yet. Nigel takes a bite of a doughy parcel that he holds in his right hand. A pasty to start the day, the breakfast of champions. On closer inspection, he actually has a particularly disgusting ponytail drooping off the back of his head, fashioned from the scruff that hasn’t left him yet. It is uniquely vile, and a playful corner of my mind cranks the possibility of him being the killer up again, since only a psychopath would have hair like that. He brings the savory morsel up to his mouth as I reach him.
‘Nigel,’ I say. The pasty hangs in mid air, as his eyes divert to me. If I had any doubt at all that this was him, they are erased immediately by his reaction. ‘Before you say anything, know this. There is a .338 calibre Barret M98B bolt action sniper rifle aimed at the bridge of your nose, from a rooftop somewhere in front of you. Don’t look for it - you know the type of people Royston was involved with, so you know it’s not that far-fetched. If you answer every question I have, plus honesty minus hesitation, I won’t have to give the kill signal. Are we on the same page?’
Nigel looks like he may have just filled
himself, his eyes widening and the pasty jiggling thanks to a soft tremor. He nods slowly. Despite the possibility of him having actually shat himself, I take a seat next to him.
‘As you’ve probably ascertained, I am not Royston. I’m investigating his death. And you are my prime suspect.’
Nigel suddenly explodes into astonishment.
‘What?! But how could -’ he shouts. I interrupt him.
‘Answers only please. Wait for my questions.’ This stills him, and I see him glance to the rooftops warily. ‘You spoke to Royston the night of his death. Correct?’
Nigel’s gaze drifts from the distant heights to me, and I nod.
‘Yes. But -’
‘The kill signal is a very simple one. Such is the accuracy of my partner that you’ll be dead before you even know I ordered it. Answer the questions only. That’s your last warning.’
Nigel nods and looks at the floor, taking a series of long, forced breaths.
‘It was I who text you from Royston’s phone, but you didn’t seem pleased to know he was alive. Why is that?’
‘He left me high and dry on a business deal. It fucked everything up,’ he says, still facing the floor.
‘What business deal?’
‘I’d found us a good business to go into. A legitimate business. A pub, in Exeter. We had one shot to go through with it, and he was to transfer the funds. I was to be his partner. I put everything on the line. I mean everything. Every scrap of savings I had, I fronted. And he quit on me. I have lost everything. All the money I put in has gone, turns out I can’t get it back at all, and my family is now broke. He pulled out at the last minute.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not happy he got shot, for Christ’s sake no, but it doesn’t change the fact that he screwed me over royally.’
The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 18