Jack puts his head in his hands, and begins to rock back and forth. He sobs loudly, at first a hot gasp with a yelp, then more rhythmic moaning. He is a broken man.
I look at Zoe, who looks into the distance with shock and detachment.
‘What do you know, Zoe?’ I ask. ‘Now is the time.’
‘I didn’t know...’ she says, her voice brittle and timorous, ‘but I was always worried they might do something like this.’
Jack stops sobbing abruptly and glares at her.
‘I promise, I know nothing for sure, but their behavior has been more secretive recently, more elusive. They haven’t included me in the same way that they normally do. It’s suspicious behavior more than anything. But I know nothing for sure. I was just sure they were up to something.’
She drops to the floor, and crawls halfway across, a gesture of reaching out. ‘Jack, I swear I didn’t know anything at all. I promise. If I had known, I would have told you. But until I knew something different, I had to follow the official line on this.’
Jack looks down again.
‘Jack, I had to,’ she says. ‘You know the penalties if I don’t go along with what they say...’
She looks at him searchingly, but I myself am baffled.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, lowering myself to a crouch so I can engage her at her level, and make it just that bit more likely that she will spill the beans.
They exchange looks, revealing something else slithering beneath the surface of this whole damn affair. What more betrayals and ills lie in wait?
‘They will kill me... I have no doubt in that.’
‘What do you mean, Zoe?’ I ask.
‘Tell him,’ says Jack, his own voice sagging like a rickety bridge cracking on each audible step.
‘Felix is my grandfather. Michael is my uncle. But Felix had another son - my father. I was 18 months old when he and my mother died. I never found out how. One minute they were there, the next they weren’t, it seems. I was too young to know or notice. I was raised by Felix’s wife, Theresa. She passed away when I was fifteen. It is partly out of respect for Theresa, and love, that I am still here. But there is another reason...’
I dread to think, knowing finally what these people are really like. I steel myself.
‘You might think I am in a position of power here, but I am not. I wanted to go, but Felix said that if I went anywhere, he would kill me. He said there was nowhere else for me to go, and that I knew too much, and as the offspring of his “turncoat” son, I would spill. He offered to look after me and let me live, in exchange for my compliance.’
‘And your position as book-keeper?’
‘Theresa used to do it. And I used to help her in the later years, when she became forgetful. I was groomed in the inner workings of mob life from such a young age, so that by the time I was old enough to start thinking for myself, I already knew too much. He said he wanted to get his money’s worth. And that way, if I kept working for him, I was ever more an accomplice. As long as I kept his books, I was just as much a criminal as he was. He kept my hands dirty, so I could never walk away.’
‘That’s a very skewed logic.’
‘Felix is a very complicated man, with an archaic sense of honor and business. He believes that in me staying here and doing this service for him, which he actually says is a good one, he is getting his service, albeit late, from his departed son.’
‘That’s one way to rationalize it, I suppose.’
‘Zoe, is this the truth?’ I ask.
‘Every word,’ she says.
‘It’s true,’ Jack says, sniffling.
I think for a moment, and stand, exhaling as I rise. I can’t help feeling sorry for Zoe now, all the pain that she has been put through, simply by a situation she was borne into. It’s no wonder that these two people see some sort of connection between them - they are in so many ways the same. And I’m willing to bet that Felix had a hand in both their parents’ deaths.
‘Zoe, if I can fix this for you, will you let me?’
‘Yes,’ she says, without hesitation.
‘Jack, I need to ask you the same question. You can’t be here for the finale - not this time. You two need each other, and the only way for that to happen is if you both go now. I’ll give you both a chance to walk out of that door into a new life if you say “yes” this minute.’
They look at each other, and it’s the first time I see the glimmer of love between them. It burns bright and is heartwarming, on the back of a truth finally reached and revealed. They must have kept this connection hidden for so long. I’m watching good being born, here and now, in this very intimate second between them. This is the good that can come from such an awful situation. This is the good I have come to bring to the world beyond the walls of Strangeways prison.
‘Yes,’ Jack says, and he and Zoe embrace. I stand back, and let them cry into each others arms. Tears of hope, joy, sadness, relief, honesty, grief and devastation. It’s a moment that warms me, but I’m not done yet.
‘Zoe, I need everything you have. All the evidence. Everything. Any record of what you keep, on behalf of the Berg, I need it. Now.’
Zoe pulls away, and looks at me, thoughtfully but with a little spark of joy.
‘Felix keeps everything at his house. I even have to do the books there in old ledgers. We have a weekly appointment, when I go over to his house and he fills me in on everything and I write while he speaks.’
‘I’m confused. You actually have nothing to show for it?’ I say. Now it’s my turn to fret.
‘I always hoped this day would come. I made notes as soon as I came home, remembering everything I could. There’s not a lot, in terms of volume, but the majority of the main transactions will be there. It’s a little dossier of hope.’
‘Is there any evidence of yourself in there Zoe?’
‘None. Penned by an anonymous author.’
‘Or Jack?’
‘Nothing. He never did anything official for the Berg, so never earned a cut.’
‘That’s perfect, Zoe. Well done,’ I say, and I really mean it. She has proven brave, assured and genuine. ‘Please grab it as quick as you can, and we will all get out of here - now.’
She runs out of the room, and I hear her pounding up the stairs. I turn to Jack.
‘I’m sorry, pal,’ I find myself saying. ‘But this is the way it has to be.’
‘What are you going to do?’ he asks.
‘I’m giving Zoe’s notes to the NCA, and exposing the Berg and everyone who has done business with them. And then, I’m going to after Felix and every single fucking one of the väktaren. I set out to exterminate scum, well you’ve given me some serious candidates here.’
‘Thank you,’ Jack says, as Zoe reenters the room. She hands me three slim, hard-backed A4 journals.
‘It’s all there,’ she says, with pride at her handiwork.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Now you two need to go right now before things get messy. And I assure you, it will. You both have money put away?’
‘Yes,’ Jack answers. Zoe shakes her head.
‘Felix keeps everything of mine. I have a card to an account which holds what he calls my “pocket money”, but it’s in his name.’
‘See if you can empty it en route,’ I say.
‘I’ve got her, Ben,’ says Jack. If he emptied that safe back at his place, he’s not wrong.
‘Good. You are leaving in one minute. Get what you need and chop chop.’
They sprint about, grabbing shoes and keys and phones. A laptop bag comes down the stairs, and Zoe even manages to change into some jeans. They stand to attention as I open the front door, and usher them outside. For the first time, things are starting to feel better.
We are in the sunlight, as Zoe activates the keyless entry on the Mini, while shutting the front door behind her. I open the boot, still holding the the three journals under my arm, and Jack throws in the bits and bobs they are taking with them. Zoe had actu
ally come out barefoot, and is shimmying into some trainers by the bonnet.
‘Come on, come on,’ I urge, nudging them that last little bit before they take final flight.
Jack shakes my hand again, looking at me with more meaning than his words presumably could muster at this moment in time. Zoe comes around, and hugs me. I barely know the girl, and hug her back. These two deserve better, and they are going to get it. I’ll do anything to make sure of it. She pecks my cheek, and whispers ‘Thank you’ in my ear. As she releases me, I bow my head to her, accepting her gratitude and bidding her well simultaneously.
Jack hops in the driver’s side, while Zoe gets in the front passenger side next to him. I start walking back to the Lexus, which I suppose I can call my car now, parked on the pavement. I lift the journals, checking one last time that I have all three. Yes, all there. I am wondering what secrets are contained within, what cases can be built from the contents, and what scum can be rinsed from the streets with it, when I am shoved hard head over heels, tumbling high through the air, rotating and falling. I had been so close to the explosion, so rocked by it, that I had barely even heard it initially. But now, as I am landing hard on my back on the pavement, I can feel it’s full might with all of my senses. The quiet neighborhood has been ripped in two.
The smell of the explosion triggers my memory and invokes immediate nostalgia. Nitroglycerin, with a hint of household bleach. The hallmarks of a hasty I.E.D. - an improvised explosive device. I have seen enough, and lived through enough, to know one when I see one. The setting and circumstances are markedly different, but the end result is the same. Fiery, localized carnage.
I turn to the Mini, but I know it’s too late. The car is engulfed in a blaze created by an ignition-triggered car bomb. I sprint around the side of the pyre, getting as close as I can to the flames without scorching myself. It might blow again, if the petrol tank wasn’t already burst by the initial blast. Those second hits, a by-product of the initial event, are often worse than the first, and truly make sure the job is done.
As I get around the side of the car, I see that Jack and Zoe are completely beyond hope. I feel tears squeezing into my eyes, my head spinning with anguish and the intense heat, and my ears throbbing. I can’t even see them inside, the flames are so thick, like huge orange tentacles squeezing and engulfing the contents of the car.
I can’t believe this. I just can’t. These people, who were borne into vile criminal circumstances beyond their control, have now paid the ultimate price for their genetic association to things that have proven to be so so bad. It was a lottery. And they had no choice, their decisions made for them by shitty benefactors who should have known better.
The Berg must be behind this. There is nobody else left to accuse of such a crime, given it’s timing, execution and the motives. They are tying up loose ends.
I need to get out of here, before the authorities arrive. I feel my rage spilling over, dripping down like hot wax down my arms, burning my muscles and making me coil. I will avenge them both. They didn’t deserve this. How unjust this world can be.
Inside the car, I can see a juddering shape moving inside, skeletal and blackened. It’s in the drivers seat, raising what looks like a charred limb in the most saddening futile gesture I have ever seen. It can only be Jack, burned beyond belief, in his final throws, dying slowly and excruciatingly in the most appalling way I’ve ever seen.
I can’t look any more. I just know that I will wreak bloody vengeance on those that did this. I will not rest until I have. I run back to the Lexus, scooping the journals splayed on the pavement as I go, while tears stream down my cheeks. I feel as if I’m going to explode, and as the emotion gushes out of me, I get behind the wheel. I scream long and loud, as if my voice can erase the images I have just seen, which will haunt me till the day I too meet my own equally grisly fate.
23
I need to get a grip, but I don’t feel that is going to happen anytime soon. I am swerving in and out of traffic, not sure which way to go, driving like a madman. I need to calm down, but I just feel I can’t. I’m consumed by that part of me, the part that’s risen to the fore, cloaking me in the mental gloom I thought I had left behind.
I decide to head back to my hotel, to grab my things. It’s happening tonight. It’s all going down when the sun does the same. There’s no going back now.
My hotel is only a ten minute drive from Zoe’s house, and today I make it in eight. I park up, and head for the lobby. I ask the young lad behind the front desk for the biggest envelope he has, which he duly hands over. It is big enough, just for all three journals to fit in, but I borrow some parcel tape to make sure. I write Jeremiah Salix’s name on the front, and the address of the NCA central offices. I take a piece of blank paper from the lobby bureau, and write a hasty note.
‘SHOULD CONTAIN EVERYTHING YOU NEED. EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED HERE, WAS ALL IN HOUSE. WHATEVER IS LEFT, BRING THEM ALL DOWN. THANKS FOR YOUR HELP.’
I put it in the envelope with the books, and hand the lot over to the young lad - along with a twenty pound note, asking for him to make sure that the package gets posted with the hotel’s outgoing mail. I tell him to keep the change.
I trust Jeremiah to finish the job. It will probably make his career, but he’s not in it for that. He wants his own personal revenge, for what they did to him. I will get it for him. He can take the official plaudits.
I head up to my room, and pack. It only takes a second. The activity has preoccupied me a bit, giving me something to do, and calmed me. I grab my bag, and head out of the room. Within another short moment, I have checked out, and am in the car again. I’m on my own, and I need to put together a plan for tonight. And that plan starts with surveillance.
24
I feel the booming swirl of the aggressive synth bassline from out here in the street. I am queueing to get into a nightclub, something I haven’t done in who know’s how long. Another decade, I’d imagine. It was frustrating then, and it is sure frustrating now. I am about 10 yards from the front now, and started only a further 15 yards back. I should be in fairly soon. I better had be.
I’m outside Brink, a swanky-looking nightspot off Oxford Road. It seems busy tonight, the line moving swift enough. At the weekends it’s a ‘one in, one out’ policy, the tired and bored replaced with the cold and eager, one at a time, but there are ways around that. The signs outside declare the place as ‘Manchester’s premier den of decadence, hip-hop and fine liquor’. The clientele seem to have dressed for that exact vibe, with the men decked out like R’n’B pimpstrels, and the women like high-class prostitutes. I wonder whether the theme was something that Leonard and Samson had a hand in.
Leonard and Samson, I learned thanks to more internet digging, make up one third of the ownership of this place. I couldn’t ascertain how this deal fits in with their day-to-day activities, but, considering their near endless social network stream of pictures plastered all over the web, all set in here, I get the picture that they just couldn’t help themselves from being the glamorous nightclub owners of a ‘decadent’ cave of music, lust and iniquity. It’s a status badge for them, and, as clearly the most image conscious of the group, it fits nicely.
They are in there somewhere, dancing, chugging drinks, flirting... whatever it is a person does when they end up in a place like this. I’m so out of practice at this that I am scraping my mind back to how I used to behave, back when my social life wasn’t so sparse. Drink ten pints of snakebite, try not to throw it all back up, have a bit of a banter, be generally hopeless with the odd girl who happens to be in the vicinity but still manage to get too excited about it... that about covers it. I feel a little bit beyond that these days, however I’m sure on another occasion I could give it a good go.
I have spent the entire day, since leaving poor Jack and Zoe to the emergency services, staking out Felix Davidson’s house on Salford Quays. I changed my vantage point frequently, remained on foot the entire time, used my binoculars t
o keep a safe distance, and watched a lot of things happen, which allowed me to draw a series of interesting conclusions.
It was a hive of activity. Lots of comings and goings. I wish I could hear what was being said, but I was at such a distance that I could’t even attempt a lipread, the focal length of my binoculars giving definite outlines but no sharpness of detail. You could see who it was and in broad terms what they were doing, but no minutia. I had aimed to get closer, but when I arrived near the long drive along the waterfront to Felix’s house, I noticed street cameras were fixed where there were none elsewhere. They were dressed up as council approved-and-fitted security cams, but they increased in number in the vicinity of Felix’s residence and nowhere else. Considering that that house is the only thing there, I can only imagine that the cameras are Felix’s doing. After all, councils rarely dole out free security networks for one solitary person or residence - if you can’t get your bin emptied more than once a fortnight, surely that sort of service would be a bridge too far.
I saw Felix. He never left the house. In fact, I’m unsure if he ever does. I saw Michael, Leonard and Samson. At one point they were in a kind of fervent meeting at the same table I was sat at with them all just a couple of mornings earlier. Leonard seemed preoccupied with his phone, which in turn seemed preoccupied with him. Samson seems like the heavy of the group. A physical rock which they all seem to like having around. There may be other depths to the man, but I have yet to see them. I get the feeling that perhaps he had something to offer to the group, something to bring to the table that others could not. Perhaps a business of his own, a specific expertise or perhaps a customer base. Who knows? Who cares. It won’t matter when I put a bullet through his eye socket.
Michael looks altogether a different kettle of fish. An important cog to the machine, a vital caporegime directly beneath the don. He seems to be the pivot, the counter point, the go-to. He was involved in all the day’s discussions, never left his father’s side, and, most tellingly, engaged in a number of private conferences with the main man himself. I can see, from watching clandestine their private moments, the dynamic of the group. Leonard and Samson are at an echelon, but not the echelon of Michael and Felix. There is a hierarchy within the hierarchy, with Michael seemingly elevated somewhere between väktare and toppmöte. An uber-väktare perhaps. I think it looks more like nepotism in action.
The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 20