Down into Darkness

by David Lawrence

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Anne laughed. ‘He’s playing a role, because he believes he has a role to play. There’s a key to this lock, and it’s something to do with the cartoon hero’s brand of frontier justice. He’s paying back; he’s settling a score; he’s demonstrating his worth… I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, there’s a major trauma.’

  ‘You’re cooking,’ Stella said, as if the oddity of that had only just struck her.

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘We unwrap… sometimes we defrost.’ After a moment, Stella added: ‘Delaney’s having nightmares: bombs and battles.’

  ‘You suspect he’s going to find himself a war…’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And what do you think about that?’

  ‘I think he might well get himself killed. I think he’s a selfish bastard. I think trying to stop him would be a bad move.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Here’s another thing. I had a letter from my mother.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s leaving. Or else she’s left.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘She was passing on a message from her boyfriend, whose links with the criminal world seem pretty well established… no surprises there.’

  ‘A message?’

  ‘A tip-off, really. I’ve also passed it on.’

  Anne took a chicken carcass from the fridge, broke it, put it into the pan and added the vegetables.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Stock. For soup?’ Stella nodded as if it was something she did every day. ‘What else did she say?’ Anne asked.

  ‘She made reference to my happy childhood, our precious time together, the way we’d always been there for one another, the laughter we’d shared, the evenings when she’d read to me as I sat in bed sipping my Ovaltine.’

  Anne shook her head. ‘My God, she’s in trouble.’

  ‘She’s in trouble?’ Stella’s laugh bore no trace of humour.

  ‘Yes,’ Anne said, ‘that’s right. She needs help. Can’t you see that?’

  Stella sat in silence for five minutes, while Anne stirred and flavoured. Finally she said, ‘Yes, I can.’ Then: ‘But fuck her, okay? Fuck her!’

  ‘You owe me some money. It hasn’t arrived.’ Bowman’s tone of voice was genial, which was what made it threatening.

  The American sighed. ‘Is he going to get better?’

  ‘No one seems to know. For now? Count him out.’

  They were talking about Neil Morgan, who showed no sign of being able to check out of ITC. Candice had set up camp, with a director’s chair, coffee flask, health snacks and a make-up bag. She watched his monitors, the slow rise and fall of his chest, his face wiped clean of all expression.

  Don’t die, you bastad!

  The American said, ‘So get me someone else.’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘Work harder.’

  ‘Happy to. I expect the money’s on its way.’

  ‘This is a long-term thing,’ the American observed. ‘It’s a market thing, a worldwide thing. Just now? I’ve got two deals in train. I’ve got a coup on the move. Big order for small arms. The new government will need to keep the population on side. I’ve got anti-personnel mines and mortars going out to a civil-war situation – protection of territory, or religion, or whatever. This is all good; this is all fine. What I really need is throughput, I need volume, I need your market and for that I need help.’

  ‘And the money’s about to arrive,’ Bowman said, ‘have I got that right?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah… for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Good,’ Bowman said, ‘because that’ll be a great incentive.’

  ‘What happened?’ the American asked. ‘It was, like, a break-in? Morgan got in the way?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Hey, the world’s a dangerous place.’

  Bowman sat behind his vast desk in his vast office in his vast house and watched the tiny, bright jot of a mile-high aircraft tow white plumes across the sky.

  He didn’t think about landmines, or the field-workers and children who would tread on them. He didn’t wonder about the civil war and who was worshipping the wrong god. He did think about coming downstairs and finding Neil Morgan, though, and remembered the damage the man had undergone, the knife slashes, the fault line on the skull where the fire-iron had struck, the broad spillage of blood.

  Bowman would need another politician, someone who liked money, someone who thought of politics as a high-risk, high-rewards game, someone who knew that the meek would never inherit the earth.

  He didn’t expect to have to look far.

  81

  Frank Silano had posted an abstract of the killings.

  Bryony Dean – hanged

  Leonard Pigeon – decapitation attempt

  Martin Turner – shot

  George Nelms – decapitated

  Neil Morgan – decapitation attempt

  ‘Okay,’ Stella said, ‘if we take Pigeon out of it, if we work on the assumption that the killer was really after Neil Morgan, then we can also assume that the intended method was decapitation, so we’ve got a hanging, a shooting and two decapitations. Why?’

  ‘Silent Wolf carries a knife,’ Maxine observed. ‘Weapon of choice.’

  ‘He sometimes carries a gun,’ Silano said.

  ‘And karate-kicks the shit out of people,’ Harriman added; ‘he’s a multitalented man.’

  The Silent Wolf game was now a squad-room feature. Harriman had racked a good score and so had Silano, but no one had come close to Sue Chapman, who, among her colleagues, had earned herself the title of Silent Wolf Bitch.

  Stella said, ‘Silent Wolf never hanged anyone.’

  ‘So this is his pattern, the killer’s.’

  ‘That’s what the profiler says, and it seems right to me.’

  ‘Hang, chop, shoot, chop, chop,’ Maxine offered.

  ‘We’re taking Pigeon out of it,’ Silano reminded her, ‘so it’s hang, shoot, chop, chop.’

  ‘No,’ Harriman said. ‘The guy thought Pigeon was Morgan, so it’s really hang, chop, shoot, chop in that order.’ He looked at Stella. ‘We’re looking for the reason for that particular pattern, that particular order?’

  ‘It’s one of the things we’re looking for.’

  Tom Davison’s cubicle office sported a large poster of Rembrandt’s painting The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Deyman. The head on the eviscerated body had been replaced with that of a Hollywood actress, and a speech bubble read: Don’t meddle with what don’t concern ya.

  Davison was showing Stella a photograph of a partial boot print. He said, ‘The blood is Morgan’s, of course. The boot is one of those calf-length, lace-up combat-style boots. You can get them pretty much anywhere. Same print in the garden by the empty house, same again in the house itself.’

  ‘DNA at the scene?’

  ‘Sure. It’s sorting one lot from another. Which we are.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Same thing. However…’ Davison shuffled some papers and found a lab report, ‘it looks as if he did leave prints this time, prints we can probably isolate, anyway; two sets on the fire-iron and what looks like a matching partial on a door-frame.’

  ‘Anything on the letter?’ Stella asked.

  ‘We haven’t had it long enough.’

  ‘It’s a priority.’

  ‘We know that.’

  He smiled at her, and she remembered the smile or, at least, its sleepier, sexier version.

  What is it about me that I’m drawn to men who deal with the dead or the dying, with people who kill?

  What is it about them that they’re drawn to you?

  Stella was having a two-way conversation with herself as she nudged her car out into the tailback, then played yellow-box chicken with a black cab. London driving is all about attrition.

  It’s not so much that he’s planning to go to dangerous places; it’s that he hasn�
�t told me.

  Ask yourself why.

  Okay…

  Stella cut up a Volvo to make a lane switch, found herself blocked by a parked truck and switched back, cutting up the Volvo again: horn blasts and the flashing of headlights.

  He doesn’t want my opinion on the matter.

  Maybe. Or he just doesn’t want it to be an issue.

  Why not?

  He isn’t used to it?

  Because he’s not used to having to take anyone else’s opinion into account.

  That’s right.

  But he was the one who suggested we move in together, buy a house even, thereby ipso facto involving another person.

  Which means he’s taking a risk.

  Is ipso facto right?

  Fuck knows.

  You mean living with me at all is a compromise?

  One he’s prepared to make.

  Oh, well, big fucking deal.

  Says you. But turn it around.

  How would I feel if I wanted to do something but worried about someone else disapproving?

  Yes.

  Hmm… Okay.

  Not so good, huh? Don’t like being corralled.

  Not much.

  So here’s a guy who can see the downside of involving someone else in his life on a permanent basis – a buying-a-house-together basis – but goes ahead and makes the suggestion anyway.

  He’s a good man, and I’m lucky to have him.

  Was there a note of cynicism in that?

  I don’t like being nagged at.

  My point exactly.

  Sorley came through on her mobile. Her Bluetooth was somewhere, anywhere, so she drove one-handed and let go of the wheel entirely to change gear.

  ‘He’s a cartoon, he’s loony tunes.’ Sorley sounded like a sketched-in version of his old self.

  ‘I hope you’re not letting Karen know where those report folders come from.’

  ‘Karen doesn’t see them. I keep them under the bed.’

  ‘Got anything else under there, Boss?’

  ‘Don’t you start.’

  Sorley had nothing much to do but watch TV and not smoke. In fact, he was a heavy non-smoker; his non-smoking activities were world class.

  ‘He says he’s going to stop killing – that he has stopped. You saw that?’

  ‘I saw it. And if he means it –’

  ‘We might never catch him. Right.’

  ‘Like he was a man on a mission, and now it’s come to an end.’

  ‘What are they saying about you?’

  ‘They’re saying I have to lose weight, take exercise, moderate my drinking –’

  ‘You can drink?’

  ‘Not yet. When I start drinking again, then it has to be moderate.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Moderate.’

  ‘Well, they’ve given me a units card. Tells you how many in a single Scotch, small glass of wine, half of bitter, you know…’

  ‘Single this, small that, half of something else. Sounds mealy-mouthed.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Sorley said, ‘if you can have, say, three units a day –’

  ‘Is that the allowance?’

  ‘For a man. Less for a woman.’

  ‘Oh, good…’

  ‘That would be twenty-one units a week. So I mean, can you drink the twenty-one on Monday and go on the wagon for the rest of the week?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Stella said, ‘I don’t see why not.’ Then: ‘He’s loony tunes all right, but there’s an X-factor.’

  ‘Like I say, man with a mission.’

  ‘Get well soon, Boss.’

  ‘I am well.’

  ‘Get better than well.’

  ‘Stella…’

  She knew what was coming and she told him not to say it, but he said it anyway. ‘Karen told me. You saved my life.’

  ‘It wasn’t intentional.’

  He laughed, which was what she’d expected, then asked: ‘How’s acting DI Collier?’

  ‘Acting up.’

  ‘You turned down too many promotion boards.’

  ‘I know. Look, he’s finding it difficult. I almost feel sorry for him.’

  Her arm was cramping, so she switched hands, drifted and over-corrected. A patrol car cruised alongside for a moment, then dropped back to tail her.

  ‘I’m going to have to go, Boss. I’m about to get arrested.’

  She dropped the phone, took a left turn without signalling, changed down, accelerated hard, made another turn and parked. In her mirror, she saw the patrol car pass the junction, bucking as it hit a speed bump.

  She picked up the phone and dialled. When she gave her name, the estate agent said, ‘You’re accepting their offer?’

  ‘They’ll go a few grand more,’ Stella said, ‘otherwise why would they agree the asking price?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Push them,’ Stella said. ‘Gentle push.’

  ‘If they say no?’

  ‘Push again.’

  She got back into traffic, the sun low now and glossing her windscreen.

  You’re delaying. You’re backing off.

  I know what I’m doing.

  You’re going to have to make a decision, sooner or later.

  Fuck off.

  Remember you used to have these dice – you used to make choices by throwing dice?

  Not really.

  You did.

  A couple of times. It was Anne Beaumont’s idea, not mine.

  Why not throw the dice?

  I don’t know where they are. I lost them.

  Throw them in your mind.

  In my mind?

  Because that’s where the decision gets made anyway. Five and below, don’t sell. Six and above, go for it.

  Is that any way to choose the future?

  Good as any… Okay, thrown yet?

  Yep.

  What was it?

  I don’t know. The sun’s in my eyes.

  Gideon and Aimée out for a stroll, hand in hand, a couple in love, she in a short skirt and an emerald crossover top that showed some cleavage and deepened the colour of her eyes, he in jeans and a T-shirt, just like any other guy.

  She paused, reaching up to kiss him. She wondered whether it would ever fade, this constant sexual need of him. She could feel a flush spreading down from her throat, and her nipples hardened. She thought it must have something to do with his being the perfect match, the one.

  They spoke about going away and agreed it would be soon. They decided on a place: it was by the sea. They decided on a day. They would go by train; he wanted that, and it seemed a wonderful idea. They would meet at the station. They chose a specific meeting place; they chose a time of day. In her mind’s eye, Aimée saw them sitting on the train as it slid away from the platform. Then she was in the train beside him, the view from the window a blur, like her old life. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun.

  A walk in the park. It was hot, and they’d been out for a while, so they rested in the shade of a tree.

  The mark of his triple-vee high on the trunk.

  82

  Three a.m. and London’s false neon dawn a spreading blush in the sky. A blackbird ran through its repertoire in a plane tree close to the window of Stanley Bowman’s study.

  The American money was through, and Bowman was in the process of making it invisible. It had come by a circuitous route to a host account, but Bowman wasn’t content to let it stay there long. He had several methods, all of which involved the money taking flight, but he was worried about the frequency with which they’d been used recently; in an electronic age there is always the danger of a stalker.

  He called the American to confirm delivery: it took three seconds; then he dialled the number that Ricardo had given to Sekker. A recorded voice offered a prompt, and Bowman gave the code word. The line went dead, and Bowman hung up. It was all as it should be. Ten minutes later he received a return call. A voice asked him to
nominate a bank account. Bowman gave the number. There is, in all such transactions, an issue of trust. The voice asked Bowman for a designated sum, and Bowman gave the information. The bank would be identified, a John Doe account opened and Bowman given code-word access to the account. Half the money would be deposited and a commission taken. Then Bowman would send the second half of the money. After that it would travel for a while – a few red routes, a few cash highways. It might even divide and redivide in the interests of faster movement. Flight capital is like a jet stream: you know it’s high and swift, but you can’t see it. Finally, Vanechka would be in touch to talk about defraying and investment.

  Bowman had the TV on with the sound down. While he made his phone calls, he was accessing Teletext share prices but also, from time to time, channel hopping. The late-night movies were all-action affairs, bloodbaths, fire-fests, robowars. Cops advanced the cause of law and order, and the bad guys went down. In an urban killing field, the incoming took out house walls; smart bombs found cellars and dugouts. Foot soldiers sprinted from cover to cover, yelling instructions, putting down a field of fire as they ran.

  Bowman gave himself a Scotch that was either the last of the night or first of the day. He watched the movie for a few moments, then switched to PokerNite. The phone rang, and a voice let him know that his money was well on the way to becoming anonymous.

  In an urban killing field, the incoming took out house walls; smart bombs found cellars and dugouts. Foot soldiers sprinted from cover to cover, yelling instructions, putting down a field of fire as they ran.

  Stella was watching a round-up of the day’s news, because she was too tired to read but too wakeful to go back to bed. As she watched, a soldier fell as if his strings had been pulled. A building mushroomed, its walls bellying out as black smoke enveloped it.

  Is this what you want, Delaney? Is this where you plan to be?

  She almost obeyed an urge to wake him and ask for an answer, but it would be too close to asking for commitment. Some things have to be freely given. She spent a few minutes staring at the white-board, as if an answer to everything might suddenly appear there: her killer, her lover, her life…

  On TV an embedded reporter spoke of kidnaps and executions. The war-zone sky was lit by flares and burning buildings.

  *

  Aimée had been woken by the sound of her own voice. She might have shouted his name, she couldn’t be sure. Peter and Ben were sleeping. She hoped their dreams were good.