‘Are you going to say yes?’
‘I want to know if he’s talking to any other parties, know what I’m saying? Is he playing for the Blues?’
‘I’ve heard nothing, Tony.’
‘Maybe you should make a few inquiries. The lad might even have an agent. He’s one of yours. A guy called Ruiz.’
‘Vincent Ruiz?’
‘You know him?’
‘Yeah, he’s retired.’
‘Well, he’s not playing golf. He came to see me today.’
‘Why?’
‘Good question, Bones, find me a good answer. Your manager fucked it up last night. He took off the wrong player. Should have benched the kid permanently. There’s another game tonight - a testimonial. The kid is playing his last game.’
‘You need any help?’
‘I’ve got it covered this time.’
Murphy leans back in his chair and peruses the CCTV monitors. Ray Jnr is stripped to the waist, propped up in bed, watching Nadia Macbeth dance. Dressed in a short black negligee and high heel shoes, her breasts stand out stiffly against the opaque fabric.
Ray Jnr looks a lot like his old man did at the same age, but their taste in women is different. Ray Snr liked them young and demure, the girl-next-door types who looked too old for Sunday school and too young to fuck. Ray Jnr prefers them horny and coked up, wearing lingerie or leather.
Back in the old days, Ray’s father used to rely on Murphy to find him girls. ‘Just something for the weekend,’ he’d say when he organised his diary. Murphy would have the girls delivered in a limo to the hotel, telling them that Garza was a big-shot modelling agent.
Ray Snr was a real coke-hound back then. Like father like son.
Then one night some girl laughed at Ray when he was trying to seduce her and he lost it completely. Raped her. Chewed open her cheek. She topped herself before the trial. Ray dodged a bullet and he swore off drugs completely. He married, concentrated on business, made a fortune.
On screen Ray Jnr has just looped his belt around Nadia’s forearm, pulling it tight. A lighted candle and spoon are on the nightstand beside them. The flame dances in Nadia’s eyes.
Ray mounts the needle in her vein. Presses the plunger. Nadia sighs and tilts her head back, her mouth open and jaw slack. He pulls the syringe free and puts his hand behind her neck, pulling her towards his lap.
‘Come on, baby, now look after me.’
Murphy opens the door and interrupts. Nadia raises her head. Wipes her mouth. The revulsion on her face might never leave her.
Ray Jnr is reclining on the bed, one arm casually behind his head, a joint hovering over the ashtray balanced on his stomach.
Murphy tells Nadia to go next door. Ray Jnr watches her leave.
‘You were right about that one.’
‘I told you not to inject her.’
‘She wanted it.’
‘And now she’ll want it again in a few hours.’
Ray Jnr draws on the joint, taking a long deep hit. The edges of the paper glow bright red.
‘We have business to discuss,’ says Murphy. ‘I want you compos mentis.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Of sound mind.’
Ray tries to blow smoke rings. ‘I thought it was the name of a band.’
Murphy goes to the bar in the corner and pours himself a Scotch adding a splash of soda from an old-fashioned soda stream. Then he eases back on a sofa that’s so big it must have come through the windows.
‘The semi-automatic you took from me - the Beretta - it was stolen from a police evidence room yesterday morning, along with the cocaine you were carrying.’
‘Allegedly,’ says Ray, who is suddenly paying attention. It takes him a few moments to digest the information. A smile creases his face. Goes away. Comes back again. It’s like he’s responding to some internal dialogue.
‘Without the shooter or the drugs, I’m a free man. They’ll have to drop the charges.’
‘Not so fast, son,’ says Murphy. ‘Getting away isn’t always that easy.’
‘Why?’
‘You see, the thief who stole this stuff is trying to blackmail your old man. He wants half a million quid or he’s going to give the gun and the cocaine to Old Bill and say that you put him up to the robbery.’
‘Did I fuck!’
‘Exactly, but what are the police going to think?’
Ray Jnr stands, slips his belt through the loops, buckles it up.
‘Who is this geezer, Tony, do I know him?’
‘Sami Macbeth. He’s an ex-con.’
Ray Jnr shakes his head. ‘And he thinks he can turn me over? He’s dreaming.’
‘Yeah, but I’m worried,’ says Murphy. ‘The police already think your old man organised the robbery. They got a team of detectives working on the case. Unless we stop Macbeth, he could send us all to prison.’
‘How so?’
Murphy leans forward. Elbows on knees. Scotch close to his lips.
‘I should tell you something about that shooter you took from me. It has a history. Nine years ago it was used to kill a journalist in Belfast. The crime was never solved. Don’t look at me like that, son, I didn’t pull the trigger. Do you need a clue? Think three letters, Paddies in ski masks.’
Ray Jnr is pacing the floor, puffing air through his nostrils. ‘The IRA.’
‘Just so.’
‘But I thought they were old news.’
‘Act your fucking age, son. You think the Provos are going to take up knitting just because Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness get plush offices at Stormont?’
Ray Jnr still can’t grasp the issue. Murphy slows down and gives him a history lesson about the Northern Ireland Peace Accord and how Sinn Fein, the IRA’s political wing, got a seat at the table because the Provos renounced violence and agreed to decommission weapons.
‘You know what decommissioning means, son? It means out of commission. Off limits. Put beyond use. They chose a Canadian general to oversee the operation. A thousand rifles, three tonnes of Semtex, twenty-five surface-to-air missiles, flame throwers, rocket-propelled grenade launchers - you wouldn’t believe the shit they decommissioned.’
‘What’s it got to do with me?’ asks Ray.
‘Now what do you think would happen if one of these weapons were to turn up somewhere?’
Ray Jnr has stopped pacing. The penny drops from the fortieth floor and lands on his head.
‘The shooter you took from me was supposed to get a new barrel and a new firing pin before it was recycled, but that didn’t happen. If the police discover where it came from, it’s not just your sorry arse in the fire. The entire peace process goes up in flames. Are you getting this, Ray?’
‘It’s political.’
‘Fucking right it’s political. And it’s going to get personal in a screaming hurry. Governments, political parties, Special Branch, MI6, Criminal Intelligence, SO11 - every one of them will do whatever it takes to save the peace process.’
Ray flinches. ‘Why is it my fault? It’s your gun.’
Murphy swings from the waist, holding the heavy Scotch glass wrapped in a hand towel. It strikes Ray Jnr flush on the jaw, sending him sprawling across the bed. The glass shatters and a piece is sticking out of Ray Jnr’s cheek.
‘What’d you do that for?’ whines Ray, holding his cheek.
Murphy is standing over him. ‘Listen, you muggy prick, you stole that gun from me. Now you’re going to get it back. You’re going to meet Macbeth tonight and you’re going to get the shooter.’
Ray is holding his face. ‘Why is he going to give it to me?’
‘Because I have his sister.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Macbeth’s sister - you were massaging her tonsils.’
‘No shit!’
‘I shit you not. I’ve arranged a meeting. You get the stuff. He gets the girl. Then you cut his kite string.’
‘You mean I got to kill him?’
‘I’m talking about saving your sorry arse and keeping Daddy out of jail.’
Murphy wets the towel and hands it to Ray, who pinches the shard of glass between his fingers and pulls it from his cheek. He holds the towel against his face. Murphy sits on the edge of the bed and turns on his avuncular charm, explaining how he’s doing him a favour, contributing to his emotional development and familial ties.
‘You’re a fuck-up, Ray. Always have been. Well, now’s your chance to make amends. You can do something for your old man. Earn his respect. Make him proud. And it’s going to make you a name. You want to be a player, son. You want to be a wise guy. You have to be prepared to pull the trigger.’
Ray puffs out his chest. The idea is growing on him.
‘I’ll have you covered, son. I’m not going to leave you out there on your own. Your old man would never forgive me.’
‘What about the girl?’
‘What about her?’
‘She’ll be a witness.’
‘You seem handy with the brown, Ray. Give her a little extra juice. Send her on a long trip. It’s what every junkie wants.’
56
Ruiz is sitting on a park bench overlooking the river, watching the sun setting behind a bank of puce-coloured clouds that have brought storms all afternoon.
The air is criss-crossed with birds and, standing in the mud on the shoreline, a large white seabird seems more like a statue than it does a live creature.
Normally Ruiz has a beer at this time of day but he doesn’t feel much like drinking or fishing or conversation. Today had not enriched or improved his views on human nature.
He hears his name being called. Darcy is standing at the door of the house, holding the phone.
‘Take a message,’ he shouts.
‘She says it’s important.’
Ruiz rubs the heels of his hand into his eyes until bright lights explode behind his eyelids. The colours float and fade as the world comes back into focus.
He limps across the road and takes the phone from Darcy. Fiona Taylor is calling from the Yard.
‘How you doing, big man?’
‘Been better.’
‘The shell casing you sent over - the ballistics boys are looking at it now.’
‘Good.’
She hesitates.
‘You didn’t call me just to tell me that,’ says Ruiz.
‘We have a problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Your fingerprints were found in a flat at Abbey Road - Toby Streak’s place. The neighbours say you kicked open the door, forced your way inside, made threats.’
‘Has Streak lodged a complaint?’
‘No.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘They found his body this morning. It was floating in a flooded grease pit at a garage in Finchley.’
Ruiz can feel a constriction in his throat, but strangely no other emotion. Normally he can find something to regret about any death, but Toby Streak was a skid-mark on the world and if someone laundered his sheets they were performing a public service.
Fiona is still talking. ‘Someone beat him to death, Vincent. They broke every rib, both his hands and his kneecaps. Homicide and Serious Crime want to talk to you. They want to know what you were doing in Streak’s flat. And they want to know why I looked up his address on the computer.’
Ruiz starts to apologise. Fiona cuts him short.
‘Don’t sweat it, big man - if arseholes could fly, this place would be an airport. Just don’t ask me for any more favours for a while.’
Ruiz feels an odd sense of loss and disappointment. Not for himself. Fiona faces being hauled over the coals, disciplined and maybe even suspended. A letter would go on her file and stay there for ever. They could use it against her when she sought her next promotion.
‘Who’s the investigating officer?’ asks Ruiz.
‘DCI Baxter.’
‘I didn’t know Baxter had made Chief Inspector.’
‘Some turds are floaters.’
Ruiz puts the phone back in the cradle and ponders the fate of Toby Streak. Unconsciously, he shivers as though he’s left the front door open and the river chill has leaked inside. But this is a different sort of cold; an icy foreboding that penetrates his bones and wakes the little man sleeping at the bottom of his soul.
An hour later he signs his name in the visitor’s book at Westminster Morgue and waits for a pathologist to collect him from the waiting room.
They’ve redecorated since he was here last but the interior design never changes. The aluminium and stainless steel has a minimalist feel and fluorescent lights reflect off every smooth surface. The troughs and drains are running with clear water and the only sound he can hear is the hum of the air conditioning.
The pathologist is wearing a white coat and has eczema on his hands. It’s allergic reaction to latex gloves, he explains, calling it an occupational hazard. Cutting open bodies is an occupational hazard, thinks Ruiz. A skin rash is a skin rash.
Phil Baxter pushes through the swing doors with an urgency that is designed to impress. He’s a busy man. Don’t stand in his way. Ruiz remembers Baxter as a young DC working the drug squad back in the days when good crack was conversation rather than a Class-A narcotic. Now he’s a Detective Chief Inspector - a higher rank than Ruiz ever managed.
Baxter has put on weight, cut his hair shorter, but his wardrobe is the same - the black brogues, dark slacks and a sports jacket.
He offers his hand. Ruiz shakes it. The DCI grips it tightly and turns it over, examining Ruiz’s knuckles. He lets him go.
‘Sorry to drag you away from your hot cocoa.’
‘Get to it, Phil, you’re wasting my time.’
The pathologist examines the paperwork and pulls open a stainless steel drawer. The sound is like someone exhaling.
Toby Streak isn’t pretty any more. Most of his teeth are broken and his right eye socket no longer has an eye.
Baxter studies Ruiz’s face instead of the cadaver. Ruiz tries not to react, but the sheer ferocity of the attack leaves a mark on his lips and in the corners of his eyes.
‘Would you like to know how your friend here died?’ asks Baxter.
‘He wasn’t my friend.’
‘You were in his flat.’
‘He had information I needed.’
‘You beat it out of him.’
‘He tripped as I came through the door.’
The pathologist is watching this exchange as though viewing a tennis match, turning back and forth as sentences are volleyed. Baxter interrupts the exchange.
‘Tell us how Toby Streak met his maker.’
The pathologist picks up the autopsy report.
‘Initially, it seemed as though he died when a rib punctured his heart but he was already on the way. A brain haemorrhage caused by multiple blows to the head.
‘We believe they used a tyre iron or a metal bar of some sort. Both his hands and his kneecaps were broken early in the assault. They were held against a hard surface and smashed …’
Baxter interrupts to paraphrase. ‘He went every round. They propped him up and kept hitting him. See the marks on his neck. Someone held him by the throat to stop him sliding down a wall. He had brick dust in his hair.’
Ruiz has heard enough. He pushes open the door and walks back down the long neon-lit corridor, past the autopsy suites and the dirty body room. Baxter has to jog to catch up and demands that he stop.
Ruiz spins to face him. ‘You think I’m good for this? You think I broke that boy’s bones in there; that I ripped out his eye, you really believe that?’
Baxter is stunned by the ferocity of Ruiz’s anger.
‘I think you spent too long in the job, Vincent, mixing with these people, believing they were just like us but without the same advantages or upbringing. Only you’re wrong. People don’t choose the world they’re born into, but some escape it and some embrace it and some get buried by it. I think yo
u know who killed Toby Streak. Maybe you even tried to warn him.’
‘I was looking for a girl.’
‘Oh, that’s right, the sister of a terrorist.’
‘Sami Macbeth is no more a terrorist than I am.’
‘Is that an admission?’
‘Fuck off!’
Ruiz walks down the concrete ramp and across the loading dock. It has started to rain. Exploding raindrops have misted around the security lights and turned the street outside into a neon-coloured pool.
Ruiz stands on the corner looking for a cab. Three of them pass, already occupied. Water leaks beneath the collar of his overcoat, but he’s too angry to care. He’s working through the details of Toby Streak’s last hours like it’s a Twelve-Step Programme inside his head.
A police car pulls up. Through the windshield and beating wipers he sees Phil Baxter in the back seat. He leans over and opens the passenger door.
‘I don’t need a lift home,’ says Ruiz.
‘Oh, we’re not going home,’ replies Baxter.
57
Sami’s suit has been dry-cleaned and his shirt pressed. He brushes his teeth, rinses his mouth and spits into the sink. His gums are bleeding. A prison diet. Stress.
Two large black Landcruisers with tinted windows are waiting downstairs. Engines idling. Occupants unknown. There is a knock on the door. It’s time.
Ray Garza is standing in the foyer. Sami counts six men, dressed in black. One of them has a hand like a withered claw with the fingers compressed together and curled inward towards his wrist. He has to raise his cigarette above his eyes to put the filter in his mouth.
Car doors open. Close. Seat belts, please. The convoy moves off into a night made darker in the countryside, lit periodically by streaks of lightning that tremble in the clouds.
Sami is in the back seat of the first Landcruiser, sitting next to ‘The Claw’. The driver is wearing leather gloves and dark glasses, but his most notable apparel is a shoulder holster with a machine pistol. They’re going to start a war, thinks Sami.
The car doors aren’t locked. Perhaps he could shove the door open and roll out. He’d bounce along the road. He might even survive. What then?
No, this has to end now. Garza had been right about that much. The rest of his spiel was a self-pitying whine about his unfaithful wife and ungrateful son, as he tried to unload his moral guilt on others, but it didn’t take long for his ego to reassert itself and he became the same man. Not just the same man - worse because he was angry.
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