Perfect Match

by D. B. Thorne

  ‘Where the hell did he come from?’ said Fox, watching as Luke Mullan was handcuffed by a sergeant from the tactical squad. ‘Okay, take him and Arnold. I want both of them. Is anybody hurt?’

  ‘Only the shooter,’ said Hayes. ‘Haven’t got any update on him.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fox. ‘Go and check that bag. Make sure it’s got money in it.’ She watched Hayes cross to the scene of the shooting, black-clothed policemen all over it, Luke being pulled up by his upper arms, his hands cuffed behind him. Arnold was still unconscious, that’s if he wasn’t dead, Fox thought, remembering the impact of the hammer that Luke had swung. Where had he come from? He must have been hidden before they got there. They hadn’t had time to do a sweep, it had all happened so quickly.

  She walked over to Solomon, who was still breathing heavily. She had no idea what to make of what had just happened. It hadn’t gone down anywhere near how she’d planned it. Someone had been shot. That meant paperwork, and a lot of it, and this operation hadn’t been properly sanctioned or organised and it had turned into a complete shitstorm. But then, she had Thomas Arnold. And as an unexpected bonus, she had Luke Mullan too. Plus she’d taken half a million of dirty money out of circulation. In fact, she thought as she walked, this was a result, an unexpected and excellent result. And her boss, Goven, he’d make sure that any potential recriminations concerning the way the operation had been conducted would go away. Because she had just ticked a lot of boxes, hit a lot of targets. Smashed her KPIs. Which was, in the final analysis, all that mattered.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she said to Solomon, looking down at him, still on his knees.

  ‘You can’t take Luke,’ he said.

  ‘Of course I can. In fact, I must. He’s wanted for murder.’

  ‘I gave you what you wanted.’

  And more, thought Fox. ‘Yes, you did,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid that’s hardly relevant. I can’t give wanted criminals immunity, just because they’re related to you.’

  ‘Please. Let him go.’

  ‘Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t,’ said Fox. ‘And I really don’t want to. But you’re free to go.’

  Solomon picked his Ray-Bans up from where he’d dropped them, put them on and stood up. ‘Please.’

  ‘No can do.’

  He sighed and looked upwards at the sky. ‘But we still have an agreement?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Fox.

  ‘An agreement. You’ll provide officers.’

  ‘Oh.’ She’d forgotten, lost in her personal triumph. ‘Yes. Whatever. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ She looked at Solomon and shook her head. ‘Why didn’t you just follow that bloody script?’

  thirty-six

  THE GREAT CHARACTERS ALL HAD FATAL FLAWS. THE ONES that were remembered. Hamlet had his indecision, Othello was brought down by his jealousy. And this one, the woman calling herself Julia, her flaw was hubris. Like Cassiopeia. She thought she was clever, smarter than he was. Verily. In her message she had written Verily. Why? To reel him in? To whet his appetite? Women nowadays didn’t say verily. She had given herself away, and now the trap was set. Who did she think she was?

  He didn’t need a stage, not for this. Or rather, no stage was big enough for what he had planned. It would be played out in the real world. And that world would sit up and take notice.

  ‘Jonny?’

  He looked up from where he was sitting, in the still-warm sun outside the hospital’s main sliding doors. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We need you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘A and E, bed eleven. There’s a lot of blood.’

  Jonny looked at the cigarette he had been smoking. There was still half left to be smoked. Half a cigarette. He stood up and mashed it out in the steel ashtray, feeling the dying heat of the embers in the tips of his fingers.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jonny said. He followed the ward sister back inside the hospital and went to the room where the cleaning products were kept. He would need a bucket and a mop and disinfectant, and water, plenty of water. Blood diluted and spread when it was cleaned, mingling with the water and taking on a different kind of life, diffuse and unmanageable. He turned the tap on and waited until the bucket was half full, then took his mop and bucket and disinfectant spray to Bed 11.

  ‘Took your time,’ said a male nurse, peeling off bloody gloves with an air of great irritation. The bed was empty, but there was blood on the bedclothes, the floor, the curtain. Jonny thought of Macbeth, the desperate cry, Out, damned spot.

  ‘The curtains will need changing.’

  ‘So change them,’ the nurse said.

  Jonny idly imagined drowning the nurse in his half-filled bucket, the surprise he would feel at having his head pushed under, his first inhalation of warm water, here, in a small cubicle in a busy hospital. Jonny did not doubt that he could do it.

  The nurse left and Jonny got to work. He didn’t think of it as a job. More as a role he had taken on. One that gave him the keys to the hospital’s pharmacy, which had come in useful of late. And still would, or so he hoped. Once the trap was successful and events played out as he envisaged. A success, a huge success. Immaculately staged, brilliantly executed.

  The blood mingled with the water, tendrils of red unfurling and dissipating, a gentle submission. The water turned a rosy colour, becoming paler and paler as the blood was diluted further and further. Verily. The hubris. The arrogance. To imagine that he would not pick up on it. Lavinia. The last performance hadn’t been successful; in fact it had been a disaster. A fiasco, the stage abandoned, the player escaped. This time it would be different.

  He reached up and unclipped the curtain of the cubicle, suddenly thrust into the public eye, patients and doctors and nurses and relatives watching him at work, pushing a mop, eliminating the essence of someone unknown from where it had lain, spilt. Let them watch. It was just a role, just another role. Let them all watch.

  thirty-seven

  SOLOMON WOKE THE NEXT MORNING WITH A GROAN AND immediately wished that he could go back to sleep, sleep for the entire day, anything to avoid having to acknowledge that the day before, his brother had been arrested for the murder of Robbie White. Not only that, but he’d been arrested trying to help him, Solomon, out, because Solomon’s idea of a plan was about as sophisticated as an aubergine. As nuanced as a headbutt. He lay in bed with his hand over his face and worked his way through what had happened. Luke had been arrested. But so had Thomas Arnold. Fox had got her man, and the money. So she was still on the hook. She’d agreed to help Solomon in exchange for Arnold, and that was still on, despite the collateral damage he had suffered along the way. If this was chess, Solomon thought, he had just sacrificed his queen. Luke, his brother, the only person he knew he could rely on. What had he done?

  It was Thursday. Which meant that tomorrow was Friday. Yes, Solomon, that’s an established truth, he thought, still only half awake, his thoughts trapped in a pre-conscious vestibule of doubt and dread. And on Friday, Kay was supposed to be meeting a killer. If his plan from yesterday lacked finesse, then where did it leave tomorrow’s? It was unthinkable, impossible; it couldn’t happen, he couldn’t allow it. But then he remembered Kay’s reaction when he’d suggested to her that they call it off. She was determined, and Solomon suspected there was little he’d be able to do to talk her out of it.

  He got out of bed and put on coffee and while it was brewing walked into the bathroom and rubbed cream into his face, taking care not to look at the mirror. Why did he even have it? A question he must have asked himself a thousand times. But today he had even more reason not to look at it, his feelings of shame and inadequacy amplified by the disaster of yesterday. Of what had happened to Luke, because of him. Because of him, and him alone.

  He poured coffee and drank it standing up in the kitchen. He’d need coffee before he called Fox. He didn’t imagine it would be an easy conversation.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, impatient, irritated, clearly in no mood to
speak to Solomon. But then when had she ever been?

  ‘Have you charged my brother?’

  ‘He’s helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘You only have twenty-four hours to hold him without charge,’ said Solomon. ‘Are you going to charge him?’

  ‘No, I have longer,’ said Fox. ‘You’re aware that he’s suspected of murder? That’s a serious crime. I can hold him for ninety-six hours, should I need to.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think you owe me that.’

  ‘I’m not aware that I owe you anything,’ said Fox.

  ‘But you do,’ said Solomon. ‘We need to talk about tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Your side of the deal. You and two officers of your choosing at a place and time of my choosing.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Fox. ‘Tomorrow? No way. Haven’t got time.’

  As he spoke to Fox, Solomon scrolled down the front page of a news site. Shots fired, he read. Man injured, Thomas Arnold arrested. Another man helping with enquiries. That would be Luke, Solomon supposed. ‘I imagine that you’re dealing with the fallout from yesterday.’

  ‘A man was shot,’ said Fox. ‘These things tend to get noticed. Attract attention.’

  ‘I’m guessing you wouldn’t welcome more attention,’ said Solomon.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, I have a recording of you promising to provide me with assistance, in return for my help in apprehending Thomas Arnold. I imagine that if the press got hold of that recording, it would give yesterday’s operation further scrutiny.’

  Fox sighed and didn’t answer for some time, Solomon picturing her rubbing her eyes in irritation. An ice mountain she might be, but Solomon had a toehold, and he wasn’t letting go.

  ‘Christ. Okay. What do you need?’

  ‘Just you and two other officers. Plain clothes. I need you to be in a bar called Mr Toad’s at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Mr Toad’s.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘And then I will point out a man, and you will question that man.’

  ‘Right, I remember. Ask him his name. Check him out. Remind me, on what grounds?’

  ‘On the grounds that he is misrepresenting himself. Using a fake name.’

  ‘That’s pretty thin.’

  ‘Still, you have agreed to help, and I have that agreement on record.’

  ‘What did you say the name of the place was?’

  ‘Mr Toad’s.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nine o’clock.’

  ‘I need to go.’

  ‘You’ll be there?’

  ‘Yes, for Christ’s sake, yes, I’ll be there. Are we done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Mullan.’

  Fox hung up and Solomon closed his eyes and took a deep, long breath. It was done. The plan was still on track, or at least kind of. He would find the man responsible for what had been done to his sister. Luke he’d worry about later.

  Kay was at the lab and couldn’t be disturbed, so Solomon applied Marija’s make-up and put on his eye patch and walked to the hospital, taking his time, trying to enjoy the bright sunshine and the sense of freedom that his new, acceptable appearance gave him. He took the lift up to Tiffany’s room and looked through the window. She was awake and sitting up. He tapped on the glass and she smiled when she saw him, waved him in.

  ‘Hey, Tiff.’

  ‘Solly! You turned into a pirate or something?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Not sure. Where’s your parrot?’

  ‘It’s supposed to look hench.’

  ‘That what they told you?’ She giggled. ‘Only joking. You look all right, you do. What is it, make-up?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Solomon, sitting down on the chair next to her bed. Just hearing his sister’s voice, its cheerfulness and artlessness, made him feel immediately better.

  ‘Well, it looks good. You look good.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Bring me grapes?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Some brother.’ Tiffany frowned, then said, ‘Talking of brothers, where’s that Luke? Hasn’t come to see me once.’

  ‘He’s around,’ said Solomon. ‘He sends his love. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Thought he must be in prison or something. Again.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Solomon, glad not to have to lie to his sister. ‘Anyway, how are you? Got any memory back?’

  ‘No. Worst blackout of my life. The doctor says it’ll take time.’ She shrugged. ‘Could be worse. Least I’m still here.’

  ‘Yes. I’m glad about that.’

  ‘Should hope you are.’ She frowned again. ‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve got things on your mind.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No you ain’t. Don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Really, Tiffany, I’m fine.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Here, you want to make yourself useful?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go out and get me as many magazines as you can carry.’

  ‘What kind of magazines?’

  ‘The glossy kind. Duh.’

  On his way out of the hospital, Solomon realized that he was glad he had come to see his sister, more than glad, grateful. Because there she was, a good, kind, honest person who had had violence visited on her by somebody who was not worthy, who had no right to touch such goodness, to violate such innocence. And if that counted for Tiffany, then it did so for every other woman who had suffered at his hands. And although it was dangerous, and although it might end in tragedy, Solomon now knew that what he and Kay were doing was both right and necessary. Sometimes logic and reasoning only took you so far. This was something that even Solomon recognized. Sometimes you just had to do what you thought was right, regardless of the consequences.

  thirty-eight

  MR TOAD’S HAD ONCE BEEN A CINEMA, BUT THAT CINEMA HAD long closed, probably, Solomon imagined, because it’d only had one small screen, and today’s consumer wanted choice, and wanted that choice to be big, loud and in Dolby 5.1 surround. Where film titles had once been displayed over its entrance it now read MR TOAD’S, and next to the words was a stylized cut-out toad in a top hat triumphantly holding up a glass of something transparent and presumably alcoholic.

  This Friday night it was busy and warm, and people were standing outside on the pavement holding plastic cups filled with more translucent liquid. Judging by the noise level, that liquid was alcoholic too. It had been years since Solomon had been to a bar, and he unconsciously slowed down as he got closer, like a showjumper approaching a challenging fence. He couldn’t see Fox outside and so he took a moment to centre himself and pushed his way through the crowd on the pavement, into the bar.

  Inside, the crowd was thinner. There was a large, dim open space, with a long bar taking up the entire back wall. To Solomon’s left were three tall copper stills that looked like they were working, a tangle of piping leading up into the ceiling. There was no music, only the buzz of conversation and laughter. He looked around and saw Fox standing with two men, all of them drinking and giving the impression that they were tourists who had stumbled upon the place by mistake and weren’t at all sure that the accident was a happy one. He couldn’t see Demmy, though he knew that faces were tricky things. Clubmaster glasses, curly hair. That was all he had to go on. He scanned the crowd. No. He wasn’t here. Not yet.

  He took out his phone and texted Kay to let her know that it was safe to come, that they had it covered. He hadn’t been sure that Fox would show, even given the leverage he had over her, but she was here and it was safe. There wasn’t a lot that Demmy, or whatever the guy’s real name was, could do. He would recognize Kay, approach her, Solomon would give Fox the nod, and that would be that. Whatever happened from then on was out of his hands,
out of their hands. Either Fox did her job or she didn’t.

  Solomon waited at the bar and a man with a moustache with waxed ends asked him what he wanted.

  ‘Gin and tonic.’

  ‘House gin?’ the man asked. Even though it had been a long time for Solomon, he couldn’t remember ever having been offered the house gin.

  ‘Fine.’

  The man made his drink, pouring gin from a height, out of a bottle with a thin, curved metal spout in the end. Solomon paid and turned, leaning back against the bar and watching the room. He tried to think of the last bar he had been to. The truth was, even before the accident, he hadn’t been particularly sociable. He never seemed to have much in common with the people he met. He did like football, which had always helped, although the level of detail he was able to go into did sometimes lose people.

  ‘Nice eye patch, pal,’ said a man who had just arrived at the bar. ‘That’s a new one. Tattoos, beards, now eye patches. Fucking hipsters. What’s next?’

  Solomon didn’t reply, noting the level of drunken challenge in the man’s voice. Better not to say anything. He thought of Luke, what Luke would have done in this situation. The man wouldn’t have got past ‘Nice eye patch’. Wouldn’t have made it to ‘pal’.

  ‘Two lagers,’ the man said to the barman. ‘Pints of.’ He turned back to Solomon. ‘Got a wooden leg to go with it?’

  ‘No,’ said Solomon quietly.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘No,’ said Solomon. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Yo ho ho,’ the man said, more contempt than humour in the delivery. Solomon looked across at Fox, who caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Solomon shook his head at her. No. This wasn’t their man. Just some drunken idiot looking for an easy target.

  The man paid and picked up his drinks, said to Solomon as he left, ‘You know you look fucking ridiculous, don’t you?’ Solomon watched him walk away, an unsteady swagger. This, this was exactly why he didn’t ever want to go to bars.