Half Moon Chambers (20 page)

He didn't answer. God, I'd have sworn that he
would
--
denied it in a flash of that hot temper I
knew
lay beneath his calm. Kicked me out of his
bed
for the implication. Instead of that, he got out,
his
movement for once as clumsy as my own. He
stumbled
on his way to the dresser, took out a pair
of
jeans in unsteady hands and pulled them on.

"Listen to me," he said, his face turned away from
me
. "Drop this case. Those thugs who cornered
you
last night work for Foster, not Maric. If they're
on
to you, you're screwed. And... this is too big for
this
town, for your pissy little drug squad. The Met
couldn
't handle Val Foster. They'll kill you next
time
."

"Why don't you leave me to decide what my
pissy
little squad can do?"

"Because you can't. You've got no idea.
If
Foster's moved up here, you've lost your drugs war
in
Newcastle."

I surged to my feet. I had my temper too,
and
I'd heard enough. "I got shot in that war, you
bastard
. If I've lost anything, it's because of people
like
you
--
crackheads who bring your filth into the
country
, then don't have the spine to try and make it
right
."

"Jesus." His voice broke. He still wouldn't
look
at me. He was shrugging into his crumpled
shirt
from the day before, tearing at the buttons. "I
never
dealt. I carried the stuff, and I used it, but I
never
pushed."

"It's a fine bloody distinction."

"It's not!" His head jerked up, and he met my
gaze
full on, his own hot with rage, tears spilling.

"It's the difference between destroying myself and
other
grown-up morons like me, and standing
around
in back alleys behind schools! And you
know
what else? I don't even give a fuck. I'd trade
everything
I've got now
--
my little earthworm life,
burrowing
around in the dark, glueing together
other
people's paintings
--
for one more hit." He
gestured
at the beautiful entwined couple who
continued
their embrace over his bed, oblivious to
pain
. "For one more chance to paint like that
--
even
if I did get hooked again."

"Then why don't you? Why not just go the
fuck
ahead?" He stared at me in silence, and a
miserable
ache of guilt rose in my chest. I hated
him
--
everything he stood for, everything he was
saying
. But he hadn't had to come out and drag me
off
the streets the night before. He hadn't had to
share
his flat and his body and his bed, or try to
feed
me cold pasta sauce out of a pan. "You don't
only
paint when you're stoned," I said roughly. "I...I saw your sketches. The ones you did of me."

"Those? They're nothing. I'm a decent
technical
draughtsman. Those were just an
exercise
. Meaningless."

I got dressed. I wasn't sure how I managed it.

He must have helped me, though the room seemed
hazy
, my thoughts and my vision a blur. He
vanished
into the bathroom, and he brought me
back
my clothes, so putting together those actions,
yes
, that was him helping me. He'd helped me from
the
moment he'd seen Val Foster in the street
outside
, and if I could ever forgive him for that, I
might
feel less like shoving him out through his
rococo
window and taking the leap myself straight
after
. I could admit it now, now it was all fucked
and
over
--
I'd started to love Rowan Clyde.

And there was a thought. "You changed your
name
?"

"Yeah. For all the good it did me."

"Then you're not..." This was ridiculous. It
was
fine for
him
to cry. He damn well should, all
things
considered. I pulled my T-shirt over my
head
, and before I emerged, I managed to swipe its
fabric
quickly over my eyes. "You're not
Rowan
Clyde."

"Of course I'm not. What kind of a stupid
name
is that?"

"Right. Do me a favour
--
just... don't tell me
the
real one." I stopped for a moment in the
doorway
. I wouldn't look back. "I'll have to put in
a
report about Val Foster."

"I know. That's why I told you
--
so you'd
understand
who you were dealing with. So your
boss
would know to back off."

"There's no chance of that. I won't back off
either
."

"What do you mean?"

"I want this bitch."

"Yeah, I know." He was watching me in
alarm
, as if he'd just snipped the wrong wire on an
explosive
. "But you're not fit enough... If your mob
sets
anything up and goes out after her, you
wouldn
't be a part of that."

"No. And thanks for the reminder of how
screwed
I am. Still doesn't mean I'm gonna sit at
home
."

"Oh, Jesus, Vince. Don't try anything stupid."

"What does it matter to you? I'm a cop.
You're an addict. We should both get the hell back
to
what we do best."

Too much. I might as well have punched him
in
the gut. He folded up as if I had; sank down onto
the
edge of the bed. But I couldn't take it back, and
if
I was a cop again, I owed him one more thing.

"If you've got this history with Foster, my boss
will
probably get you protection. Witness or not."

"Why?"

"He's decent. That's why."

The hollow shadows deepened
under
Rowan's eyes. I'd put enough knife-blade
emphasis
on that word
decent
to leave him in no
doubt
of the differences I perceived. "It doesn't
matter
," he said lifelessly, looking at the floor.

"Tell your boss whatever you want - about Foster,
about
me. I'm leaving town. I'll be gone."

Chapter Nine

N
o chance at all of Bill Hodges backing off,
not
once he'd heard Val Foster had opened her
campaign
in his town. Quite the reverse. I stood in
a
corner of the briefing room, watching the
special
-operations officers pouring in to take their
seats
. Some were local, some drafted in from other
cities
where Foster had left her mark. Two had
come
up from the Met, a pair of Geordie lads
made
good. Nobody told me to my face, but I
gathered
soon enough they'd filled the gap Jack
and
I had left in the recruitment programme. They were
nice
, very modest and focussed. I could tell from
the
set of their shoulders how blazingly proud they
were
to have made the Flying Squad and come
back
to fight for their home town.

I had done my part. So Bill had assured me,
anyway
. He'd listened in disbelief while I'd told
him
Goran Maric was little more than a shield and
a
symbol for Val Foster. I'd heard him on the
phone
to the chief inspector afterwards. He was
struggling
for vocabulary. The words hadn't been
invented
for the likes of Val. Drugs baroness?

Queenpin? Overlady? He was lit up like
a
Christmas tree, and he didn't care, as he told me
again
and again, where I'd got my information
from
. I never had to mention Rowan's name, and
just
as well, since that too was just a smokescreen,
a
facade. He sent out his troops
--
the able-bodied
ones
--
to confirm my story, and then he put out the
call
. Staff and resources he couldn't have dreamt of
while
this was just the Goran Maric case came
flooding
in overnight. He was proud of me, he
said
. I'd adapted to my new circumstances,
changed
my street skills to investigative ones, and
look
at the results! I could sit back. I'd be welcome
at
the briefings as an intel man, but the special-ops
lads
, firearms officers and drugs teams would take
over
the legwork now.

He couldn't have told me any more politely to
keep
out of the way. I appreciated his care for my
dignity
, and I leaned on the wall and let him get on
with
what he did best. Logistics was his speciality.

He knew exactly where to send people and when.

If he couldn't find a place for me, that wasn't his
fault
. I hadn't really adapted. I'd struck gold this
once
, under circumstances which would give him a
stroke
if he found out. I listened for an hour or so
while
he detailed out the ops and the surveillance
he
wanted put in place around the city, then I
backed
out and went home. I'd started early. It was
almost
my knocking-off time anyway. If anyone
noticed
I was gone, it wouldn't cause much grief.

When I got back to the flat, for the first time
since
I'd moved in, I hauled out from under the sofa
my
one family photo album. I'd stuffed it under
there
because Phil was in most of the shots,
buggering
up even the blandest of family
memories
. A picnic on the beach where he'd
disappeared
and we'd found him hours later,
passed
out in the dunes with a nicked bottle of
scotch
still clutched in his hand. My sister Jane's
sixteenth
, which he'd honoured by pinching her
new
bracelet before she'd had a chance to try it on.

I looked through the pictures. For once I didn't rest
my
thumb on his ugly face, which I could see now
would
have been my own, if I too had stumbled off
the
track. I'd always denied it, but we had been
very
alike.

I put the album away. I gave myself half an
hour
to look out the window, watching the little
world
. Things which had seemed real enough
through
Rowan's glass had retreated back into
miniature
, an ingenious Lego and enamel-work
scene
laid out for reasons unknown. Tiny cars
threaded
the hollow beneath my building. Sunlight
caught
their roofs, and fragile stick-men darted
between
them at the crossing. Rowan's hometime
from
the gallery came and went, and he didn't
appear
. Well, he'd said he would be skipping
town
. For some reason I hadn't thought he'd meant
straight
away, that he wouldn't finish out his week
at
the gallery. I started to wonder where he'd gone,
and
I stopped myself. He was nothing to me now.

And he'd be safe enough, whichever new alleys
he
'd found to run down. He'd done it all before.

His type would always get by. Fear twisted in my
guts
, and a bitter anger that wouldn't let me stay
still
for one moment longer. I'd told Rowan that I
wouldn
't back down, wouldn't sit at home. Beyond
that
, my ideas were foggy, but I had to do
something
.

I would stay out of Bill's way. I owed him
that
much. He didn't need a wounded warhorse
limping
round the place, though when I'd adjusted
that
grandiose metaphor down to the level of a
worn
-out pit pony I felt better. Now I'd seen and
remembered
the raw energy of a citywide op being
harnessed
at Mansion Street, I realised just how
far
I'd fallen from that world. I'd made life very
tough
for my boss over the last few months. I'd
never
be a desk jock, never get my head around
diplomacy
, interviews and PR. My desperate
clutch
on my old life hadn't been fair, not on Bill
and
not on myself. It was time for me to move on. I
had
no idea of how to word a resignation letter,
but
I could worry about that later.

Before I walked out, maybe I could render
one
final service to Bill and the pissy little
department
that had been my whole world since I'd
left
the Ponteland academy. When I'd hit the streets
before
in my hoodie and cheap trackie bottoms, I'd
been
after Goran Maric. I'd had no reason to try
out
on the back-alley crackheads what the name
of
Val Foster would do.

I laughed, the sound harsh in the empty room.

Rowan would tell me it would simply get me
killed
. I'd have listened to him, too. The night
before
his confession, safe in his bed, I might even
have
let him stop me.

I scrambled up off the sofa. There was no
time
like the present, and kamikaze tasks were best
carried
out in hot blood. The important thing now
was
to shift my arse out of this flat and into action
before
I could realise I was gutted. Heartbroken at
being
dumped out of an affair I hadn't really known
had
begun. The sharpest sting lay in his name
--
in
not
knowing it, in accepting him completely as
my
Rowan. I didn't even know how to think about him
any
more.

Accepting him
. I stopped in my bedroom,
resting
one hand on the wardrobe where I kept my
street
disguise. I hadn't done that, any more than I'd
accepted
Phil. I hadn't had to walk out the other
morning
, leaving him to cope with his bared soul
as
best he could. I shook myself. Christ, one more
second
of this and I'd have to admit that any
dumping
had been done by me, not him. I pulled
out
my clothes, slammed the wardrobe door on my
thumb
--
stood and swore until I'd run out of breath
and
bad language. Then I quite calmly got dressed.

Out of habit I paused in the hallway, switching on
the
kitchen light so I wouldn't come back to a dark
flat
. I glanced around my featureless domain.

Deliberately I switched the light off again, and I let
myself
out, closing this door quietly behind me.