In the Dark (12 page)

Wave reached behind the wheel and turned off the headlights.

‘I think
Theodore
just shit his pants,' SnapZ said.

Theo blinked, saw that look of Javine's. Another slow breath, taking in the clean, remembered smell of Benjamin Steadman, the top of his head . . .

Easy leaned close to Theo's ear. ‘Sweet and simple,' he said.

Theo nodded.

Easy reached across and patted Theo's arm, then further to stroke the muzzle of the pistol. The smile was a little too wide; something chilly in the whisper.

‘You know the
etiquette
. . .'

PART TWO

ELEVEN

The detective inspector was probably a bit more talkative than he usually was, in an effort to avoid awkward silences, and most of what he said was addressed to the tabletop or, when he leaned back in his chair, to the flaking tiles on the ceiling. Not too much eye contact made, but he certainly wasn't being blamed for it.

‘You've probably been in my position yourself,' he said.

‘I've dealt with people a damn sight worse off than me, if that's what you mean.'

‘So, you know what it's like.'

‘You have my sympathy.'

‘I didn't mean that,' the detective said, reddening. ‘Just . . . you know that it's tricky talking about the case with a relative.'

‘We weren't married.'

‘All the same . . . there are good reasons why we don't normally do this. You understand that we probably wouldn't be here at all unless you were on the Job.'

The detective's office, which he clearly shared with someone else, was on the third floor of Becke House, the headquarters of the Area West Murder Squad. He'd made it clear that, as senior investigating officer, the DCI would have been there himself were he not busy at the press office preparing a statement. A story had been run in local papers reporting a fatal crash, but now all the details - the victim's name, the second car, the gunshots - were going to be released, in the hope that it might shake something loose. That someone might come forward with information.

‘You asking for help already?'

The DI's face was answer enough. Only two days since the incident and the investigation had slammed good and hard into a brick wall. ‘No point me bullshitting you,' he said. ‘Some of these people are happy to shoot you if you look at them the wrong way. Talking to us isn't exactly a priority with them.'

‘Yeah, I know how these things work.'

It was a bright Monday afternoon and getting uncomfortably warm in the office. The sun was hot against the arms of plastic chairs and on the sides of faces; streaming through the windows, onto magnolia walls and across cork-boards, long since bleached to a dirty, veined cream.

The DI made momentary eye contact, then looked down at his desk. ‘When's the baby due?'

‘I'm thirty-seven weeks gone, give or take,' Helen said. ‘So any time now, really.'

The DI looked up again, nodded, and let his eyes drift back down to the file on his desk. He mumbled, ‘Sorry.' He'd already said it a good many times.

‘Sorry for my loss?' Helen asked. ‘Or sorry because my baby's going to be born without a father?'

Two days since the incident
. . .

Two days since Paul Hopwood had been struck and killed by a motor vehicle while standing at a bus stop on Kingsland Road in Hackney.

Helen could see the embarrassment on the DI's face and regretted her sharpness. He'd been right to suggest that she knew what these situations were like, and when she'd talked about dealing with those worse off than herself, she was not just being glib. As a DC on a Child Protection Unit, Helen Weeks had interviewed those who had lost children or whose children had been abused by people they loved and trusted. Even so, she knew how hard it was to be the one asking the questions. Spooning out the tired homilies. She looked at the man sitting opposite her and knew how badly he wanted to get out of that office. He was mid-forties, dark and solidly built, with hair that was greying a little more on one side than the other. Though it was understandably nervous, the smile was warm enough, but she had a strong feeling that it was far from being a permanent fixture. That he wasn't someone you would want to make an enemy of.

‘Do you know what you're having yet?' he asked. ‘Boy or girl?'

She shook her head.

‘Any names?'

‘No.'

She'd forgotten
his
name almost as soon as he'd introduced himself. Just one syllable, she remembered that much. It had been happening a lot in the last few days. Information wouldn't stick. Ordinary words sounded nonsensical, and she would drift away in the middle of conversations.

Her brain was far too busy painting pictures: blood and broken glass on a pavement; herself and a toddler holding hands at a grave-stone.

‘I thought it was supposed to be an urban myth,' she said. ‘This headlights thing.'

‘I think it
was
. . .' His mobile phone rang. He picked it up and studied the screen, mouthing another ‘sorry' before dropping the call and sliding the phone into his jacket pocket. ‘I think it started in America, came over here on the Internet or something.'

Helen had first heard of it a few years before: a warning for people driving through certain areas of the city at night not to flash their headlights at cars that were driving without theirs. A hideously random way for gangs to select ‘victims'; to pick the car into which the gang initiate would be required to shoot. It was a myth, probably, but a horribly plausible one with the way those areas were going. Now, they had a scenario in which at least one gang had apparently decided it was as good a way as any of testing the new blood.

‘They seem to change these initiation rites whenever they get tired of them,' the DI said, ‘or they're getting too easy. A year or two ago it was squirting ammonia into people's faces. That one was popular with young girls because they could keep it in their handbags.'

‘This a north London gang, then?' Helen asked.

‘Not necessarily. The car was stolen in Catford—' He stopped as the tones sounded from inside his jacket. His caller had left a message. ‘Doing the shooting this side of the river might have been a territorial thing. Letting someone else know they were around.'

‘If it's a turf war, you must know which gangs are involved.'

‘There's nothing going on that we know of. I'm just saying that we can't take anything for granted.'

‘You know the people to talk to, though?'

‘We're liaising with the Drugs Task Force, obviously. They're trying to point us in the right direction, but there's nearly two hundred gangs in London and like I said—'

‘They're not very talkative,' Helen said. ‘I know.' She thought for a few seconds. ‘What about forensics?'

‘The Cavalier was burned out when we found it, so I don't think we'll find much there. The BMW is still being examined.'

‘Where?'

The DI didn't hear or chose to ignore the question. ‘We've got the preliminary report back, but we're still waiting on ballistics.' He looked at her. ‘We're obviously doing this on the hurry-up, Helen.'

She nodded. Of course they were. Always the same when there was a fellow officer involved. But his pause told her there wasn't a great deal they were expecting to find; certainly nothing that they didn't already know. There had been no shortage of eyewitnesses: to the BMW flashing its headlights; to the shots being fired from the Cavalier; to the BMW veering up onto the pavement and smashing into the bus stop. They had times, number plates, a few vague descriptions.

Other than who was responsible, it was as good as open and shut.

‘What about the others at the bus stop?' Helen asked.

‘Well. DS Kelly, who I think you know, got off with a few cuts and bruises. The second man was much the same. Flying glass . . .'

‘And the woman in the car?'

‘She's doing OK too, I think. Broken collarbone. Her face is pretty smashed up.'

‘Can I have an address?'

‘Sorry?'

‘I'd like to see her.'

He sat back in his chair, looked genuinely confused. ‘Why?'

She didn't have an easy answer. The sun on her face and neck was becoming unbearable. She rubbed at her belly through the material of her dress. ‘What am I supposed to do? I feel like I'm . . . fading in and out, you know, and I don't just want to sit around wondering whether I'll get a chance to bury Paul before the baby comes. I need to have . . . something to do. It doesn't really matter what.'

He cleared his throat. ‘Have you got someone staying with you?'

‘Place is too bloody small. My dad and my sister are in and out, but I'm happier with a bit of space to be honest.'

‘What about Paul's parents?'

‘They're in a hotel. They're . . . happier there, I think.'

‘Have you decided about the funeral?'

The words tumbled out of her before she could check herself. ‘Yes, and I think we should definitely have one. It's probably best, don't you reckon? He's going to start stinking the place up otherwise.' The DI reddened again, but it was Helen's turn to apologise.

‘Don't worry.'

‘Like the mood swings weren't bad enough
before
all this.'

‘I just meant have you thought about whether you want an official police ceremony?'

‘Not really. Not yet.' She
had
thought about it. Had decided that, much as she would prefer something quiet, she should leave it up to Paul's parents. She guessed that, when the time came, they would probably go for the speeches and the flags and the pallbearers in white gloves.

The inquest into Paul's death had been opened and - in line with standard procedure - immediately adjourned. It would reconvene once the police investigation was complete. How long was a piece of string?

‘We'll talk to the coroner and try to get the body released . . . get
Paul
released, as quickly as we can,' he said. ‘Might be another couple of weeks, though.' There was a knock and a face appeared around the door. ‘What is it, Dave?'

The man's eyes darted to Helen and then quickly back to the DI. ‘Your briefing started five minutes ago . . .'

The DI nodded and the man closed the door. ‘Sorry, I need to crack on.' Helen started to get up but he raised a hand, stood up himself and walked around the desk. ‘I'll be at least fifteen minutes,' he said. ‘Probably longer.' He glanced back at the blue book sitting in the middle of his desk. ‘Obviously all the statements, the reports and so on are on the system, but you're probably the same as me. Keep a lot of stuff in your notebook?' Helen said nothing. ‘It's not really worth me taking it with me,' he said. ‘It'll probably just stay right there on the desk, and I know I don't have to tell you that you really shouldn't be looking at it while I'm gone.' He walked to the door.

‘I understand,' Helen said.

She sat for a minute or two after the DI had left, feeling a little breathless, then walked into the corridor, where she knew there was a water cooler. She helped herself to three paper cups' worth. Then she went back into the DI's office and opened his notebook.

His name was written at the top of the first page. Helen thought that it suited him. She guessed that he could be spiky and hard to shake off.

She turned the perforated pages until she came to the one headed HOPWOOD: 2 AUGUST. The name was elaborately underlined and there were doodles in the corners of the page - houses and stars. She took a pen from her handbag, helped herself to a sheet of A4 from the desk, and started writing things down.

TWELVE

Another hundred, hundred and fifty pounds a week.

The chance to sit on his arse all day in front of the television.

A key.

A gun.

These, it seemed to Theo, were the things that'd he'd got from ‘moving up'. The rewards that had been waiting for him that bit further up Easy's triangle.

And there had been something else, something a little harder to pin down and a lot scarier. He knew that others in the crew would call it ‘respect', even though the word got chucked around like an empty fag packet sometimes, and he liked the looks, the little nods. No point pretending he didn't. From the ones where
he
was now, and from those still waiting for a chance of their own. He wondered if any of them had a clue how much he'd been shitting himself on the night. Was
still
shitting himself. He guessed that many of them did; thought he'd seen something knowing, something
shared
in a few of those looks.

The scariest thing of all was having something to live up to.

‘You watching this shit, man?'

Theo shook his head.

Mikey squeezed in next to him on the torn, vinyl settee and picked up the remote. Theo stared at the screen, watched the channel change every few seconds: a woman in an empty house; people on running machines; cars, cowboys, poker; some idiot fishing.

The sound down low because they had to listen out for the door.

Having run through all the channels twice, Mikey settled on an episode of
Diagnosis Murder
. He sat back. ‘That's the geezer out of
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
, man. Fucker looks
old
. . .'