In the Dark (14 page)

A post-mortem of sorts.

Helen walked around to the near-side rear door and opened it. The back seat was missing and the mats had been removed. There was still some glass on the floor from the window through which the shots had been fired.

‘We dug one bullet out of the wheel arch and the other out of the far door.'

Helen was startled. She hadn't been aware of Deering moving up behind her. She turned to look at him.

‘They're with ballistics,' he said. ‘So we'll wait and see. Thirty-eights, if you ask me.'

‘Not that they'll ever find the gun,' Helen said.

‘Right, right.' He nodded and let out a strange laugh, like a strangled cough.

She found herself leaning back against the car, retreating a little from the CSM's gaze. She felt almost as though he were studying her.

‘Why don't we go and get some tea?' he said.

He led her upstairs and into a small office. The filing cabinets looked pre-war and the two computers were grey with grime. Helen sat in a stiff-backed armchair against the wall, while Deering went to get the tea. He was back quickly with two mugs and an open packet of digestives. She took one and he carried a second chair across.

‘You're his girlfriend, aren't you?' he said. ‘The bloke that was hit.'

She looked up at him, her mouth full of biscuit.

The nod towards her belly answered the unasked question. ‘Somebody said that he had a partner who was expecting.'

She smiled at the word; it wasn't one she'd heard from anyone other than her grandmother. She could suddenly hear a gentle hint of the North-East in Deering's accent. ‘Expecting' sounding like ‘expectant'.

‘Did you see what you came to see?' he asked.

‘I just wanted to see the woman's car.' She shrugged like that was perfectly reasonable. He nodded as if he agreed that it was, but still she wondered what he was thinking. ‘Did
you
find anything?'

‘Nothing I wasn't expecting to find. The bullets, obviously. Some of Mrs Ruston's blood on the front seat.' He looked at her across the top of his mug. ‘She was the driver.'

Helen nodded. Another name she'd taken from the notebook.

‘I don't think the airbag deployed until the car hit the wall. She broke her nose at the . . . first impact.'

‘When she hit Paul, you mean.'

‘That's correct.'

Helen took a slurp of tea and Deering did likewise.

‘I haven't written everything up yet,' he said. ‘I prefer getting my hands dirty, if I'm honest.'

‘Like most of us.'

‘Right, right.'

They sat in silence for ten, fifteen seconds. Deering removed his cap and Helen saw that he was virtually bald on top. She was surprised, as there was plenty of hair at the sides and he couldn't have been more than forty. He finished his drink and said, ‘This feels a bit weird.'

‘Why?'

‘It's like there's something you think I can tell you. You know, that'll help you feel better. Truth is, I don't even know how fast the car was going.'

‘That's not why I came.'

‘Like I said, you'd be better off talking to the collision investigator.'

‘It's fine, honestly.'

She wasn't just trying to make him feel more comfortable. She understood what he was talking about, but there were things she really
didn't
feel a need to know.

She had not seen the post-mortem and had no plans to do so. She did not know if Paul had died instantly. She knew that he had gone by the time he reached hospital, had been dead for a while by the time she got the call. That was enough.

Suffering and struggle. Last words. That kind of knowledge could not help anybody, surely. Then again, she might develop a burning desire to know that sort of stuff later on. It didn't really feel as though she were doing
any
of the things she was supposed to, or at least not in the conventional order. She certainly couldn't explain why she'd wanted to see the car.

Why she wasn't at home, curled up and howling.

The phone rang, and though Deering ignored it for a few seconds colour rose in his face. He ran thumb and forefinger around the edge of his cap. ‘I'd best be getting on,' he said. The DI had said much the same thing. It was becoming obvious that heavily pregnant widows were not the most relaxing of company.

‘Me too.'

‘Have you got a card or something?'

She handed one over and Deering walked her back downstairs. She pointed to the pair of mangled Saabs on her way out. ‘What happened there, then?'

‘Chasing some drugged-up teenager across most of Essex,' Deering said. ‘The driver didn't get out of it. Young PC with a couple of kiddies. '

As Helen got back into Paul's car, she found herself wondering where they kept all the pallbearer's white gloves.

 
Easy arrived at the stash house announcing that he'd brought lunch with him. Theo opened the bag and pulled a face.

‘Fuck you, Jamie Oliver,' Easy said. ‘That's the quality gear, man, the shish, yeah? I wouldn't be bringing no doner kebab rubbish, would I? That stuff's just pig's lips and stomachs and shit.'

They left Mikey sprawled on the sofa and moved through to the kitchen to eat. Easy had on a red tracksuit and a couple of new chains; heavy ones that Theo liked the look of. He decided he might get himself one come the end of the week.

‘Got to do it, man,' Easy said. ‘Why else you working your arse off? I'll take you to see this guy I know, get you the best deal.'

When they'd finished eating, Theo gathered up the plates and paper, flicked on the kettle. Easy stayed at the table rolling himself a spliff.

‘You positive Wave got rid of that gun?' Theo said.

Easy slid the Rizla across his tongue. ‘What's this now?'

‘What do you think?'

‘Still the bus stop thing, yeah?'

‘Fuck sake, you not seen the extra police walking about out there?' Easy shrugged and lit up. ‘You think that's a coincidence?'

‘You got to breathe easy, T. Stay collected.' Easy opened his mouth wide, let the pungent smoke drift out and up. ‘Nobody asking any questions.'

Mikey shouted through from the other room: ‘Any of that coming my way?'

Easy passed the joint to Theo, who took it gratefully and drew hard. Anything that was going to relax him was a good idea. He'd not slept well for three nights, and with the tiredness on top of everything else he'd found himself fighting with Javine for no reason. Shouting at the baby, which he knew was mental, and which only led to more arguments. He was increasingly unnerved by crowds and loud noises. It was becoming hard to concentrate, to think about business.

‘So, this gun, yeah?'

‘Wave says it's gone. He found it, he lost it again. No more.'

They both knew that Wave had young cousins, twelve and thirteen, and the smart money was on him using them to hold onto firearms. It was a common enough ploy. Kids . . .
real
kids, were less likely to be picked up with guns, and wouldn't be looking at a mandatory five-year sentence if they were. The likes of Wave didn't get where they were without playing all the angles; operating smooth.

‘I don't want some ten-year-old passing that thing round in exchange for sweeties,' Theo said. ‘All I'm saying.'

Easy laughed, took back the spliff. ‘It's gone, T, I said. You need to trust me on this, yeah?'

Theo stared at him. That was another thing that had changed since the drive up to Hackney and back. He remembered how Easy had been with him that night: the looks and the laughing from the back seat; the back and forwards with Wave and SnapZ, getting in little digs and putting him down. There'd been something . . . hard about him, and cruel. Theo had seen him like that with other people when he'd had to be; knew that Easy had a wicked temper. But not with him; not before.

He'd pulled him up on it as soon as they'd got back. Easy and the others had been high on the night, while Theo just waited for the adrenaline to stop rushing through him, like a white-knuckle ride he couldn't wait to get off.

Easy had laughed, said, ‘It's just chit-chat, man. Just trying to keep you on your toes and fired up for it, you get me? You still my Star Boy, T.'

Now, Easy looked across the table at him through a curtain of smoke; that smile building slowly as the skunk did its job. ‘Got something I need you for,' he said.

‘What?'

‘Little bit of fundraising. No big thing at all.'

Theo spread his arms. ‘Got this to look out for now, man.'

‘It's sorted.'

Theo took what was left of the spliff.

‘Wave gets a nice cut of whatever I come out with so he's happy,' Easy said. ‘SnapZ looks after the cash for a bit, and you come with me. Next week you buy yourself three of these nice sick chains, you get me?'

‘What's the story?'

Now the killer smile really kicked in. ‘This one is
very
sweet and
very
simple,' he said. He reached a hand out towards Theo's face. ‘And all I need is a boy with that nice,
innocent
look you got.'

Theo moved back, pushing his chair onto two legs. Thinking that it was bullshit. That even if it wasn't, the look was all that he had left.

‘I'll bell you with the whats and whens,' Easy said.

They turned at the urgent knocking and watched Mikey jump up and move towards the door. There was a muffled conversation via the intercom and a few seconds later SnapZ came charging into the kitchen, nodding and grinning, dropping the early edition of the
Standard
onto the table.

Theo saw the headline and felt the puke rise up.

SnapZ didn't bother taking off his headphones and the beat that leaked from them was like an angry insect buzzing around the kitchen. He drummed his forefingers on the paper then pointed them both at Theo. ‘Now you're a
serious
playa, T,' he said. ‘
Big
-time gangsta, for real.' He took the remains of the joint from between Theo's lips, sucked on it and hissed out the smoke. He nodded towards the newspaper, his voice far louder than it needed to be. ‘Now you're a cop-killer . . .'

FOURTEEN

Frank Linnell tried to get back for lunch as often as he could, enjoying the chance to relax for an hour or two in the middle of the day, and happy enough that Clive was keeping an eye on progress at the pub.

He had picked up the paper on the way home.

Sitting in the office downstairs, he had read the entire story through twice: the front-page splash and full report across three further pages inside; the sidebar with the Commissioner's response and an appeal for information; the editorial comment condemning the shocking waste of life and demanding that something be done about the city's drug gangs.

There had been a tear or two the night before, when Paul's girlfriend had called. Now he shed a few more and had a stiff drink before he read the story a third time. Got all that out of the way so he could start to think clearly.

Through the open door he saw his sister Laura drift down the stairs on her way to the kitchen. He shouted that he'd be through in a minute and went back to the paper.

There were just the two of them now, his mother having passed on eighteen months before in the basement he'd had converted into a granny flat. Just him and Laura, rattling around in the big house in Blackheath. But Frank was happy enough. He knew some of the stupid things that were said about his domestic set-up - behind his back, of course; always behind his back - but he was long past caring what other people thought, and the arrangements suited him nicely.

When she was on the way out, his mum had urged him to do up the basement flat and rent it out, but it wasn't as though he needed the money, and he didn't want strangers around the place. Didn't relish the intrusion. A Russian girl came in to clean when he wasn't there, and a woman named Betty spent each Monday in his kitchen knocking up enough food for the week, leaving the freezer stocked with pies and casseroles, pasta dishes and fruit crumbles.

It wasn't doing his weight any good, mind you.

He didn't
need
anyone else around; he was never short of company. There were always a few of the boys knocking about talking business and what have you; and there were times, weeks on end if there was something serious on, when Clive more or less lived there. Even when things were quiet, a drinking partner or someone to watch a TV programme with was only ever a phone call away.

Whatever anyone thought or said, it worked for him. And, as Frank was fond of telling Clive, or anyone else whose ear he was bending, he was ‘far too old and ugly to change anything now'.

He turned on the CD player - a bit of Elgar that he liked - and stared at the front page: ‘POLICE OFFICER NAMED AS VICTIM OF GANG SHOOTING. FLASHED HEADLIGHTS LEAD TO TRAGEDY'.

There was a picture of the bus stop where it had happened; the metal frame mangled and beads of glass piled like ice in the gutter. There was crime-scene tape and a yellow INCIDENT board at the side of the road. On the inside pages the events had been recreated in a series of simple drawings, like a cartoon strip: a stick man pointing a gun from the window of Car A; and the moment of impact rendered with a jagged line where the front of Car B met the legs of a second stick man on the pavement.

He understood now why the girlfriend had been so vague about the ‘accident' when she'd called, poor cow. She'd sounded nice, he thought. Not that he'd expected Paul to be with anyone who
wasn't
nice.