The Wolves of London (27 page)

Finally reaching the A25 after a good hour’s trudge, the two of us had managed to thumb a lift from a guy called Greg, whose ginger whiskers and stocky build put me in mind of Yosemite Sam. Greg was a draughtsman, who was originally from Sunderland, but who currently lived in Guildford and commuted to his job in East Grinstead each morning. Clover and I were so tired that we could both have done with a snooze, but Greg liked to talk, and as it was often an unspoken rule that a hitchhiker was obliged to pay for his journey in kind, I sat in the passenger seat and engaged him in conversation while Clover snatched forty winks in the back.

‘I love the classics, me,’ Greg said, nodding at the footwell between us, in which, among the chewing gum, sweet wrappers, pens and random bits of paper, was a CD case for Charles Dickens’s
Barnaby Rudge
. ‘I never read ’em when I was a kid cos I was too busy playing football and causing bother, but I’m catching up now. Once I’ve done with Dickens I’ll be on to Thomas Hardy.
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
and all that.’

As he dropped us at the service station with a cheery wave I found myself envying Greg. He seemed to have it sorted – a good job, a nice car, a wife and kids who he mentioned with affection, and a determination to expand his horizons. His life seemed so neat and simple and organised, whereas mine was an unruly mess.

‘It’s in, then?’ I said to Clover in response to her exclamation.

She was hunched over the open newspaper she had bought, which covered three-quarters of the table. She looked up, wide-eyed, pushing her glossy, maroon-coloured hair away from her face.

‘Page three,’ she replied, the newspaper making a fluttering crackle as she flipped it around.

The headline read: 15
DEAD IN LONDON NIGHTCLUB FIRE
. There was no mention of murder, or of the club coming under attack. According to the report, the fifteen bodies discovered in the charred remains of the cellar bar were too badly burned to have yet been identified. The story stated that although there appeared to have been no survivors, the club was sparsely populated at the time because it was near to closing time. Fire officers were still investigating the cause of the blaze, though it was thought that the fire had started somewhere on the ground floor of the building, trapping the victims in the basement area below.

We read the story together, and when Clover gave a sharp intake of breath I knew she had reached the final paragraph, which stated that the nightclub’s owner, Clover Monroe (27), was thought to be among the victims.

‘Shit,’ she murmured, looking across the table at me, an expression of shocked blankness on her face. ‘Everyone thinks I’m dead. Which I guess makes me a kind of… non-person. That’s weird.’

I hesitated to say what was on my mind, but then I said it anyway. ‘On the plus side, if the police think you’re dead it means they won’t be looking for you, not until they’ve identified all the bodies.’

Clover narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you think this is more of that scorched-earth policy you were talking about?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, the fire must have been started to conceal evidence. But those freaks who started it – assuming it
was
them – know we’re together and that we escaped. Could be they’re isolating us, cutting us off from help.’

‘Though if the worst came to the worst we
could
still go to the police.’

‘And tell them what? Your daughter’s gone missing, my club’s burned down – we must both be under suspicion. If we told them that we were on the run from villains who had done both of those things we’d have to tell them why and that would only incriminate us. How long before the police link you to McCallum’s murder? For all we know, these “Wolves” may have planted evidence at the scene.’ She raised her hands and slapped them down on her thighs, a gesture of helplessness. ‘No, if we go to the police they’d want to contain us and question us. We’re on our own, Alex.’

I had never felt more trapped, more uncertain of where to turn. Even in prison I had had a plan, a sense of determination, hope for the future. I looked around, my gaze sweeping across the sparsely occupied tables, to the drift of people gravitating towards the toilets, or the other fast-food outlets, or into WH Smith to buy a morning paper or a bottle of water or a quick snack. There was a constant flow of bodies in and out of the main doors, commuters stopping off en route to the office, night-workers heading home after a long shift. To my eyes all of these people seemed purposeful, unburdened, in control of their lives. I wondered what we would do – what everyone would do – if the Wolves of London were suddenly to make an appearance in these most mundane of surroundings. I thought of the tall man with his syringe-fingers and his grotesque clockwork army, the man in the demob suit with his living darkness formed from the accumulated horrors of war. I couldn’t imagine them here. They were creatures not only of the night, but of nightmare. How could they possibly exist in a world of McDonald’s and piped music and vending machines?

As I was looking around, Clover was still browsing through the paper. Suddenly she froze. ‘Look here,’ she said.

The story was on page ten:
BRUTAL MURDER OF RECLUSIVE MILLIONAIRE
. I swallowed, pressing my hands flat on the table to stop them from trembling as I read the story:

Retired millionaire businessman Barnaby McCallum, who was thought to be in his early 90s, was found brutally murdered in his home yesterday. It is believed that he may have disturbed a burglar, who broke into his house on Bellwater Drive, Kensington, in the early hours of Wednesday morning. His body was discovered by his housekeeper, Cynthia Pritchard (59) who lives nearby. Police have revealed that Mr McCallum was killed by a single blow to the head. Detective Inspector Michael Rainey, who is leading the inquiry, described the murder as a ‘vicious and cowardly attack on a defenceless old man.’ It is unclear whether anything was taken in the attack, though police have confirmed they are pursuing several lines of enquiry. DI Rainey made a statement in which he said that the killer would almost certainly have had the victim’s blood on his clothing, and he appealed for any information that might lead to an arrest. Mr McCallum is thought to have no surviving relatives.

‘Vicious and cowardly,’ I murmured. ‘Is that what I am?’

I felt deeply ashamed. Not only of what I had done, but also that since the attack on Incognito I had been so wrapped up in my own problems that I had barely given McCallum a thought. But the story in front of me, full of the kind of newspaper speak that the majority of us skim over on a daily basis, suddenly brought it all crashing in again. This was real and unalterable. As extenuating as the circumstances may have been, and however unintentional my actions, the inarguable fact was that I was a murderer. And what I now knew about the heart – little though it was – made me wonder whether, in fact, I had
caused
the spike to appear and pierce his skull; whether, subconsciously, I had
wanted
to kill Barnaby McCallum.

Clover reached forward and slipped her hands over mine. ‘Of course you’re not,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t think that.’

‘But that’s what it says here in black and white.’

She frowned. ‘What do they know? They have no idea what happened. They just say these things as a matter of course.’

I stayed silent. I knew she was right, and yet I couldn’t shake off the feeling that, whatever the circumstances, I deserved to be punished for what I had done.

As if guessing my thoughts, Clover said, ‘It was an accident, Alex. You know that. You mustn’t believe anything else.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘But nothing. The old man attacked you. You were defending yourself. You didn’t know that the heart was going to do what it did.’

‘Didn’t I?’

She gave me a curious look. ‘Of course not. Why are you even doubting that fact?’

We left soon after, Clover dumping the newspaper into a bin on the way out. After checking our phones, which we had been doing on a regular basis, we trooped across to the lorry park in search of a lift.

We were in luck, chancing almost immediately upon a genial Glaswegian called Andy who was driving a consignment of frozen beef down to Brighton and was only too happy to let us tag along. The cabin of Andy’s truck was spacious and warm and smelled, oddly and comfortingly, of something akin to Weetabix or freshly baked biscuits. It was only as we rumbled up the slip road to rejoin the M23 that I realised I had never been in a road-bound vehicle quite as large as this one before. In spite of everything, I felt an almost boyish thrill to be so high up, looking down on the cars and vans scurrying and darting around us.

Andy’s accent was so thick I could understand only half of what he was saying, but that barely mattered as he did the majority of the talking, and seemed happy for Clover and I to punctuate his spiel with nods and laughs and grunts at the appropriate junctures. Most of his talk consisted of the downfall of Glasgow Rangers, the parlous state of Britain’s roads and the exploits of his daughter, Maura, who was one of only a handful of girls doing chemical engineering at Birmingham University. The constant barrage of words – exacerbated by the blare of Radio 1 and the leviathan growl of the truck’s engine – would have been tiresome if Andy hadn’t been such a jovial companion. Even so, by the time he dropped us off close to Brighton Pier, our ears were ringing.

The soughing sea and bickering gulls were soothing by comparison. Even the rush-hour traffic on the road that ran parallel to the seafront seemed muted. It was a chilly, breezy morning, but dry and bright enough to encourage several early-morning strollers along the promenade to venture out without jackets. One of a quartet of lads, who looked as though they hadn’t yet completed their previous night’s drinking, was bare-chested, a West Ham United badge tattooed on his bulging left pec. As he and his friends approached, he leered at Clover and said something that the wind snatched away. I squeezed the heart in my pocket, but although the other lads cackled so much they had to lean against one another for support, the group barely broke stride as Clover turned her back on them, curling her hands around the railings edging the pebbly beach below and gazing over the churning grey water.

In comparison to what we had been through, the threat the lads carried seemed trivial. Nevertheless I watched them until they had swaggered away, and then I turned towards Clover, our shoulders almost touching as I gripped the topmost iron railing, which was shockingly cold.

‘We came here once or twice when I was a kid,’ I said. ‘Me and my dad liked it, but my mum thought it was posh. The waiters in the restaurants made her uncomfortable because she imagined they were looking down on her. For that reason we mostly went to Southend or Selsey Bill. There was a Pontins at Selsey Bill, or maybe a Butlin’s. One of the two.’

Clover’s maroon hair was blowing in the wind. She raised a hand to hold it away from her face and turned her head to squint at me. ‘How often do you visit Lyn?’ she asked.

I kept my eyes on the sea. ‘Not often. I find it too upsetting. And I’m not sure that Lyn gets much out of it. Sometimes she doesn’t even recognise me.’

‘Is it a private hospital she’s in?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That must be expensive.’

I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Lyn’s parents pay for most of it. I chip in when I can. I wish I could do more, but I’ve got Kate to look after…’

My voice tailed off as the simmering coal of anguish that had been present in my belly since Kate’s abduction flared again. Although her disappearance was at the forefront of my mind every minute of the day, now and again there were particularly acute reminders not only of my loss, but of what the long-term implications of that might mean. I felt a trembling start in my arms and gripped the iron railing harder to try to neutralise it. I wished I hadn’t left my last packet of cigarettes at Benny’s, wished I’d bought some more at the service station when I’d had the chance. I was a casual smoker – I normally succumbed only when I was drinking – but at that moment I could have murdered a fag. I turned to Clover and forced a smile that made my face muscles ache.

‘I’d better look for a taxi,’ I said.

I began to stride along the promenade, towards the pier. Across the road a row of Regency-style hotels with bone-white facades reflected the cold sunshine like a vast, gleaming grin. Clover padded after me.

‘Don’t you mean we?’ she said.

I slowed my pace. ‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea. Lyn gets very unsettled around strangers, and if she saw us together I don’t know how she’d react. I thought it’d be better if you waited in a café or something. I’ll probably only be an hour or so.’

‘Do you think that’s safe?’ she said doubtfully.

‘Well, I guess that depends on how bad the coffee is.’

The joke was feeble, but she rewarded it with a brief, grunting laugh. ‘Seriously, do you think it’s wise for us to split up, even if it
is
only for a short time?’

‘It’s the heart they want,’ I said, ‘and I’m pretty sure it’ll protect me if they come for it.’ (I wasn’t sure at all.) ‘The hour you spend chilling out with a cappuccino will probably be the safest one you’ll have spent in the past two days.’

‘It’s that “probably” that bothers me. How about if I come with you, but sit in reception while you see Lyn?’ She gave me an innocent look. ‘I promise I won’t be any trouble.’

‘All right then, if that’s what you want. But if you break anything you won’t get any supper.’

Darby Hall Psychiatric Hospital was a sprawling Victorian edifice in a leafy and residential area of Hove, four or five miles from the Brighton seafront. I called ahead to check that it was okay to visit at short notice, and then Clover and I hailed a taxi outside the Royal Albion Hotel opposite the pier. Hove put me uncomfortably in mind of the Kensington neighbourhood where Barnaby McCallum had lived and died, but if anything the houses here were larger and more opulent. Set well back in its own grounds, Darby Hall was the most grandiose of all, its series of banked lawns so immaculately manicured that they looked as smooth as snooker tables. The taxi driver dropped us at the main gates, which formed a forbidding arch of grey iron spikes held together with ornate cross-bands. I pressed the button on the intercom, gave my name and the gates hummed open. Once Clover and I were through, they closed with a gentle clang.