To Die For (10 page)

‘How?’

Martin let the towel drop. He took the glass from my hand and swished some water around his mouth and spat it out on to the carpet. The water was pink. All the while he did this, he kept his eyes on me.

‘I know you,’ he said.

‘Do you?’

‘Yeah. Joe something. You’re a fighter, right?’

‘I was.’

‘Right. Long time ago. Got a fag?’

‘No.’

‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to a packet on the shelf. I fetched the cigarettes, a lighter and ashtray. He fired up a cigarette and put it carefully between his lips. His face must have hurt, but he didn’t show it.

‘This has got something to do with that casino job,’ he said.

‘What do you know about it?’

‘I know Cole owned that place. I know Beckett did it over.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I still have a few friends. They talk. That’s all.’

Everyone in London knew we were raiding Cole except me.

‘Those men worked for Cole, right?’ he said.

‘Probably.’

‘But you don’t.’

‘No.’

‘But you do want to find Beckett,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

He took another drag from his cigarette. He doubled up coughing and spat out some blood.

‘Shit,’ he said, wincing. ‘I better get to a hospital.’

‘I’ll call you a cab.’

‘You might run into the two who gave me this face,’ he said.

‘I might.’

‘Will you kill them?’

‘If they get in my way.’

‘Good enough.’

He pulled at the cigarette again. It seemed to me that he was buying time, trying to think things through. I pulled over the other chair and sat facing him. I wasn’t going to push him. For one, he might be better as an ally. He already had a grudge against Cole. For another, the woman might go and call in the law or stab me or something like that. She looked about ready to go crazy.

‘Do you know a man called Kendall?’ I said.

He watched me, looking me right in the eyes.

‘What’s this to you?’ he said.

‘I got stitched up.’

‘By Kendall?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded, as if it all made perfect sense.

‘I know Kendall. Least, I knew him years ago. He called me a few hours ago. Said he had to find Beckett. I told him I didn’t know where he was. He offered me a thousand quid. Told him I still didn’t know.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘No. He trying to get a cut of this cash?’

‘More likely he was going to sell Beckett out to Cole.’

‘
Was
going to?’

I shrugged. Martin didn’t push it, but the flicker in his eyes told me he’d understood.

‘Cole must be fucking desperate,’ Martin said, more to himself than to me. ‘I’ve got to be way down the list. He must have men out all over London. That exposure’s not like him. Liable to draw attention.’

‘What?’

‘He’s looking for Beckett, right? So why the urgency? Surely he’s got time enough to find Beckett quietly. What he’s doing here is signalling weakness, exposing himself to attention. Cole’s a hard man, but he’s discreet.’

Martin was right. Sending his men around to Kendall’s like that, looking for someone like Martin, having him beaten like this; Cole seemed desperate all right.

‘Something else is going on,’ I said.

Cole had a big set-up. He could afford to let some money slide off for a while, just as long as he got it back again. And so what if it took him a few months to find Beckett? And wouldn’t Beckett have known that Cole could take his time? That he’d find him eventually?

Which led me back to the other question that had been plaguing me: why would Beckett have risked stealing the money in the first place? He couldn’t surely have expected Cole to believe I’d been solely responsible? Besides, at some point Beckett would’ve known that Cole would catch up with me and realize that I hadn’t taken the money.

‘What does Beckett know?’ I said.

‘How d’ya mean?’

‘If Cole’s desperate, Beckett knows it. So, what does he know?’

‘I dunno. How would I? I work in a warehouse. I move fucking boxes for a living. Know why?’

I didn’t know. I didn’t particularly care.

‘It’s so I know I’ll come home in the evening. Every evening. All that other shit’s behind me.’

He looked up. I followed his gaze and saw the woman standing in the doorway. She came forward stiffly. She kneeled and from her arms poured a pile of bandages, creams and antiseptics. Her face was flushed; her eyes glistened. When she looked at Martin, he winked with his one good eye. He was letting her know that she was helping, and that he was okay. It was a lie, of course, and she knew it, but she smiled thinly.

‘Go make us a cuppa, love,’ Martin said.

‘All right.’

She was quiet now, thoughtful, fearful. It seemed like an odd relationship. He, the hardened former pro, the battered shell of something that had once been dangerous; she, the quiet, domestic type, without guile, without malice. He’d always protect her; she’d always keep him warm and bring him a cup of tea.

‘You want something?’ Martin said.

‘Huh?’

‘Drink or something?’

‘Some food.’

‘Food?’ the woman said. ‘How about a pipe and slippers?’

Now that Martin seemed to have recovered, her suspicion was returning and with it the resentment that her home had been marred. I was here; I was a part of them. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t the one who’d beaten Martin.

‘A fry-up’ll do,’ Martin said to her. ‘Nothing for me.’

She dragged herself away. When we could hear her in the kitchen, Martin crushed his cigarette and said, ‘Walsh has a habit. Was smack. Might be crack now, from what I hear. He buys from a bloke called Travis Moore. They call him T-bone for some fucking reason.’

Walsh had kept his habit well hidden. I cursed myself a thousandth time for getting involved in this shit.

‘How do you know this?’

‘I used to work with Walsh. Don’t see him much any more, but he’s had that fucking habit for fifteen years. One of the reasons I stopped working with him. Brain turned to mush long time ago. Beckett’s a fool for working with him. Anyway, the last time I saw Walsh, he was buying his stuff from Moore.’

‘Where do I find Moore?’

‘Clapton.’

‘And you told this to the others?’

‘Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Moore has his place done up like Fort Knox, and he’s in with the Yardies, up in Hackney. He pays them off, and even if Cole had the bottle to go up against them, he hasn’t got the clout. His name don’t mean much to those wankers. His men won’t get in unless Moore wants them in. Besides, I gave them his home address, but he doesn’t deal from there. Owns three houses in a row, all in different names. The business is in the end one, and the door to that is on the other street. Those two wankers’ll be watching the wrong place, waiting for Walsh to show up.’

‘So I’m supposed to go and ask Moore to tell me where Walsh is?’

‘He wouldn’t tell you unless you put a gun to his head. And you won’t get a gun to his head.’ He lit another cigarette. He was still shaken by the beating and he was trying to get over it. ‘Moore uses couriers. He’s paranoid about being ripped off. Way it works is, someone makes a call, Moore makes a call, courier comes round, collects the shit and takes it away. Cole’s two won’t know which courier to follow.’

Martin smiled, and winced with the pain of smiling.

‘But I know something I didn’t tell them other two. Walsh is queer. One of Moore’s couriers is a bloke called Waylon something. This Waylon has a habit, all them couriers do, and Walsh had a thing with him. He’d be the one to take Walsh’s gear round. He’d stay a while and hope for a free hit. If Walsh has bought any shit since he disappeared, Waylon would’ve delivered it.’

‘So, I find this Waylon, I may find Walsh.’

‘That’s about it.’

‘How do I find Waylon?’

‘Can’t help you there. Have you got an in with the Yardies?’

‘No.’

Martin shrugged.

‘It’s all I got, but if Walsh’s flush, he might feel like partying.’

‘Right. You got anything else for me? Anyone else who might know?’

‘All I know is what I told you.’

‘Why did you tell me? You’re grassing out Walsh.’

‘Better you get to him before Cole. Walsh ain’t a bad man, he’s just stupid. All that shit’s gone to his head. Beckett... well, fuck him. You take him out, I won’t cry. But Walsh is all right. Take it easy on him.’

‘If I can, I will.’

‘Good enough.’

After a while the woman appeared at the doorway with a mug of tea, which she gave to Martin.

‘Your food’s in the kitchen,’ she said to me.

She stayed next to Martin, her arms crossed. I got up and followed the smell. She’d done a good job: fried eggs, bacon, beans, bread, even a couple of sausages. I set to the food. I was suddenly starving. I could hear Martin and the woman talking. They were keeping their voices low, but there was urgency in their tones. I heard the front door open and close. I wolfed the food down, wiping my plate with the bread. I might not get another chance to eat for a while.

When I went back to the lounge, she was waiting for me, sitting where Martin had sat. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. My gun was held loosely in her hands.

‘Where’s he gone?’ I said.

‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to the police. He’s gone to the hospital. He wouldn’t let me go.’

That made sense. If anyone at the hospital was suspicious, they’d question the woman.

‘He told me you were okay,’ she said. She glared at me. The defiance I’d seen earlier was there, but it couldn’t quite mask the fear. I looked at the gun. ‘I threw the bullets away.’

‘I’ve got more.’

‘I bet you have. He said you wouldn’t do anything to me.’

‘Why would I?’

‘Are you going to come back?’

‘No reason to.’

‘Will the others come back?’

‘They might do. I doubt it, though. Martin gave them good information, as far as it went.’

As I watched, her expression changed, became faraway.

‘He’s a fool,’ she said. ‘About these things, I mean. He still believes in things like honour and fairness. That’s why he went inside. He thinks all you people live by a code. He trusts you. He thinks you’re a decent man.’

‘And you?’

‘I know what you are. I can see it a mile off.’ She stood and tossed the gun to the floor. When I bent to pick it up, she said, ‘Don’t ever come back.’

It was past midnight when I got to Clapton. I parked the car a few streets away from the road I needed and walked until I reached the T-junction. To my left and right, along both arms of the Chatsworth Road, everything was quiet enough. In the distance, a young couple came out of a burger place, huddled against the cold, holding their burgers in front of them. I watched them walk away. For some reason I thought of Brenda, and a hole opened up inside me for a moment. Then I turned away from them.

There was a pub across the road. Its lights were off. It was too late for pub traffic. I moved towards it and slid into the shadowed recess of the side door. From here, I had a clear view down Moore’s road. I watched for a few minutes, trying to get a feel of the place. Edwardian terraced houses, their brickwork more grey than red, ran down both sides. Cars were packed tightly, end to end. Parking was a problem around here. Some of the houses had lights in one or two rooms, but mostly they were dark, quiet. Moore’s house was number twenty-eight. I looked across the road at the first house and saw that it was number two, so Moore lived on that side of the road, another thirteen doors along. I counted down the row until I could make out Moore’s place. It was the third from the end, as Martin had said. That last house was the one where the business was done. The door to that one was at the side and so in another street that went off at a right angle. All those houses were dark, no windows open, no sign of anyone.

I would call at Moore’s place and talk to him, maybe offer him a cut of any recovered money. If he didn’t know where Walsh was, he might point me towards this Waylon character. One thing was for sure, I couldn’t go in heavy. I’d have my gun taken from me before I even got inside. Places like this, a dozen armed police with a battering ram had trouble getting in. And I didn’t have the time to try and get Moore outside of his place.

I closed my eyes and listened. The odd car passed along the Chatsworth Road and I could hear vehicles far away, travelling down the Lea Bridge Road; otherwise all was quiet, everyone tucked up in bed, far away from the cold dank night, far away from blood and murder.

I pulled up the collar of my overcoat so that it buried the lower part of my face, pulled my woollen hat down low so that it covered my ears. I plunged my hands into the deep pockets, feeling the .38 in my grip. I pushed myself away from the shadows, crossed the road and started to walk towards Moore’s place. I kept a steady pace, all the time listening, flicking my eyes left and right, all the time calculating how long it would take me to get back to my car, where I could find cover, how long it would take to fire off the six rounds and reload. I felt exposed, useless. I was used to the simplicity of the job: learn the plan, go in, execute, leave. Easy. Here I was alone, not knowing who my enemies were, not knowing what was going on.

I saw the car when I was about ten yards away, a black Ford with steamed-up windows. If I stopped and they saw me, they’d be instantly suspicious. I hunched my shoulders, lowered my head, making myself as small as possible, and ploughed on: just another man trying to get home on a cold night. I gripped the Smith and Wesson and slowly pulled back the hammer.

There were only a few parking spaces so the car had had to park on the same side as Moore’s house, and halfway along the road. They wouldn’t have a good view from there.

I drew even with the car. Through the cloudy window, I could just make out a pale head, the stubble of red hair. The man turned when I walked past. I flicked my gaze back to the pavement. I heard the car door open and the red-haired man step out. I braced myself, my hand gripping the .38. I heard the one inside the car complain about the cold. The red-haired one told him to quit moaning. I kept walking, expecting any moment to hear a shout, a gunshot, pounding feet. But there was nothing, and I guessed they’d been given specific orders: find Martin, question him, find out what he knows and follow it up. Cole would’ve had other men doing other things, men who might be looking for me, men who, at that moment, might be questioning Akram or searching my flat. It was likely these two had no idea who I was.