by Owen Mullen
‘I… I want to believe you, I really do, but…’
On top of the awful thing Danny had done, and the ordeal Mandy had gone through because of me, my sister’s suspicion was more than I could handle: my eyes closed in a vain effort to shut out the world. Nina’s lack of faith was the lowest point since I’d picked up the phone that morning and heard Danny say the words destined to keep me awake every night for seven years and still did now.
they’re dead, Luke
that bastard Anderson
‘Believe me or don’t believe me, Nina. I’ve had it.’
She softened. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry, that was stupid. It’s just… I can’t get my head round it. Of course, you weren’t involved – it’s too big, too terrible – but he can’t get away with it. We have to turn him in.’
It was easy to understand where she was coming from and I felt the same, except it wasn’t so simple.
‘And tell the police what, exactly?’
‘The truth. Our brother’s an arsonist and a psychopath.’
‘Okay, I’m with you. Where’s the proof?’
‘Innocent people are dead, Luke.’
‘They are, but what’ve we got that says Danny’s responsible?’
‘What do we need? It’s obvious. Anderson humiliated him with that video, the fire’s his revenge.’
‘You’re right, only he’s got an alibi – me, a pub full of people and a copper on overtime outside. Danny was nowhere near the Picasso. Nor were any of his guys. And just to put a cherry to the cake, a detective chief inspector shows up and finds Danny three sheets to the wind, celebrating his birthday.’
She hesitated before she spoke again. ‘What we talked about…’
‘What you talked about, Nina.’
‘Okay, what I talked about. Christ’s sake, Luke, just how bad does it have to get?’
I had an answer for her, not one she’d like.
‘Whatever happens from here on in has nothing to do with me. I’m out. If you’re wise, you’ll do the same.’
I ended the call aware I hadn’t been able to give her what she wanted. The fact that she believed I could be even remotely involved with the hellish act my brother had committed in South London angered me, and I had to stop myself from driving to Heathrow Airport and booking a flight on the first plane to anywhere that would take me.
Mandy stirred and moaned and pushed the bedclothes away. In the morning light, I saw the damage to her face: her lip was cut; mascara smudged her cheek. Where the blow had landed was swollen, her eye closed. She moaned again and came awake. For a while she lay staring into space.
I squeezed her hand and whispered, ‘Hi there.’
She didn’t reply. After a minute she asked, ‘Where am I?’
‘With me.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘A taxi driver brought you.’
‘I don’t remember.’
Then she did and cried silently into her hands. I held her until she stopped and became quiet, my mind full of questions. This wasn’t the time. Whoever had done this to her better be packing a suitcase.
She said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s my own fault. I’m stupid.’
‘You aren’t to blame. How do you feel? Maybe we should get you to a doctor.’
‘No, no doctor. I’m all right.’
She didn’t look all right. I held a glass of water to her mouth and watched her drink it, wincing as it touched her lips.
‘What happened after you left the King Pot?’
Mandy turned away. ‘I’m not sure.’
I didn’t believe her.
‘Tell me as much as you can.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s better you don’t know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re a Glass. You’ll only make it worse.’
The pictures on the TV screen and Danny’s admission in the office made it impossible to disagree. But I wasn’t like him.
‘What was his name?’
‘I don’t—’
‘What’s his name, Mandy?’
She looked up, startled by the force in my voice. ‘I’m sorry, I really am.’
I was frightening her.
‘Please, just tell me.’
‘He said it was Keith.’
Jonjo rocked silently back and forth on the bed. What he’d seen on the television had blown his world apart. He switched channels hoping to escape the horror he was responsible for. No luck. The fire was on everywhere. In the studio, experts discussed the likely causes of the disaster ahead of a statement from the police.
Jonjo knew. If he stopped vomiting long enough, he could’ve told them.
Ritchie still wasn’t answering his phone. He’d cut him out. Without his uncle he was on his own. Glass would discover who had uploaded the video and come after him. That was what he’d been trying to tell him.
want to be the man who made a right mug out of a psycho? Believe me, you don’t
Pleasing Anderson had caused the deaths of who knew how many people, and put his own at risk. Rollie would be hunting him, too. The city was no longer safe – he needed to get out of it. But not yet. They’d be watching. The smartest thing he could do was lie low.
Oliver Stanford studied Bob Wallace and Trevor Mills. The DCI was wearing full-dress uniform. When the commissioner made a statement at one o’clock, he’d be standing behind him, impassive. Beyond the usual guff about hearts going out to the families and leaving no stone unturned, there would be nothing new. The commissioner liked to quote stats, though only if they painted the Met – and him, of course – in a good light.
Stanford opened the folder he’d been given. Inside, there were just two sheets of paper stapled together. He sighed. ‘Is this becoming a habit, or is it just me?’
The question was rhetorical.
The senior officer spoke slowly, measuring his words, holding his emotions in check.
‘I’ll begin with what’s known. As of eleven-fifteen this morning, one hundred and twenty-eight bodies have been recovered. Thirty-five people are in Intensive Care in St George’s Hospital in Tooting and the Royal London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. Overspill is being handled by Croydon.’
He looked expectantly at Mills.
The DI said, ‘We’ve got officers at each hospital ready to take statements.’
Stanford moved on.
‘Thank Christ it wasn’t later or the numbers could’ve tripled.’
Stanford read from the summary. ‘Forensics aren’t willing to commit to the cause without undertaking a thorough investigation. In their shoes, neither would I. However, they are prepared to reveal some interesting…’ he searched for a more apt word ‘… make that suspicious, details. They judge the fire started at the front door, causing instant panic and a stampede towards the rear exit, which had been padlocked. Many of the deaths were due to smoke inhalation, suffocation from other people falling on top of them, or from toxins in the air.’ He flicked to the second page and continued. ‘There were bodies piled at the doors. The surviving few were among them. As you can imagine they’re in bad shape physically, mentally, every way.’
Stanford closed the folder. Wallace sat like a fugitive from Easter Island. Good. He wanted him to hear the details. He’d played his part in this bloodbath. And there would be more to come.
‘Imagine it. Imagine the fear, the heat, the choking fumes. You’d come in with your girlfriend or your mates. But you can’t see them. You can’t see anything. What would you do?’ The DCI drew a finger along his jaw – he’d forgotten to shave: the commissioner would notice and be displeased. Fuck him! ‘And, as if that wasn’t enough, you look up just as the roof collapses on top of you, breathing new life into the flames everywhere around you.’
Wallace swallowed and cleared his throat.
His boss said, ‘Makes you uncomfortable, does it, Bob? Should hope so, too. Makes me bloody livid. Unfortunately, we know who’s responsible. We also know why that
can never get out.’
Mills said, ‘Will the brass go for the terrorist angle?’
Stanford leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course, they will, when they consider the alternative. Think they’d admit they’ve lost control of the streets? The PM campaigned on law and order: where would that leave him? As for our lot… they may sound like policemen but, underneath, they’re politicians. Putting it down to an unknown terrorist group lets them off the hook. In fact, it’s what they want to hear. Means they can turn the screw on the public, reduce civil rights even further, all in the name of protecting the people.’
‘Has Rollie Anderson been identified?’
‘No.’
‘Think he will be?’
‘I fucking hope so.’
‘If he isn’t, where does that leave us?’
‘Sir.’
‘Where does that leave us, sir?’
Stanford steepled his fingers and considered his reply. ‘Anderson and some of his men were regulars at the club on Friday nights. Nobody knows if he was there last night. So, to answer your question, Trevor, I’ve no idea.’
The door opened; a young policewoman handed a printout to the senior officer.
‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, we just got this.’
‘What is it?’
‘From one of the victims’ phones. A Twitter video of a disturbance at the Picasso Club before the fire. A fight between the bouncers and five young Asian men. Looks like they were refused entry.’
The photograph was grainy and blurred, impossible to identify anybody.
‘Is the video clearer than this?’
‘No.’
Stanford studied the picture. ‘See anything, Trevor?’
‘Not really.’
Stanford smiled – he couldn’t help himself.
‘Get this circulated. I think we’ve just found our motive.’
42
Norrie parked in the St Enoch car park and crossed Jamaica Street. The sound of a live band rocking through a blues number spilled from MacSorley’s. He stopped to listen – he’d prefer to be going there. Across the Clyde, the sky had darkened and behind him a bus with its lights on headed for the Broomielaw Bridge and the South Side.
London was his destiny. But Glasgow was his town. He was going to miss it.
In The Crystal Palace pub, he pushed his way to the front and ordered a fresh orange and lemonade, dropping a ten-pound note on the counter when it arrived. The bearded barman took his money and didn’t give him a second look. Norrie smiled to himself – twenty-four hours earlier he’d been in the Greene Man on Euston Road, pretending to be in love with Lexie.
He lifted the juice to his lips, wishing it were lager.
London had gone well and he was pleased with himself. In and out and back to Scotland before an investigation into the cause of the fire had even begun. He’d gone to bed and slept most of the day, the deep, untroubled sleep of a man without a worry in the world. It wasn’t personal. It was a job. If he hadn’t taken it on, somebody else would’ve.
Fergie had given up on sleep and was in the kitchen making toasted cheese. The call surprised him. ‘You said we shouldn’t meet until it was safe.’
Norrie had his answer ready. ‘Change of plan. I need your advice.’
‘No can do. Got something on.’
A lie. Fergie had no plans; he wanted to forget about Norrie for a while.
‘Cancel it, this is important.’
‘Where?’
‘Nine o’clock in The Crystal Palace.’
Norrie considered himself a student of human nature. People were predictable. Fergie would come – he’d bet on it. That ‘I need your advice’ line was irresistible.
He took a seat near the door and noticed a couple of females standing in the middle of the floor where everybody could see them. The ash-blonde eyed him up and down. A pity to disappoint her. But business – especially the business he was in – came first.
Fergie arrived and sat down. ‘Didn’t think this was your kind of place.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘Then, why here?’
Norrie toyed with telling him the truth.
Fergie said, ‘I turned down a hot lady. Hope you appreciate it.’
Norrie remembered the two women – still there and still watching him.
‘Know how that feels.’
‘So, what’s up?’
Norrie patted his shoulder. ‘All in good time, mate. We’re here, might as well enjoy ourselves. What’re you drinking?’
They left the pub after an hour. At the bottom of Jamaica Street, they crossed the Broomielaw and started towards Anderston Quay and the Kingston Bridge. A yellow crescent moon shone its light on Glasgow; Norrie was in good form, laughing and cracking jokes. Fergie sensed he was building up to the reason they were here. The walkway was almost deserted, too early for the junkies, the alkies and the weekend warriors – amateur-tough guys who’d scar an unarmed man for fun and boast about it the next day to their friends like they’d done something big. A couple passed them hand-in-hand, fresh-faced and happy. Ordinary folk living ordinary lives. Fergie watched them go and voiced what he guessed Norrie was thinking.
‘Don’t you ever wish you were normal?’
A strange question, considering what he’d done the night before was top of the news.
‘You mean busting your arse for pennies so somebody else can get rich? That kind of normal?’
Fergie was defensive. ‘Yeah, if you like. I didn’t sleep, did you?’
‘Like a baby.’
‘That isn’t normal.’
‘Says you. We are who we are and we do what we do.’
‘Did you see the news?’
‘No.’
‘We were the top story on Sky, the BBC and Channel Four.’
‘What’re the police saying to it?’
‘They’re hinting an unnamed terrorist group might be responsible. Which means they haven’t a clue.’
Norrie snorted. ‘Anybody buying it?’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’
‘I wouldn’t. What’s the motive?’
‘Terrorists don’t need a motive. Everything they do’s a statement. Bystanders are written off as acceptable collateral damage.’
Norrie leaned on the barrier. The Clyde whispered its way to the Atlantic and across the river the lights of the cinema on Springfield Quay twinkled like a Christmas tree.
He said, ‘Thanks for coming tonight. Appreciate it.’
Fergie drew a breath; at last they were getting to it.
‘So, what’s up?’
Norrie stared down into the moonlight reflected on the water, as if he was wrestling with a difficult decision and couldn’t bring himself to confront it.
‘Danny Glass doesn’t trust the girls to keep their mouths shut.’
Fergie wasn’t surprised. ‘Not hard to see where he’s coming from.’
‘I tried to talk him round. Told him if it got out nobody would work for him again. Glass isn’t having it.’ Norrie dropped the bomb. ‘He wants us to get rid of them.’
‘Get rid of them? As in?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Said I wasn’t sure. That I’d talk to you and get back to him. I don’t fancy it. Those fucking two wind me up. Can’t stand them, if the truth be told.’ Norrie cleared his throat and spat. ‘But killing them…’ He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Do we have a choice? What happens if we say no? I mean, is that the end of it? ’Course it fucking isn’t. He’ll send a team to do what we wouldn’t. Except, our names will be on the list.’
‘You’re saying… what?’
Fergie had no reservations. ‘Glass is not a guy you say no to. At least, not twice. Look at it from his perspective. Who you brought in to do the job was your call. This is his. No isn’t an option. We have to protect ourselves.’
Norrie put his hand in his pocket. ‘You’re okay about it?’
Fergie shrugged. ‘Okay isn’t how I’d put it, but yeah.’
Norrie studied his shoes. ‘Thanks, you’ve been a big help.’
‘It’s a no-brainer.’
Norrie laughed at a joke he wasn’t willing to share. ‘You’re right, it is.’
The knife thudded against Fergie’s belly, bending him like a scarecrow in the wind as he soundlessly mouthed his shock. Norrie dragged the blade up towards his ribcage, eased him against the barrier and whispered in his ear.
‘I mean it. You really helped make my mind up.’
The body disappeared under the surface, then reappeared and floated, face down, into the night. Norrie walked back the way he’d come, keeping his head down. CCTV cameras were everywhere – too many to avoid. In the city centre, they’d spot you for sure – the trick was not to look up. He wondered if the women would still be in the pub. They’d remember him, no problem. Fergie was a different story; he’d had his back to them.
It was tempting to pick up where he’d left. Sex would round out the evening nicely.
Forget it; he’d work to do.
One down, two to go.
43
When I left the flat, Mandy was sitting up in bed wearing one of my shirts, on the phone with her daughter. A little girl’s excited voice came down the line. Mandy smiled, pretending for my benefit, wanting me to believe she’d put the attack behind her because she was afraid of what I’d do.
The drug – whatever it had been – was out of her system, though the violence done to her was visible: one eye was completely closed, her lip had thickened and there were purple and yellow marks on her throat. I couldn’t imagine the emotional trauma for a woman from something like that.
As I was leaving, she broke from the call to blow me a kiss. I joined in the charade, blew it back and smiled. Inside, I wasn’t smiling.
Men had been using and abusing women since the dawn of time. Mandy and the millions like her learned to deal with whatever life threw at them and get on with it. I admired the approach, though it wasn’t mine. Some cowardly bastard had raped her, and beaten her when she’d tried to fight him off. All day I’d watched the clock above the fireplace drag through the hours, waiting for night so I could go after him.
