Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  ‘And that matters?’

  ‘Now? Yeah, big time. Then? I loved the man. I loved everything he did, everything he touched, and that made me Mr Lucky. Wes Kane. Breaks yer leg for half a crown, and gives you a battering afterwards, and why? Because Mr Hayden fucking Prentice tells him to. That was me, that was my reputation. H says jump, I jump. H slips me a couple of grand and a whack of toot, I put the lot up my nose. H says there’s a problem, I sort it. Gladly. Mr Efficient. No fucking comeback. End of.’ He takes a deep suck on the spliff, and lies back in the armchair, staring up at the ceiling.

  Skunked or otherwise, this is deeply revealing. Never have I suspected this kind of darkness in Wesley’s soul. But there’s more to come.

  He peers at me for a long moment, and then gets to his feet before making his way unsteadily towards the door. Despite the trackie bottoms, and all those sessions with the resistance bands, and the wild explosion of hair, he looks like an old man. Then, from the kitchen, comes the scrape of something metallic, and a muttered curse. Moments later, he’s back in the room, holding a mobile phone.

  He settles in the chair again, scrolling slowly through what I sense is a gallery of photos. Some put a smile on his face. At the sight of others, he shakes his head. One in particular makes him visibly wince. Then he finds the shots he’s after, and joins me on the sofa. A week in Tenerife, I wonder. Maybe some cruise or other?

  At first sight, the image makes no sense. Then, with a hot jolt of recognition, I realize I’m looking at someone’s face, upside down, on what must be the bottom sheet of a bed. Strands of greying hair are matted with blood against the whiteness of the scalp. The nose and the mouth have lost all definition, like a piece of Photoshopping gone horribly wrong, and the bottom lip has become entangled with a blackened row of broken teeth. It could be a man, just, but something very heavy has cratered this face, and the surrounding sheet is a lacework of spilled blood, strangely delicate.

  ‘Swipe to the right.’ Wesley has rolled himself another spliff.

  I do his bidding. No sheet, this time, but an entire body, semi-clothed, jeans, torn grey T-shirt, grubby plimsolls, bare ankles. I stare at the screen until I have to turn away.

  ‘He’s dead, this guy?’

  ‘Very. My fault. Went a bit over the top.’

  ‘You did this?’

  ‘Yeah. Not my idea, not to begin with, but I got H’s point, saw no other way. The guy had been grassing us up for years. How else do you fund all day in the pub? Pathetic, I know, but he had it coming to him. Probably a release in the end. Look on the bright side, eh?’

  I shake my head, trying – unsuccessfully – not to look at the screen again. This could be Malo, I think. The briefest spasm of violence. Or maybe something more protracted, more considered. On some days, I suspect Wesley Kane took his time.

  ‘This happened where?’

  ‘Upstairs. Spare bedroom.’ He’s smiling now. ‘Pink everywhere. You’d love it.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘We put him in a van and buried him.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me.’ He sucks at the doobie. ‘And H. There’s woods everywhere on the mainland. You’re spoiled for choice.’

  I nod, sickened by how banal, how obvious, this is.

  ‘And he had a name?’ I gesture at the screen. ‘This poor man?’

  ‘Of course he did. Everyone’s got a name.’ He’s staring at the doobie. ‘Sammy. Sammy McGaughy.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I can’t wait to get out of that house. I return the phone, abandon my glass, leave the bottle on the carpet by the sofa, and flee. I’m sure there’s a whole gallery of trophy shots, souvenirs from the days when H bossed this city, but I’ve seen enough. Sammy McGaughy? I shake my head. No wonder H was haunted by the name. But at least he has some kind of conscience, felt some kind of terror in the darkness the other night before he prepared to meet his Maker.

  Sammy McGaughy.

  At moments like these it’s always one tiny detail that sticks in the memory, an image that will torment me for far too long, and in Sammy’s case it’s the bareness of his skinny ankle against the blood-soaked sheets. Neglected, I think. Wasted. Washed up. And finally disposed of.

  I’m still driving Tony Morse’s car, and it’s parked two streets away. I’ve phoned him twice, speaking to Corinne on both occasions, and she says there’s no hurry to bring it back. Tony is still under the weather but responding to TLC.

  Now, sitting behind his steering wheel, I have one eye on the emptiness of the street in the rear-view mirror, half expecting Wesley to lurch into sight. Maybe he, too, is burdened by his many sins. Listening to him through the fug of skunk, it certainly felt that way.

  My phone begins to ring. It’s Tim. He wants to know whether I’ve picked up the key to his flat, and whether everything’s OK. I tell him everything’s fine, or nearly fine, or maybe just a little bit fine, and ask him about Milford Haven.

  ‘The Navy Lark?’ I ask him, trying to forget about Sammy McGaughy. ‘Did you do it for the money? The reviews? Or what?’

  ‘The money? They paid buttons. I did it for the laugh. They were lovely people. It was a nice place, too. West Wales in the rain? Life was never so sweet.’

  He wants to know what I made of the flat. I tell him it’s beyond perfect, exactly what I need, and he says that’s just as well.

  ‘Why?’ My heart is sinking already.

  ‘You remember you asked me about a guy called Sean? Thin? Terrible teeth? Drives a white van? Calls himself an electrician?’

  I half-nod. I’m trying very hard to focus, to claw my way back through the madness of the last few days. Sean? Some kind of electrician? Then I have it. The games arcade in the fun fair. Following the light on the mobile through the darkness. And finally that set of funny mirrors at the very back of the arcade, me in one, Sean in the other, one fat, one even thinner than normal.

  ‘Got him,’ I say. ‘Little guy. We got very pissed together.’

  ‘So why the interest? Am I allowed to ask?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ I know I sound defensive but that’s the way I’m feeling just now. ‘You know this city way better than me, Tim. I should have done an induction course. I should have had the jabs. But I’m guessing even that would have been pointless. Nothing, literally nothing, could have prepared me for the last few days.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Exactly. So tell me about Sean.’

  ‘He’s a local. Locally hatched. Born and semi-bred. Went away in his late teens for a very long time, joined the Pompey diaspora. From what I can make out, he’s only just come back.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Germany, mainly. And lately Poland. That’s where he became an electrician.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Word on the street says he’s carrying a grudge. People also say he’s a bit of a headcase, with us some days, AWOL the next. Too much weed? I’ve no idea.’

  ‘This grudge. What’s that about?’

  ‘I get the impression it’s family. Beyond that, I haven’t a clue.’

  Family? I shudder. Please God, no. But when I ask Tim about a surname, I know at once we’re all in big, big trouble.

  ‘McGaughy,’ he says. ‘Sean McGaughy. Does any of this stuff help? Or am I wasting your time here?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I mutter.

  To Tim’s slight disappointment, I end the call, and stare numbly through the windscreen, letting the obvious conclusions settle like dust. It was Sean who broke into the flats, Sean who found the supply to our flat, Sean who turned the power off. Maybe he followed me across the Common that night after we’d visited the games arcade. Maybe that’s how he knew where we all lived. Either way, he’s still out there, still waiting, still watching, still biding his time. Yuk.

  I find directions to Cowplain on my sat-nav, before threading my way through the badlands of Fratton and heading for the motorway out of the city. Sean McGaughy, I’m thinking. O
ne way or another, I have to talk face to face with Dessie. If he isn’t in, I’ll simply wait.

  I’ve just passed what turns out to be a large police station, with the motorway flyover in sight, when I get flagged down. I’m still looking under the dashboard for Tony’s exemption when a uniformed figure bends to my window.

  ‘Your name, Madam?’

  I give him my name and when he asks where I’m going, I tell him I’m en route to a meeting.

  ‘This is work, Ms Andressen?’ His eyes have strayed to my sat-nav.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Legal work.’ I’ve found the exemption now, and I hand it to him through the open window. He scans it quickly, and then steps away. Seconds later he’s checking something on his radio before reappearing beside the car, squatting to get a proper look at me. He returns the exemption and hopes I have a pleasant evening.

  ‘And that’s it?’ I can’t mask my surprise.

  ‘That’s it, Ms Andressen. Take care, now.’

  Weirder and weirder. The motorway is empty. I take the Cowplain exit off the motorway ten minutes later and follow my sat-nav to Dessie’s place. His VW, thankfully, is parked on the hardstanding beside the bungalow and his front door opens before I even ring the bell. By now, it’s occurred to me that I probably have a police file all of my own.

  ‘They phoned ahead? Warned you?’

  ‘Of course they did. Belong to the right gang and life’s a breeze.’

  This is creepy. I’m aware of Dessie closing the door behind me.

  ‘I used to think that Kafka made it all up,’ I tell him. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’

  He takes me through to the lounge. The sheet music on his piano suggests he’s been having a go at a Schubert Impromptu, but by now I’m hard-pressed to believe anything.

  ‘Young Wesley?’ he asks. We’ve barely said hello.

  ‘No foreplay, then?’ I say lightly. ‘We get right down to it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And is there a reason? Or am I just the messenger here?’

  Dessie refuses to rise to the bait. I’m still trying to work out whether we’ve ever been friends, or whether our previous conversations were no more than role-play on his part, but then he spreads his arms wide. This appears to be the invitation to a hug.

  ‘You look terrible,’ he says. ‘Am I allowed?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘You’re not. You mentioned a name this morning. Sean McGaughy. I don’t know whether the taxes I pay stretch to police protection, but I’m guessing you’re probably au fait with the details.’

  ‘You’re telling me you know Sean?’

  ‘I’ve met him. Once.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He struck me as …’ I shrug. ‘Not quite all there. At the time, I didn’t know why. Now, I think I probably do. His dad was Sammy McGaughy, yes?’

  Dessie nods, says nothing.

  ‘And Sammy’s dead. Am I right?’

  ‘Sammy was a Misper. Not quite the same thing, unless you’re telling me otherwise.’ Misper is police-speak for Missing Person, as I know from previous dealings with the men in blue.

  ‘So, when did he go missing? This Sammy person?’

  ‘Late July, 2003. He lived in a doss in Buckland. The woman in the flat below kept an eye on him and filed the report. He spent most afternoons at a pub called the Druid’s Arms. Called it a day after that. Career alcoholic. Sad man.’

  Sad man. All I can think of is that bare ankle, no socks, and the blood all over the sheets.

  ‘So how did he get the money? For the pub?’

  ‘He was a grass. This city is full of them. They pick up a quid or two here and there for information they normally make up. Sammy was so gone by the time he got lifted that he’d probably lost all track of the lies he was telling.’

  ‘Lifted?’

  ‘He upset some powerful people.’

  ‘Like H?’

  ‘We think so, yes.’

  ‘But you’ve just told me he was lying most of the time. What harm did that do?’

  ‘We had no idea. And he probably didn’t, either. All it took with people like H was a whisper or two, just the possibility that Sammy might have grassed him up. A waster like that was barely a candle. If you smelled any kind of threat, you snuffed him out.’

  ‘Horrible.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘And you were …’ I frown. ‘You were on the case, way back then?’

  ‘I was, yes. I handled intel on Major Crimes. I was four years into the Job and it was my first proper assignment. We all knew what had happened but proving it was a nightmare. H was no fool. And neither was Wesley. A psycho? Definitely. But he knew how to cover his tracks. So –’ he nods at the sofa – ‘you want to tell me what happened with Wes?’

  ‘No. Not yet. I want us to talk about police protection.’

  ‘You mean for H?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Against who?’

  ‘Sean McGaughy. He’s been away a while and now he’s back in the city, as I’m sure you know. His dad’s been missing forever and now he thinks he knows why. Script-wise, we’d call this a settling of debts. One life for another. Are you with me?’

  ‘That implies that Sammy’s dead.’

  ‘It does indeed, Mr Wren.’

  ‘And you know that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  I don’t answer. Won’t answer.

  ‘You’ve seen Wesley?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You won’t tell me?’

  ‘No comment.’

  He studies me for a long moment, then tries to warm this conversation with a smile.

  ‘Technically, I could have you arrested for obstruction of justice. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I tell him. ‘I’m probably safer in a police cell just now.’

  He nods, conceding the point.

  ‘This is beyond irony,’ he says at last. ‘We start with H. Back then we were certain he’d either killed Sammy himself, or had a hand in it. He certainly makes a great deal of money in the drugs biz and lives like a bloody prince on the proceeds. Twenty years later, you’re asking me for police protection. Just in case McGaughy’s surviving son comes knocking on H’s door.’

  ‘Sean’s an electrician,’ I point out. ‘He understands how power feeds work, and he’s tried to kill H twice already. Last time I checked, murder was a crime. He might well have another go. Shouldn’t you be stopping him? Or would a dead H be a blessing? If the virus can’t help you out, then maybe Sean McGaughy can. Isn’t that what this is about? Or have I been in showbiz for too long?’

  Once again, our conversation comes to a halt. I’m here for one thing, and one thing only. I want to keep H, and by extension Malo, safe.

  ‘Well?’ I say at last. ‘Can you take care of the situation? Or am I wasting my time?’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I drive back to Southsea. Dessie has refused to make any commitment to protect H, but that’s probably because he needs to make a call or two. I park outside the flats and climb to the third floor. It’s early evening by now and Sunil is on the sofa in full PPE, watching the BBC News. He barely stirs when I step into the room, but simply nods at the screen.

  ‘Nine hundred and thirty-eight deaths in a single day? That’s unbelievable.’

  He’s right. Recent events seem to have walled me off from the wider world, and this is a sudden reminder that the entire UK, indeed the entire planet, is losing its nerve as well as its bearings. An emergency COBRA meeting has been called for tomorrow to review the lockdown measures and scientists are warning that they may be in force until early June. The Prime Minister, meanwhile, is steadily improving and may soon be out of intensive care.

  ‘How’s H?’ I enquire.

  ‘Fretful, Ms Andressen.’

  Fretful is a word loaded with menace if you know H as well as I do. I ask Sunil exactly
what he means.

  ‘Mr Wu came to see him this afternoon. His physical signs are good. We’ve all been surprised, and so was Mr Wu, but H is worrying about something and none of us seem to know why.’

  ‘You’ve asked him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wasn’t very polite. That’s another problem. Mr Wu wasn’t impressed.’

  I bet. H hates being trapped in any kind of corner. The virus has banged him up for a while, but he’s been too ill to do very much about it. Now he’s getting better, his mind clearer, he’s emphatically back at the wheel. Mentioning Sammy McGaughy, now I understand the full implications, was a big, big mistake.

  ‘You think I might be able to help?’ I’m remembering Sunil’s role after our last ruck.

  ‘I do, Ms Andressen.’ He nods at my carefully folded pile of PPE. ‘Shall we try again?’

  H receives me in silence, but it turns out that he’s half-asleep. I settle beside his bed and wait for him to surface. He peers up at me, recognizing the face behind the mask. His breathing, at last, is virtually normal. Neither is there any trace of a cough.

  ‘You’ve seen him? Wes?’

  ‘I have, H. Of course I have.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s making enquiries as we speak. Putting the word out.’

  ‘About the boy?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good.’ He nods. ‘About fucking time. He was always lazy, Wes. He always delivered in the end, but it took forever to get him going.’

  Delivered. I try to mask an inner shudder, but H hasn’t finished.

  ‘Well done.’ He pats my arm. ‘And the boy?’

  ‘On the mend. He’s eating porridge, can you believe that?’

  ‘Serves him bloody right. He’ll be back soon, yeah?’

  ‘I hope so. Couple of days, max.’

  ‘And you say Wes is sorting it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  H nods, happy now, and I catch a discreet thumbs-up from Sunil before I make my excuses and depart. Forty minutes later, as I’m about to leave the flat, I get a call from Dessie.