Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Two guys will be with you within the hour,’ he says, ‘both uniformed. They’ll be outside covering all the approaches, one fo’rrard, one aft. They’ll be there all night. You don’t have to owe me, but it might be nice.’

  I smile, and start to thank him, but he’s gone.

  I spend the night at Tim’s flat, feasting from a Chinese takeout I’ve ordered by phone. This feels like life under occupation. No one but Tim knows where I am, not H, not Dessie, not Wesley, and that knowledge buys me a little peace. I know very little about jazz but Tim has a huge collection of CDs and I pass what’s left of the evening with Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and a bottle of Argentinian Merlot I find at the back of one of Tim’s cupboards. What I need to do above all is somehow build a dam against those images on Wesley’s phone, and Kind of Blue nearly does it. With music like that in the world, I conclude, things can’t be all bad.

  Thanks to the Merlot, I sleep like a baby. By the time my phone wakes me up, it’s gone nine o’clock and sunshine is flooding over Tim’s map-of-the-world duvet. It’s Jessie. She’s calling from Flixcombe. I have trouble working out whether she’s excited or angry, and in the end I settle for the latter.

  ‘Two vans,’ she says. ‘They’ve been here all night, and they’ve only just gone. Fucking liberty, says me, and if you want the full SP you should listen to Andy. He says they’re threatening to be back tomorrow, can you believe that?’

  ‘Who are we talking about, Jess?’

  ‘The police. The Filth. Who else? They drove up from Pompey. I even knew one of them. Little tyke called Jason. Last time I saw him he was a trainee at Asda.’

  She’s telling me the whole story, how they turned up yesterday, thrust a warrant at her, and then tore H’s study apart before starting on the rest of the house.

  ‘What did they take?’

  ‘Financial records, mostly. Stuff going way back.’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘Safe, tell H. How is he?’

  ‘Much better. Answering back. I think I preferred him ill.’

  ‘You think he can do without the nurses?’

  ‘I think he might. He’s beginning to test their patience. I told them it was bound to happen, but no one listens these days.’

  ‘Is he there? Can I have a word?’

  ‘Later, Jess. He’s asleep just now.’

  ‘And Malo?’

  ‘All good. He’s asleep, too. Same DNA.’

  I say goodbye and ring off. Two more lies, I think, but who’s counting?

  Dessie is the next on my list. A good night’s sleep has done wonders. I ask him to meet me outside Tony Morse’s flat by the Common, and to my surprise he agrees. I suggest eleven o’clock.

  ‘Not sooner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘Always.’

  I down a mug of Tim’s instant coffee and make for the door. Parking in Wesley’s street is no easier than it was yesterday, and I end up leaving Tony’s BMW on double yellow lines round the corner. I’m calling by on a mercy mission, I tell myself, an explanation that Tony Morse will be welcome to use in court if he chooses to contest the parking ticket.

  Wesley takes an age to come to the door. Normally, he treats himself to a variety of aftershaves but today he looks – and smells – rank. Bleary doesn’t do justice to his eyes. The whites have a yellowy tinge to them, and I was right about his hands. He’s nursing what looks like a cup of tea, and it’s slopping around as he tries to steady the saucer.

  ‘You,’ he grunts, ‘can fuck off.’

  ‘No, Wes. Do yourself a favour. Just listen to me.’

  ‘Yeah? I buy you nice wine? We’re in for the evening? And you just bugger off?’

  ‘That phone of yours, the one with the photos …?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I need it, Wes. Now. I’m doing you a favour here. If you don’t believe me, if you don’t trust me, so be it. Good luck inside. Ten years goes in a flash, you’d be amazed.’

  He peers at me, and I sense he’s trying to work out my angle.

  ‘So, what’s this about?’

  ‘You, Wes. And H.’

  ‘He sent you here? To get those fucking pics?’

  ‘No one sent me here, Wes. Not H. Not the Filth. No one. Believe it or not, I’ve got a mind of my own. Take it or leave it, Wes. Your call.’

  I’ve never spoken to him like this before, and he’s finding it hard to take. Women should know their place in Wesley Kane’s life, and I suspect none of them – to date – have had the right to be so blunt.

  ‘So, what happens to the phone? If I give it to you?’

  ‘I’ll get rid of it.’

  ‘Why can’t I do that?’

  ‘Because you won’t, you can’t. For whatever reason this stuff talks to you. You need it, Wes. You’ll promise me to bin it, then you’ll take one last peek, and you’ll have a bit of a think, and tell yourself you’ll sort it later. But later will be too late, Wes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘That’s not a reason.’

  ‘It is, Wes. There’s stuff going on here that you don’t want to be part of, believe me. Give me that phone and I’ll leave you in peace. It’s a no-brainer, Wes. Just give me the fucking thing. Then it’s gone. Forever.’

  He studies me for a long moment as if I’m here to offer him therapy, which in a way is true. Then, at last, he cracks a smile.

  ‘Does this mean you might be back?’

  ‘One day, yes. I care about you, Wes. And I care about H, too, which I’m guessing won’t be music to your ears. But that’s what being a woman means these days. Men have a habit of leaving a mess, always did, always will. Just ask yourself who does the clearing up.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Me,’ I agree.

  He nods, less hostile now. Does he buy into all this mumsy stuff? Does he really trust me? I’ve no idea but after a couple of minutes waiting on his doorstep, he’s back with the phone.

  ‘Just give it to me, Wes.’ I extend my hand.

  ‘You’ll really come back?’

  ‘One day, yes.’

  ‘And maybe stay?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether or not you’ve removed the SD card.’

  ‘I haven’t.’ He finally gives me the phone. ‘Deal?’

  I’ve got the phone. I’ve done it. Too easy? Yes. But Wesley Kane is beyond strange.

  I’m back at the flat beside Southsea Common with an hour to spare before Dessie arrives. I’m glad of the thinking time I’ve saved for myself but the moment I park, I recognize the top-of-the-range Lexus several bays away. Mr Wu, I think.

  I find him upstairs, taking off his visor and mask with one hand while making a phone call with the other. The moment he sees me, he abandons the phone.

  ‘Please.’ He nods at the sofa. ‘We need to talk.’

  He tells me that H is making excellent progress. He says that his sat levels are back to normal, that he shows no signs of fever, and that the cough that has plagued him for so long seems to have disappeared.

  ‘Should I blame the drugs, Mr Wu?’ I’m trying to make light of it. ‘All that medication you’ve given him?’

  ‘We’ve given him very little medication, Ms Andressen. Some antibiotics, some anti-inflammatories, but that’s all. What made the difference was the oxygen. That gave him time for his immune system to win the battle.’

  ‘So, the battle’s over? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘I doubt it. He’ll be very tired, and maybe a little weak. He’ll have to rest, and he’ll need to recover properly. There’s always the chance that the virus will flare up again, but we all have our fingers crossed. Any sign of more infection, of course, and we can always review the situation.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘We are, Ms Andressen. I’m withdrawing all the nurses with the exception of Taalia until four o’clock, and Sunil
until midnight. This is for our benefit, as well as yours, Ms Andressen.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means you’ll be saving yourself a great deal of money. In fact, there may even be some modest reimbursement from the money you’ve already paid us.’

  ‘And you? The agency? Your wonderful nurses?’

  Mr Wu plainly doesn’t want the rest of this conversation, but when I insist, he sighs and puts his phone carefully to one side.

  ‘Mr H has been difficult from time to time. I suspect you’re aware of that.’

  ‘I am. He’s been a sick man.’

  ‘Indeed. But there are other issues, too, and to be frank I’m not sure it’s in our best interests to continue this association. For one thing, the hospital are crying out for more nurses, trained nurses, nurses with ICU experience. We have an obligation here, and I’m afraid we can’t duck it. You know how many people have died in this city so far? Just in hospital? Eighty.’ He nods gravely. ‘Eight-oh,’ he says again.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘You said other issues.’

  ‘I did, yes.’ He nods, studies his hands, then looks me in the eye. ‘There are rules here, Ms Andressen, things you can and can’t do. You’ve been living with someone infected by the virus. Yet you’re seldom here. This morning? Last night?’ He holds my gaze. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s none of your business.’

  ‘But it is, Ms Andressen. Or at least it was.’ He checks his watch and gets to his feet. He’d like the oxygen cylinders and the bedside equipment to remain in the bedroom until all nursing cover ceases tomorrow morning. After that, he says with the ghost of a smile, the equipment will be removed and the flat will be ours again.

  ‘And H?’

  ‘Mr H is getting better. Let’s look on the bright side.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  By the time Dessie arrives, only Taalia remains in the flat. I’ve been standing in the window in the front room, and the moment I spot Dessie’s VW slowing to nose into the parking space opposite, I descend to the street. Dessie watches me emerge from the flats in his rear-view mirror and leans across to open the front passenger door.

  The moment I’m settled, I ask him about the promised police cover. This morning I could find no trace of a uniform either to the front or rear of the property.

  ‘They were withdrawn first thing, at the end of their shifts. We did the risk assessment and decided not to replace them.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘We have grounds for believing that Sean McGaughy has left the city.’

  ‘This is intelligence?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.’

  Really? Why so formal, I want to ask him. Why this sudden outbreak of corporate speak? Instead, I tell him that I’ve been in touch with Jessie again.

  ‘She told you we paid a visit?’

  ‘She did. “Mob-handed” was the phrase she used, plus a couple of expletives. What was the point? What were you doing?’

  ‘This is a Major Crimes operation. To get the full story, you should be speaking to someone else.’

  ‘But you’d know, surely?’

  ‘I work as a civilian adviser, as I think I explained. They tell me what they want to tell me.’

  ‘But your gut feeling? That instinct of yours?’

  ‘My gut feeling is that H is in the shit. They’re doing a full forensic audit. They’re piecing together every deal he’s made, every pound he’s spent, every investment he’s risked since he left this city. They’re looking for laundered money, and months down the line, who knows, they might find it.’

  I nod, look out across the Common and watch a lone figure bending to clean up after his dog. Something’s very wrong here, and now I know exactly what it is.

  ‘That money you asked me to hide. You’re a cop, or you used to be. So how come you’re suddenly so kind to me?’

  ‘We would have seized it. All of it. Without that money, H would be in the ICU. You know the rest of the story better than I do.’

  ‘You’re telling me you’ve personally spared him the ICU?’ I’m incredulous. ‘Why on earth would you ever do that? You owe H nothing. In fact, your lot would probably be dancing on his grave the moment he popped it.’

  ‘No.’ Dessie shakes his head.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t want him dead. Not if I could help him in the meantime.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. There has to be a why. There has to be a reason. H happens to be getting better.’ I nod towards the flats across the road. ‘That’s great news for us, probably less so for all the cops he wound up. I get the impression you laid trap after trap back in the day. I understand you’d pull any stroke to put him away. Am I right? You were there, Dessie, you’d know.’

  Dessie says nothing. I await some clue, any clue, but he won’t even look at me. Finally, just the hint of a nod.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘H was a pain.’

  ‘So why help us out with the money? Why see it our way?’

  ‘I just told you.’

  ‘You told me nothing. Unless you’re another Dave Munroe.’

  The suggestion puts the ghost of a smile on his face. Then he turns to look at me.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ he asks. ‘I saw the overnight log. The blokes we put in saw you leave. Technically, that’s breaking the lockdown restrictions, but we can live with that. More importantly, you never came home. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, where were you?’

  I shake my head. No comment.

  ‘Wesley, was it? All night?’

  The question comes as a surprise, not least because it seems so suddenly personal.

  ‘Say you’re right. Would that matter to you?’

  ‘Yes, it would.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that man has done some evil things. He’s hurt a lot of people. Physically, mentally, any way he can. He’s not a nice person. Lunatic would be close. Psychotic, even closer.’

  ‘He’s damaged, Dessie.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘Yes. And I’ve known it for a while. Did I spend the night with him? No. Would I? Never in a million years. He thinks I might one day, and that’s sweet on his part, but it won’t happen.’

  ‘But you saw him? Last night?’

  ‘Yes. Briefly. I don’t know what you put in that skunk but Wesley loved it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. I made my excuses and left.’ I nod across at the flats again. ‘H needs a bit of company. Are you up for this?’

  With some reluctance, because Dessie would prefer this conversation of ours to continue, we get out of the car and climb the stairs to the flat. The tall cylinders of oxygen are still stacked in the front room, awaiting collection. For the first time, with their white tops and black bases, they remind me of a line of nuns awaiting word about what might happen next, but without the usual gang of nurses, the place seems empty and neglected and sad, exactly the way we found it.

  Dessie looks round and spots the tins of paint I’ve never opened.

  ‘They belong to Tony?’

  ‘Me, I’m afraid. I arrived with good intentions but never got round to it.’

  ‘It’s a doss.’ Dessie shakes his head. ‘Tony should have sorted some of this.’

  Mr Wu has left half a dozen sets of PPE and I hand the biggest to Dessie while I, too, ready myself for our visit to H’s bedroom. I’ve done this so many times now that I know all the moves by heart, and once Dessie has gowned up, and tugged on a pair of plastic gloves, I fuss with his mask and visor, making sure the fit is snug. His eyes behind the visor are following my every move, and when I tell him he’ll do, he catches my hand and gives it a little squeeze.

  ‘Don’t be nervous.’ My hand is still in his. ‘It’s only H. He won’t eat you.’

  The bedroom door is half open and I can hear T
aalia trying out a list of Easter jokes on H.

  ‘What do you get if you pour boiling water down a rabbit hole?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘A hot cross bunny.’ She giggles. ‘And here’s another one. How does Easter end?’

  ‘With an “R”.’ It’s Dessie this time. He opens the door wide and steps in. Taalia looks round. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed with an open copy of the News on her lap. Then she sees me.

  ‘Taalia.’ I’m doing the introductions. ‘Dessie.’

  H, at first, is bemused. He can’t quite work out what’s going on, and this annoys him. Then he takes a proper look at the big face behind the mask.

  ‘Dessie fucking Wren,’ he grunts. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I can tell at once that H is far from unhappy at having this man step back into his life. Against all the rules, he extends an arm for a fist-bump. Very Pompey, I think.

  Taalia folds the paper and asks whether we’d like tea. H says yes for all of us.

  ‘And biscuits,’ he adds. ‘Them ginger chocs.’

  Taalia disappears while H nods at the little dent she’s made in the blanket. Not for me, but for Dessie. Already, I’m way out of my depth. These two men appear to be friends. The Drug Baron and the Intel King. Only in Pompey.

  ‘You still with the Filth, Dessie? Scratching around for a living?’

  ‘I am, H. A pleasure, as always.’

  ‘I had my housekeeper on just now, Jessie, Pompey gal …’ His hand crabs towards his phone. ‘Your lot were all over us last night. Hooligans in fucking uniform. Jess says she’s got a list of stuff we’ll have to put right. Where do I send the bill?’

  ‘Usual address, H. It might be a while, though.’

  ‘Great. Nothing fucking changes. One day it might occur to those dickhead bosses of yours that they’re wasting their time. Never put anything on paper, Dessie, unless it can’t hurt you. The way I hear it, your lot are stuffed for money, haven’t got the bodies any more, so how come you’re pissing all that budget away? No hard feelings, mate, but I’m a taxpayer now, and I have views about all this.’

  The conversation goes on, variations on the same theme, H seizing every opportunity to have a dig at the men in blue. I can see he’s buoyed by having this face from the past at his bedside. He’s playful, amused, and not the least bit threatened or aggressive. After Taalia has served tea and biscuits, Dessie at last gets round to asking him how he feels.