by Tania Carver
‘Shit.’
Sperring cut the call, started the car.
And that was when he saw her: Letisha Watson making her way up to the entrance of the studio.
‘Shit.’ Even louder this time.
Now Sperring was torn. Genuinely torn. Her presence at the studio, now, after everything that had happened in the last couple of days, wasn’t an accident. Couldn’t be. It meant something was happening, or was about to happen. Something major. It also vindicated his decision to sit here all afternoon. Old-time copper’s instinct, he thought. Never wrong.
And then he thought of the summons, back to the station. The chance to catch the Lawgiver in action. He couldn’t ignore it, pretend he didn’t receive the call. And he couldn’t sit here any longer.
Reluctantly, he turned the car around, headed back to the station.
51
‘R
ight. You got everything?’
Anni looked at Mickey as one professional to another. As if the earlier wink hadn’t happened. And he loved her even more for it.
‘Yep,’ he said. He looked over at Fiona Welch who was standing between two uniforms. ‘I’ll take her straight back to Colchester. Want to get her there as quickly as possible. Don’t want to run down the custody clock, and all that.’
‘I should be coming with you,’ Anni said.
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘But you’ve still got stuff to tie up here. I’ll stick her in the back. She’s cuffed.’ He smiled. ‘I think I can handle her.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Anni, then smiled. ‘Don’t want to get any jealous ideas about you and her…’
‘Yeah, right,’ he said. He laughed, but there was that slight undertone to her words. He still didn’t want to upset her.
She leaned in to him, whispered, ‘I’m joking, idiot.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, mock-affronted. ‘I knew that.’
Anni shook her head. ‘I’ll get Marina to give me a lift back. I’ll see you later.’
‘Right.’ He leaned in to kiss her.
‘Not here,’ she said. ‘Idiot.’
Mickey reddened. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Forgot where I was for a moment.’
Anni smiled, walked off.
Mickey took Fiona Welch by the arm, started to walk her towards the doors.
‘Just a minute,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I want to say goodbye to someone.’
‘You haven’t been here that long. And I doubt you made any friends.’
She turned to him. Eyes unknowable. ‘I want to say goodbye to someone.’ She gestured with her shoulder, the only part of her body she could use since her arms were pulled tight behind her. ‘Her.’
Mickey followed her gaze. ‘Who, Marina Esposito?’
‘As one psychologist to another.’
Mickey shook his head. ‘Whatever. Make it quick.’
He walked her over to where Marina was. She looked up at their approach.
‘Doesn’t want to leave without saying her goodbyes,’ said Mickey.
Marina looked confused. ‘Oh. Right.’ She stood there, unmoving, offering Fiona Welch nothing.
Fiona Welch smiled. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Although it isn’t really. I’ll be seeing you again very soon.’
Marina looked slightly taken aback at the words. ‘I… I don’t think so.’
‘You’re wrong, Marina. Very wrong.’
‘I doubt it.’
Mickey sighed. He had had enough of her. He grabbed her arm, began to lead her away. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You’ve had your fun.’
Fiona Welch turned, looked over her shoulder at Marina, smiled. ‘Give Phil my love.’
Marina didn’t reply.
Mickey dragged her away.
‘Nutter,’ he said, under his breath.
Fiona Welch just smiled.
52
P
hil had never been inside Glen Looker’s office before. Never even been near it. He hadn’t expended much thought in imagining what it might look like, even. However, when he reached it he realised it was exactly the kind of place that he expected Glen Looker to be based in.
Being on the other side of Queensway it wasn’t that far from Birmingham Central, the station on Steelhouse Lane he operated from. However, that, he thought, must be only an accident of geography. Concerning everything else, they may as well have been on opposite sides of the city. The country, even.
It was situated near enough to the courts to attract trade but far enough away to keep the rents down. A shabby doorway in a rundown old office block led the way. A handwritten sign on the intercom at the side told interested parties that this was ‘Looker Solicitor’. Phil thought of pressing the button but found that the door opened when he pushed it so just went inside.
The stairway was narrow, covered by the kind of loose, worn carpeting that Looker had made many a successful compensation case out of for his clients. It smelled vaguely of cabbage, or something else that had been stewing too long. The walls were all flaking plaster. Phil made his way slowly upwards, breathing through his mouth. At the first-floor landing he found a locked doorway with a buzzer at the side of it.
He pressed it, waited.
Eventually a bored female voice gave the name of the company.
‘Detective Inspector Brennan,’ he said, ‘West Midlands Police. I need to see Mr Looker. Urgently.’
‘D’you have an appointment?’
‘No I don’t. But this is urgent. Can you buzz me in, please?’
There was a pause while Phil was sure she was deciding whether to do so or not. She did and he walked into the reception area.
Sitting round the walls on chairs that looked as if they’d been bought as a job lot from an office surplus store sometime during John Major’s time in office were the kind of people Phil dealt with all the time. Some he even recognised and, from the way they became instantly uncomfortable and hands disappeared into jacket pockets and conversation ceased, it was clear that some of them recognised him too.
They were the revolving-door people. In and out of court and prison so many times that it became a home from home for them.
Phil looked at the receptionist, a drab, middle-aged woman who seemed to have lost several battles in her life and had finally accepted who and what she was. Even if that acceptance wasn’t wanted or welcome.
‘This his office?’ said Phil, pointing to another door.
‘You can’t go in there,’ the receptionist said, standing up from behind her desk.
‘Police business. Urgent. Matter of life and death.’ Phil strode over to the door.
The receptionist, quick for such a large woman, got there before him. Probably used to people trying to barge in on her boss, Phil thought.
‘I said you can’t go in there,’ she announced once more, her arms flung out. ‘I don’t care who you are.’
‘Then tell him I’m here. And he has to see me. Now.’
She stared straight into his eyes. It was a gaze that Phil could see usually made people, even the hardest criminals, he would have imagined, back down. But Phil’s gaze was steelier than that. Eventually she relented.
‘I’ll see if he’s free.’
‘He’d better be.’
She went into the office, making a point of slamming the door behind her. Soon, the door opened again and out came a young black man, angry at having his meeting disturbed, especially when it was for police. He walked past Phil aiming for swagger but ended up just trying not to run to get out of the copper’s way. The receptionist followed him out of the room.
‘Mr Looker will see you now,’ she announced.
‘Thank you,’ said Phil, managing a smile.
It wasn’t returned.
He entered the room, closed the door behind him. Glen Looker sat behind his desk. All the furniture in the room looked like it had come in the same job lot as the chairs in the reception room. It was dark and depressing. The only flash of light a
nd colour was a poster advertising white-beach holidays in the Maldives. The vibrancy in it just made the room seem sadder, more enclosed.
‘Detective Inspector Brennan,’ said Glen Looker, sitting back, ‘welcome to my world.’
‘Thank you.’
He sat forward. ‘You’d better have a bloody good reason for barging in here like this. You nearly gave poor Janice a heart attack.’
‘I think it would take more than that,’ said Phil.
Looker shrugged. ‘Maybe. So why are you here? It’s important, I presume.’
‘It is,’ said Phil, sitting down in one of the uncomfortable-looking metal chairs. ‘Our friend the Lawgiver has been in contact again.’
‘Has he now.’
‘And he’s told us who his next target will be.’
‘Oh? And who might that be? One of my clients, I suppose?’
‘More than that. You.’
Looker stared at him, jaw open. It took him some time but he eventually regained his composure. ‘What?’ he asked, voice small and incredulous.
‘What I said. He called us, and it was him, definitely, and told us that his next target is you.’
Looker kept staring at Phil. Eventually his face creased up, his shoulders shook. Oh God, thought Phil. He’s going to cry. But he didn’t. His mouth formed a smile, he threw his head back and began to laugh.
Phil just stared.
The laughter continued for longer than was natural. Eventually it subsided and Looker stared once again at Phil, the smile still on his face.
‘Glad you think it’s amusing,’ said Phil, not knowing whether Looker’s reaction was bravado, genuine humour or mania.
‘Hilarious,’ said Looker. ‘And when is this supposed to be happening? Did he tell you that as well?’
‘He did, as a matter of fact,’ said Phil. ‘Tonight.’
Looker stared at Phil once more, then the laughter started again.
Eventually it subsided and Looker sat there, riding the aftershocks, shaking his head. ‘Tonight. Oh, that’s good. That’s really good.’
‘Why is it really good?’ asked Phil. ‘What’s so special about tonight?’
Looker kept smiling. ‘It’s the annual West Midlands Law Society Dinner. Radisson Blu Hotel. Really smart affair. Surprised you don’t know about it.’
‘Not my kind of thing.’
Looker shrugged. ‘Oh. Well. There you go. Black tie, the works. And I’m going to be there.’
‘And so will we.’
Looker shook his head. ‘You honestly think that he’s going to attack me there? In the middle of all those people? Seriously? He wouldn’t dare.’
‘Apparently he would. So I’m here to talk you out of going.’
Looker laughed once more. ‘Piss off. I paid for this months ago. Not losing my money now.’
‘Your life is in danger.’
‘So you keep saying. What d’you think he’s going to do? Poison my gin and tonic? Make me choke on the rubber chicken? That’s not a euphemism, by the way. Just a comment on corporate catering.’
‘So you’re still going to go?’
‘Course. Wouldn’t miss this. Networking central, that is.’
‘I can’t persuade you to come into protective custody?’
‘Do me a favour. Knowing you lot and what you think of me, I put myself in your hands I’ll never get out again.’
Phil shook his head. This wasn’t the response he had been expecting.
‘Hey,’ Looker leaned forward, eyes lit by a manic light, ‘maybe it’s not me he’s after.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Maybe it’s a… diversion. Yeah, that’s it. You know what I mean? Misdirection. Classic ploy. Like they do in the films. You know, you get all of your team, all your forces, concentrating on one area and he fools you, goes off somewhere else. Might be that.’
‘It’s not like in the films. He’s after you. And he’s going to get you tonight. That’s what we’ve been told, that’s what we’re acting on.’
‘Right.’ Looker put his head down, nodded.
‘So what are we going to do, Mr Looker?’
He looked up again. ‘Do? What d’you mean? D’you want me to wear a bulletproof vest or something?’
‘Would you? Even a stab vest?’
‘Course not. Ruin the cut of my suit.’
Phil sighed, stood up. ‘Well, I have to say, I thought you’d be more worried than this. It’s your life that’s in danger, after all.’
Looker spread his arms out in a supplicating gesture. ‘Look, Detective Inspector, I deal with these kinds of people every day. I know what they’re like. You must do too. They’re always saying something or other. They’re going to kill me, get my family. Whatever. If I had a quid for every death threat I’ve had against me, I’d have retired over there long ago.’ He pointed to the poster of the Maldives.
‘Fine, if that’s the way you want to play it. But I have to tell you, we’ll be there. My team. We’ll have the place surrounded and we’ll be watching you all night. Whether you like it or not.’
Looker smiled once more. ‘Are you violating my human rights, Detective Inspector?’
Phil sighed once more. ‘Have a good evening, Mr Looker.’
He turned, left the room.
Glen Looker watched him go. As he did so, the smile slowly slid from his face. Once he realised Phil had gone he leaned over to his desk intercom.
‘Hold all my appointments for the time being, please, Janice,’ he said then cut himself off before she could answer.
He reached down into the bottom drawer of his desk, drew out a bottle of Teacher’s and a glass. Poured himself a generous slug, drank it almost straight down.
Tried to pretend that while he did it, has hand wasn’t really shaking.
53
L
etisha Watson had dug out her very best clothes. Or the very best that she could find at short notice and that were clean. She had hoped they would make her feel good, like the kind of woman who had spent a beautiful night of love-making with such a wonderful man. But they didn’t. They just reminded her of how far she had slipped from the girl everyone envied. How much confidence she had lost. And the visit from that bastard fed hadn’t helped.
But it had increased her need to see Moses. Her desperation to see Moses.
She moved quickly past the reception – some of the old attitude still there – and found her way around the building. The studio. That’s where he would be. That’s where he always was. His office, he called it. Where he met people, did business, worked and chilled. She envied him that. And loved him for it at the same time.
She walked down the corridors, acting like she belonged there, was meant to be there. Eventually she came to the room she was looking for. The one with the light on above the doorway. Red meant busy, green meant enter. It was red. She put her back to the wall, waited.
Letisha sighed. Heavily. What was she doing? Why was she here? She was making herself look stupid, that was it. Like the kind of girl who’s always trailing after a man. Stupid and obsessed. But that wasn’t it. Wasn’t the whole story. That fed’s arrival, twice in two days, had confirmed that to her. She had to see him. Not just for herself, not just for what she wanted to say to him. But for other reasons.
Bigger reasons.
She stood there, waiting, hardly daring to breathe. She wanted a cigarette but knew she would be thrown out if she was found lighting up. So she held that craving inside, joining all the other longings she wanted to act on.
The light went off. Red to green.
Letisha took a deep breath. Another. And walked inside.
The smell of the weed hit her first. And the low lighting. The mixing desk was lit up with a couple of desk lamps but the rest of the room was in shadow. In front of a glass screen was a boy she recognised from the estate. He was just taking off a pair of headphones, looking pleased with himself. The boy behind the mixing desk didn’t look much ol
der than the rapper but he clearly knew what he was doing, head down, focused on the switches. Neither had noticed her enter.
She stood by the door, waited while her eyes acclimatised to the gloom. Looked around, tried to pick out the man she was here to see. Couldn’t find him. In the furthest section of the room she could see low shadows, figures lying around on bean bags or sofas. The occasional inflamed red dots told her that was where the smell of weed was coming from. Moses must be in one of those.
She didn’t know what to do. She had come this far but her courage was beginning to fail her. She could just walk over to the young men, look for Moses. Or she could ask the boy behind the mixing desk.
‘’Scuse me,’ she said, trying to sound confident but fearing her voice would get lost in the room’s soundproofing, ‘’Scuse me. I’m here to see Moses Heap.’
The boy barely glanced at her. He nodded towards the shadowed corner, went back to his work.
Letisha felt her legs tremble as she walked over there. She tried to rationalise it. Why? This was the man she had spent the night with, who had been in her bed, making love to her. Why was she so scared about seeing him again?
She reached the group, stood over them. She recognised Moses straight away.
‘Moses?’ she said, her voice hushed, almost reverential, like she was in her mother’s church, or something.
He turned, smiling. The smile disappeared when he saw who it was. He stood up.
‘What you doing here?’ he said, grabbing her shoulders.
‘I… I… need to see you…’
He looked around quickly, back at the others. Her eyes followed his and she saw a face she recognised. Tiny Wilson, the leader of the Chicken Shack Crew. Julian’s little brother. Not so little any more. And he was looking at her. He made her straight away.
Moses pulled her out of the room, past the mixing desk and into the hall. While the door slowly closed, he stared at her. Once it was in place he spoke. His voice was low but there was no mistaking the anger in it.
‘What you doing? Why you here?’
‘I need to see you. It’s… that fed was round again today. Askin’ me stuff. Stuff about you. We… we need —’
