We both sit in silence and let our memories melt like chocolate.
‘Okay,’ says Dee, wearily getting to her feet and opening her arms for a hug. ‘I’m going to turn in. I’m feeling whacked.’
I hold my sister and pull her tight. ‘I love you.’
‘Love you too.’
As she heads to the stairs, a thought hits me. ‘Hey, do you want me to call in sick tomorrow? We could go shopping and grab lunch somewhere.’
‘No,’ she says firmly, ‘I don’t want any more emotional support. I just want time to fly now. You go and catch the bad people and then when you’re done you can come and look after me.’
‘Deal.’
‘Night.’ She blows me a kiss off her hand, like she used to do when we were kids. I catch it and put it into my pocket for safekeeping.
97
Martin
I am sitting on the sofa staring at ‘the space’.
The space where Sarah should be.
She should be at the other end of where I am, her legs crossed, or stretched out over my lap, glass of wine in hand, her nose in a book while I watch telly. That’s where she should be. Or in the kitchen, cooking, while I stand just a metre away eating her with my eyes. Or in bed with me, eyes misted with love, hair on her pillow, smelling sweet as summer grass, me touching her cheek while we talk nonsense about holidays, art, poetry, walks, maybe getting a dog, or cat, pets we had as kids, places we’ve been, or not been, or still want to go to.
Outside all that chatter, that white noise in my mind, there is just silence. It’s as though I have become emotionally blind. I may never see her, or hear her voice again. She has gone. And the memories I am dealing with are just fading echoes of her. I’ve never felt this close to grief before. It is black and jagged. Rusty and infected.
My eyes roam around the room. It’s a mess. Without Sarah, I’ve instantly become a slob. Shoes and coat left on the lounge floor, plates and mugs used and not washed. I get up and move the crockery to the kitchen, put my shoes on a rack in the hall. On a table, there is the file I brought from my studio. The file that contains my dreadful secret.
I pick it up and carry it to the sofa. I place it next to me. Where Sarah should be.
Could I tell her?
She already knows about the money. The account. She just has no idea where it came from and what it’s for. No notion of why it’s been transferred to Switzerland.
Why am I even thinking of telling her?
I know the answer. Of course, I know the answer. Because I still love her. Because I know that if we’re to be together again, we’re going to have to be honest with each other. Totally honest.
I pick up my mobile and thumb through to Sarah’s number.
But I don’t make the call.
I want to.
But I can’t.
I feel like I felt when I was a virginal teenager, desperate to call a girl in class, but too scared to do it. Frightened of rejection. Fearful that I will make such a mess that it won’t ever be possible to fix it.
Instead, I dial another number.
‘It’s Martin,’ I say as soon as the call is answered. ‘We’ve got a problem. My wife knows about the payments. I don’t think I can keep everything secret any longer.’
98
Annie
A night in custody has put a year on Raurie Crewe’s usually youthful face. He’s unshaven, red-eyed, scraggy-haired and his already creased Zegna suit would now get overlooked in a charity shop.
His lawyer, Jordan Beard, looks disturbingly well rested and, from the expression on Nisha’s face, also quite fanciable in a crisp black suit with grey shirt and black and grey tie.
I set the tape machine rolling and we all wince at the ear-piercing buzz designed to ensure there can be no later claim that someone didn’t know the interview was being recorded.
I repeat the caution to Crewe and am eager to get down to business. ‘I hope you had a pleasant rest, Raurie. And, I hope it’s resulted in a change of heart about cooperating. Today really is your last chance at us cutting you any slack.’
Beard steps straight in. ‘My client’s position is unchanged, Inspector. He’s innocent of any crimes and wishes to leave here and return to his family. I request that you either bring charges or,’ he shoots me a smile, ‘you politely apologise and release him.’
The thought of apologising flips my stomach. ‘Okay, then, let’s head towards those charges. Yesterday, Raurie, we searched your home and seized your passport. You’re quite the traveller, aren’t you?’
‘That’s not a question, Inspector.’ snaps Beard.
‘You’re right, it’s not. It’s a statement. Your client is quite a traveller, that is beyond doubt. But I do have a related question. Why does the CEO of an international company find it necessary to visit Burma and Thailand so often?’
Crewe looks a cross between exhausted and bored.
‘Oh, come on, Raurie. Wakey, wakey!’ I clap my hands together. ‘We’re getting to the fun stuff now, so let’s have a fresh start. Why do you go to Thailand and Burma so much?’
Beard intervenes again. ‘Mr Crewe has a Thai wife. They go back to see her family a great deal and the company also has key business in Thailand.’
‘And Burma?’
‘Business,’ barks Crewe. ‘I’m in import and export, remember?’
‘I do. I remember it very well.’ I look to Nisha. ‘Detective Sergeant Patel, please shed some light on Mr Crewe’s business and private activity in this part of the world.’
‘Certainly.’ She opens a folder and passes sheets of paper to the two men. ‘According to company accounts, Crewe Carriers turned over a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of revenue in Thailand last year and made a profit of fifteen thousand pounds. In Burma, or Myanmar as it prefers to be called these days, a turnover of fifty-three thousand pounds resulted in a profit of six thousand pounds recorded.’
‘Remind me, Raurie, what was your company’s gross revenue and profit last year?’
He shrugs.
Once more, Beard comes to his aid. ‘You obviously have the figures, Inspector, so why not just say them?’
‘Crewe Carriers turned over fifteen million pounds last year,’ says Nisha. ‘It posted profits of two point four million.’
‘Hardly Apple or Google, but still very nice,’ I comment. ‘And tell me, Detective Sergeant, how many visits did Mr Crewe make to those countries?’
‘Four to Burma. Twelve to Thailand.’
‘Twelve!’ I say with mock surprise. ‘Wow, that’s a lot.’
‘My wife is Thai,’ he says angrily.
‘Of course, stupid me. Didn’t I see her photo on your desk?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And the girl working Reception, is that your daughter?’
‘A friend of my wife’s family. She’s here on work experience.’
‘I get the picture now.’ I turn to Nisha. ‘As a matter of interest, how many of those trips to Thailand were declared by Mr Crewe to the tax authorities as being wholly or partly for personal reasons and therefore taxable as a benefit in kind?’
‘None were declared as personal trips,’ she replies.
‘That’s fraud, Raurie. But never mind, I think you have bigger things to worry about.’ I nod to Nisha. ‘My hard-working colleague has been through all your business and family finances, all your personal and professional expenses and travel journeys. Tell me, DS Patel, exactly how many times did Mrs Crewe accompany him on those trips?’
‘None. Assinda Crewe visited Thailand only once in the last twelve months and it was not during a period that Mr Crewe was there.’
‘Really?’ Again, my mock surprise. ‘Can you explain that, Raurie? Do you like your in-laws so much, you even travel to see them when your wife doesn’t?’
‘My client has no comment,’ says Beard.
I plough on. ‘And tell me, Sergeant, in which countries does Crewe Carriers make most of its money and how many t
imes over the past twelve months has Mr Crewe visited these key territories?’
‘France accounts for 45 per cent of the company’s business, more than five million pounds, and he has been once in the past year. Germany 30 per cent and he has been twice. The Scandinavian countries, Denmark, Sweden and Norway, account for 10 per cent and Mr Crewe hasn’t visited them at all. Holland, meanwhile, amounts to 5 per cent and he has been seven times.’
‘Seven?’ I turn up the sarcasm a few notches. ‘What’s the attraction there? Tulips? Cheeses? More relatives to visit?’
Crewe cups his hands and whispers to Beard. The solicitor nods and then answers, ‘I’m told it is company strategy for senior management to focus time and attention on under-performing business areas. That is why Mr Crewe visited the countries you have named.’
‘Ah, thank you. It all makes sense now. You see, I was beginning to think it was drugs. Stupid me. I assumed that with Thailand and Burma being big suppliers of illegal drugs and the Netherlands being a critical importation gateway, Mr Crewe might be running them in from Asia to Rotterdam then on to other European countries. Indeed, I’m so dim, that we’ve currently got half a dozen police and customs agencies tearing apart every container in every port you deal with.’
‘My client strongly refutes any such suggestions.’
‘Of course, he does. Of course, he does.’ I smile at them both, let a little silence blossom as we all look at each other. ‘Come on, gentlemen, Raurie’s brother is in jail for a drugs-related killing. We are aware that you have offshore accounts in Guernsey, Gibraltar and the Isle of Man.’
Credit to them both. They don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Don’t wriggle.
The door opens. Alice Ross sticks her head through the frame. ‘Sorry, boss, it’s urgent.’
‘Please excuse me,’ I say to my guests. ‘For the sake of the tape, Detective Constable Ross has requested an urgent discussion with me. This interview is terminating at ten-fifteen a.m.’
Nisha and I leave them to stew. I clunk the door shut and we walk down the corridor with Alice, so there’s no chance of us being overheard. ‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘DCI Goodwin sent me to tell you, police in Holland have discovered a large quantity of category A drugs in a Crewe Carriers’ container newly arrived from Thailand.’
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’
Both Nisha and I bask in the warmth of the moment. Then I want to know more. ‘What drugs, how large a quantity and what street value?’
‘Mr Goodwin said you’d ask that.’ She looks at the pocket book in her left hand. ‘The drug is yaba.’
‘As in yabadabadoo?’
She looks at me as though I’ve gone crazy. ‘Ma’am?’
‘The Flintstones? Fred’s favourite saying?’
‘Sorry, ma’am. I think the only cartoons I’ve seen are The Simpsons and South Park. But yes, yaba, as in yabadabadoo.’
‘What is it?’ asks Nisha.
‘It’s a very potent mixture of methamphetamine and caffeine,’ answers Alice. ‘It comes in pill form, about the size of a pencil rubber, but apparently lots of users crush them to burn and snort or dilute and inject.’
‘It’s sometimes called the Hitler Drug,’ I add. ‘Adolf had his wartime scientists invent it as a way of keeping troops awake and uninhibited. Unsurprisingly, it’s a hit today at raves and festivals.’
‘I don’t know exact quantities and street value, yet, ma’am,’ continues Alice, ‘but I looked the drug up on the NCA guide while I was walking down here. Burma is one of the biggest suppliers of methamphetamine in the world and Thailand one of the biggest markets of yaba.’
‘Now the pieces are starting to come together,’ I say to Nisha. ‘We have a former Drugs Squad officer, Charlie York, linked to Raurie Crewe, the CEO of a company caught importing illegal drugs, with his brother Kieran in jail for a drugs-related murder. This must have been going on for years.’
‘And I bet Kieran is peddling this yaba in prison,’ adds Nisha.
‘I suspect you’re right.’
Alice pulls out her mobile. ‘There’s some neuropharmacological and biomolecular information as well, ma’am, if you would like me to go through it?’
‘No, I’m going to politely decline that fascinating offer for the moment, Alice. But thank you.’
‘My pleasure, ma’am.’
As she wanders away I turn things over in my head. I feel like I’m staring at an almost completed crossword puzzle but there are still a few sticky ones to get.
‘What you thinking, boss?’ asks Nisha. ‘Whether to charge smug Raurie right now, or wait until the clock’s run down?’
‘Something like that.’ I stare down the corridor to the interview room and the cell block at the far end where the custody sergeant is locking up a prisoner. I look beyond the building. Back in time. Back to a night when Jennifer Rush played on the dance floor and I danced close, far too close, to a charming DI with wandering eyes and wandering hands. ‘Tell Beard and his boy to take a rest for a couple of hours. I’ve something more urgent for us to take a look at. I’ll see you in Goodwin’s office when you’ve finished down here.’
99
Danny
I wake in my own bed. It’s big. Soft.
And empty.
But at least I’m back home.
No. I’m not. This is no longer home. It’s different. It’s a museum. That’s what it is. A cold, soulless place that I’ve spent the night in. Two people once lived here. People who don’t exist anymore. There are pictures of them everywhere. But they look nothin’ like that now. These were taken when they were young and happy. Nothing recent. That’s a sure sign a marriage is on the rocks, isn’t it? When shelves stop being filled with new pictures, new snapshots of happy times.
The couple’s clothes and jewellery are all over the place. Their smells are still in the air. Books and magazines they were reading have been dropped on floors and sofas as time ran out. Yes, that’s what happened here. Their time ran out.
I sit up in bed and fire erupts in my chest, shoulder and arm where Martin the Bastard shot me. I get out and walk to the long oak mirror that Paula always used to twirl in front of to check her dresses.
God, I look crap.
Sure, the bandages have a hero quality. The small boy inside me imagines this is the look of an injured SAS officer. But I know the man in baggy boxers, with a bruised face and battered body, is no hero.
I take a pee and have an awkward one-handed wash before drapin’ a dressin' gown over my shoulders and hobblin’ downstairs to make tea and toast. I remember when I came out of prison that I was depressed because I had no job to go to and Paula was all pumped up about the business and she told me, ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Make a fresh start. Don’t waste the opportunity.’
Well, I did. Back then, I did waste it.
And I probably will do again. Wastin’ is what I do best. I’m Olympic standard. A gold medal fuck-up.
I don’t want to be. But I am.
I reckon that how you are in your thirties and forties, is decided by who you were in your teens and twenties. If you’ve already notched up twenty years of being a failure, it’s likely that the rest of your life is going to be downhill?
I plugged my phone in overnight to charge it. Left it in the kitchen. Halfway through my last slice of toast, it rings.
I snatch it up. Hoping it’s Paula. ‘H’lo.’
‘Are you alone?’
It’s a man’s voice. One distantly familiar. A voice from the past. One I can’t quite place. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Oh, I think you know who this is. Don’t you, Danny boy?’
A cold chill runs down my spine. ‘My name’s not Danny. You’ve got the wrong number, mate.’ I hang up and steady myself with a hand on a worktop.
I need a drink.
Need one like my life depends on it.
The phone rings again.
100
Ann
ie
I am strapping on a ballistic vest, barely a day after one saved my life. I doubly tug the fasteners. Pull them so tight that I can hardly breathe.
‘Are you okay?’ asks Nisha, as we get in the car.
‘Tried and tested.’ I slap a hand on my chest. ‘How could I not be okay?’
‘Oh, I can think of a thousand reasons.’ She punches a postcode into the satnav. ‘I believe I’m feeling most of them right now.’
‘Remember our weapons training?’ I say reassuringly. ‘What was it the instructor said? “A little fear is our big friend. It keeps us sharp. Keeps us alive.”’
‘Instead of fear, I’d prefer a little feet-up-on-the-settee, you know? Watching a box-set, eating my own weight in chocolate-mints.’
The image makes me laugh. ‘Yes, I’d prefer to do that too. I promise when this is over, that’s exactly what we’ll do.’
‘Back-to-back episodes of something sexy and soppy. That’s what I need. Poldark, right from the delicious bare-chested horse-riding first episode.’
I frown. ‘Or we could rewatch The Night Manager and imagine booking into a suite with Tom Hiddleston.’
‘Or Scandal!’ shrieks Nisha. ‘Oh, I could so be Olivia Pope to Tony Goldwyn’s Fitz.’
We laugh. Light laughter. Nervous laughter. The kind that disappears like mist. And when it clears, we fall into a contemplative silence.
‘What made you think York might still be around here?’ asks Nisha.
‘Mick Kerry.’
‘Big Mick, the custody sergeant?’
‘Yep, the one on duty this morning. He was there when Alice Ross called us into the corridor and seeing him there cemented my hunch.’
‘Had Mick seen Charlie?’
‘No. Just the sight of him reminded me that about five years ago, when Mick’s wife threw him out of the marital home, he stayed at a one-bed hovel in Normanton.’
‘So?’
‘It was the hovel that Charlie York had bought when his wife threw him out of their marital home. I just got to guessing that maybe he’d kept the place to let out when he moved to London.’ I leave out the fact that it was also the place Charlie had taken me back to that one Christmas, and where I had almost slept with him.
Dead and Gone Page 29
