by Jeff Gulvin
‘Which one is his?’ Ninja asked, as he surveyed the array of doors.
‘It ain’t on this floor.’
‘Where is it then?’
The Wasp pointed into the heart of the building.
‘I just knew it fuckin’ would be.’
Ninja walked with his sword out, scabbard in one hand, open blade in the other. The Wasp grinned at him. ‘Man, nobody’s going to have a go at you.’
‘How the hell do you know?’
‘Just look at you. One eye. No fuckin’ ears.’
‘I got ears.’
‘Well one and a half. Jesus, man. Put the fucker away. We’re not supposed to draw attention to ourselves.’
Reluctantly, Ninja sheathed the sword again and slipped it back in his jacket. He scowled at the emptiness of the corridors. He could smell piss and paint and cigarette smoke.
They walked up two more flights of stairs and then the length of another corridor. Ninja said: ‘How come you know the way?’
‘Been here before.’ The Wasp looked back at him. ‘Black, ain’t I.’
‘What we gonna do?’
‘Knock on his door.’
‘How’d we know he’s in?’
‘We don’t.’
Ninja shook his head. ‘Ain’t gonna answer no door. Is he? Three o’clock in the morning.’
They climbed a final flight of steps and came out on another hallway. ‘The end one,’ Wasp said. ‘252.’
Ninja looked out of the window. At the far end of the concourse a small fire was burning in a dustbin. He could make out shadows gathered about it. He glanced at the graffiti covering the walls. ‘Makes ours look pretty.’
‘Hey,’ Wasp said.
‘What?’
‘You ever killed anyone before?’
Ninja thought for a moment. ‘Don’t think so. You?’
The Wasp shook his head and Ninja half-smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Wasp. I’ll do it.’
They finally got to the flat and The Wasp looked back the way they had come. The corridor was empty. They stood in front of the door and Ninja slid his sword down his sleeve until the hilt was gathered in his hand. The Wasp knocked on the door.
‘What if he ain’t on his own? What if he’s got pussy with him?’ The Wasp shrugged. ‘Then we’ll kill her an’ all,’ He knocked again, louder this time and they waited. Ninja moved lightly from one foot to the other. He glanced behind him again and caught his reflection in the dark of the glass.
Then they heard a voice on the other side of the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Me. Donny.’ The Wasp winked at Ninja. ‘Donny. Right.’ The door was unlocked and Ringo stood there—in his underpants. Ninja stepped into the hall.
Ringo lay face-down with one arm tucked underneath him, lost now in the blood that drained from his stomach. Ninja sat in an armchair with the blood moving towards his feet. He looked down at Ringo’s face, eyes open, staring at a patch on the wall. The Wasp leaned in the kitchen doorway, drinking a bottle of beer he had found in the fridge.
Ninja pointed with the bloodied blade of his sword. ‘Very dead ain’t he.’
The Wasp nodded as he drank. ‘You want any of this?’
‘Naw. Gimme a smoke though.’
The Wasp tossed him a packet. The blood moved closer to Ninja’s shoes and he lifted his feet over the arm of the chair. ‘Lotta blood.’
‘Yeah.’ The Wasp bent and dipped the finger of his gloved hand in it. ‘Thick ain’t it.’
‘Buckets of the stuff. I never would’ve figured it.’
‘You cut the bastard open, Ninja. What did you expect?’ The Wasp looked about the sparseness of the flat. ‘Nothing worth nicking. We ought to go.’
Ninja stood up and farted. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I got to take a shit.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now. Fuckin’ guts are killing me.’
Vanner stood with Ryan at Campbell Row. ‘Heard it from a mate over in Tufnell Park,’ Ryan said. ‘PC on the Crime Group. Thought you might want to know, Guv. Geezer in Archway had his knees slashed at a cashpoint.’
‘Slashed?’
‘Yeah. Bloody great knife or something. He was stood there collecting his readies. Next thing he knows he’s on the deck with blood pissing out of his legs. Two of them. Took two hundred quid off him.’
Vanner looked beyond him. Christian Tate in his mind. ‘Random mugging was it?’
‘That’s how they’re treating it. Kind of thing that’ll send Morrison ape-shit. The geezer’s in hospital. Tendons are shot to pieces. He’s up to his neck in plaster.’
Vanner stood at the door of the ward and glanced at the beds. Not so long since he had occupied one just like it. The man he wanted was nearest the window. He was sitting on the bed with his back in pillows and his legs stretched out in front of him. They were bandaged from the thigh to the ankle. Vanner walked over to him with his hands in his pockets. The man lay back with his eyes closed. Vanner glanced at his notes.
‘Mr Boyd?’
The man opened his eyes.
‘Detective Inspector Vanner.’ He sat down on the seat by the bed.
Boyd looked like a ghost. He was about forty, thinning brown hair and blue eyes. Vanner looked down at his legs. ‘How’re you feeling?’
Boyd managed a smile. His bloodless lips tracing the faintest of lines in his bloodless face. ‘How do I look?’
‘Nothing like a stupid question eh?’
Boyd looked at Vanner’s legs crossed now over his knee. ‘I’ve already told everything I know to the other officers.’
Vanner nodded. ‘Did you get a good look at them?’
‘Not really. They came from behind me. I saw them running away.’
‘Did you see the knife?’
Boyd swallowed and the lump rose and fell in his throat. He looked down at his legs. ‘I didn’t see anything. It all happened so fast.’ His eyes glassed then. ‘D’you know how long it’s going to be before I walk again?’
Vanner did not say anything.
‘Months. I might not be able to properly. They’ve cut all the tendons around the knee cap. I’ll need months of physiotherapy.’
Vanner sat forward. ‘All the more reason to find out who did it.’
Boyd’s face softened and he closed his eyes once more. ‘I’ve told your colleagues all I know,’ he said. ‘There was a witness apparently.’
‘Witness?’
He opened his eyes again. ‘A woman saw them running off.’
Vanner thanked him and left.
In the car there was a message on the mobile from Ryan. Vanner phoned him.
‘What’s up?’
‘I haven’t heard from Milo.’
‘Since when?’
‘Day before yesterday.’
‘That’s a problem?’
Ryan was quiet for a moment. ‘Usually calls in the morning.’
‘Phone him then.’
‘I did. No answer.’
Vanner shrugged. ‘Too early to start the checks. Go round if you want to.’
‘Me on Bream Park? Got to be Old Bill haven’t I.’
‘Leave it a while,’ Vanner said. ‘He’ll phone you.’
He sat with Mrs Emery in the cafe where she worked. He had got her name from Ryan’s contact in Tufnell Park. He passed the sugar for her coffee.
‘Kids,’ she said. ‘They were just kids.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘How old?’
She moved her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. So hard to tell these days. Earrings. Nose rings. What will they pierce next?’
‘One of them had an earring?’
‘I’ve told all this to your friends.’
‘I want you to tell it to me. Did one of them have an earring?’
‘No. He had his nose pierced through.’
‘Was he white or black?’
‘White. Blond-haired. The other was white too. But I didn’t get a good loo
k at him.’
‘He ran by you—the one with the blond hair?’
‘Nearly knocked me over.’
Vanner sat back. ‘So you’d recognise him again?’
She looked at him then. ‘Oh, I’d know him all right.’
He sat at his desk. It was done. A lesson learned just like Sammy. No room for loose cannons, no freelancers trying to go their own way. If they were loyal then he was loyal. They should know that. It was why The Wasp stayed in line. He watched the computer screen and eased the volume a little higher on the Walkman. He scrolled through the list of names and stopped at the letter M. M for May. Ringo May of Wembley. 2517-May. Deleted.
Seven
RYAN SAT IN WEST End Central Police Station and looked at the three Ecstasy tablets. They were laid before him on the desk, wrapped in a plastic bag. Carter, one of his counterparts from Central, emptied them out and moved the end of a pen amongst them.
‘Not seen these before,’ he said.
‘No?’
Carter shook his head. ‘We see doves all the time, or just plain ones. This is a new one on me.’ He looked up. ‘Good stuff?’
‘The best. We’ve had Lambeth check them out.’
‘Heard you’d picked up a few.’
‘Acid mostly,’ Ryan said. ‘This is newer. The label’s only been around for a few months.’
‘Fresh artwork then.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You close to anybody?’
‘Not so far. Picked up a dealer in Wembley. First lead we got. Half a sheet of acid. We got him to lay down and shoved him back on the street.’
‘Anything come of it yet?’
Ryan frowned. ‘Had word there was a stash in a crack house in Kilburn. Gave it a spin the other night but got nothing.’
‘Wind up?’
‘Possibly. Could have been the wrong night, wrong gaff, whatever. You know how reliable the average snout is. This one needs his hand holding big-time.’
Carter looked again at the tablet. ‘Denny?’ he said.
Ryan nodded. ‘Whatever that means?’ He took out his tobacco. ‘Where d’you find them?’
‘Blake’s wine bar in Covent Garden. Fella trying to sweeten his girlfriend.’
Ryan grinned. ‘She’d fuck all night on these.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘Who’s dealing?’
‘Not sure. There is a face. Irish fella from Barnet. Maguire. We’ve seen him about. Tends to stick to the upmarket joints. When I ran a check on this the AIU came up with your flag.’ Carter sat back. ‘I’ve got an address for Maguire if you want it.’
John Phillips sat in the front room, watching television. Upstairs he could hear his wife running a bath. He was half-watching Newsnight, but his mind was wandering elsewhere, waiting for the cricket highlights afterwards.
The window smashed by his head. Curtains suddenly billowing. Phillips was on the floor, hands over his head, waiting for the rumble of explosion and the rushing of air from the room. It never came. Seconds ticked by and he remembered he was in London and there was peace so far in Belfast. Getting to his feet, he saw half a brick lying amid chips of glass on the carpet. He pulled back the curtains. The window was all but gone. He peered into the street. Nothing. Only parked cars and streetlamps and other, quiet, houses. The door opened behind him and his wife stood there in her dressing gown. She stared at him and he saw the grey in her face. Bending, he picked up the half-brick. ‘Phone the police,’ she said.
When the two constables had gone, Phillips went to the shed at the bottom of the garden and took a folded removal carton from where it was stacked against the wall. With hammer and nails he boarded up the window, while his wife and daughter sat huddled on the sofa.
‘I want to move,’ his wife said.
Phillips sighed and laid down the hammer. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
‘I don’t want tea. I want to move.’
She followed him into the kitchen. ‘Don’t you understand what this is doing to me?’
He turned to her, face all red and crumpled where she had been crying so much. He reached for her but she pushed his hands away and her face buckled again.
‘I can’t take any more of this, John.’ She shook her head. ‘Why can’t they leave us alone?’
‘John owes them money, love. They mean to get it from us.’
‘Then give it to them for Christ’s sake.’
‘We don’t have it,’ he said quietly. Anna watched from the doorway. ‘Besides, they would only come back for more. John will always owe money.’
‘That’s it. That’s it. Just give up. God, that’s typical of you. Wash your hands of him.’
‘I’m not washing my hands of him.’ He tried to keep the edge from his voice. ‘But he’s a heroin addict, Mary. He will always owe money.’
‘He needs help.’ Tears fell from her eyes.
‘Yes. And if we knew where he was we’d give it to him.’
Later, just before he finally locked all the doors, he went back out to his shed. On the wall, his long-handled axe hung between two hooks. He lifted it down and ran the end of his thumb over the blade. It was sharp. He always kept it sharp, though they never burned any wood.
His wife was already in bed. Anna was in bed, though he could see the glow of her lamp beneath the foot of the door. He went into his bedroom in darkness. Mary was lying on her side, facing away from him. He undressed slowly and, as he got into bed, he slipped the axe underneath.
Michael Terry watched Lisa in the shower. She always showered with the curtain pulled back, water splashing over the floor. She liked him watching. He could tell by the way she soaped herself that she liked him watching. He scratched his lip. The smell of her on his fingers. A woman flying on E’s. He exhaled very slowly. Rolling onto his stomach he looked at the small round tablet with the grinning half-devil looking up at him. Then he placed it back on the table and stood up. Stripping off his bathrobe, he climbed into the shower.
He rolled off her and lay sweating in the half-light. He stared at the ceiling, feeling the buzzing of champagne in his head. She lay still beside him, her side rising and falling. Vaguely he reached for her breast, cupped the nipple and squeezed it between his fingers. He got up and left her. On the table beside the bed, four Denny Ecstasy tablets lay on top of the plastic bag. He looked down at them and grinned. Let her have them, plenty more where they came from.
Vanner stalked into his office and closed the door. A pile of papers rose up to greet him and he had half a mind to sweep them into the bin. There was a knock on the door behind him.
‘What?’
Ellis stuck his head round. ‘Phone call for you, Guv’nor. Ten minutes ago. Inspectorate want to make a visit. They want a presentation on what we do.’
Vanner looked up at him. ‘We chase fucking drug dealers. What do they think we do?’
Ellis held up his hands. ‘Just passing the message.’
Vanner went through to the kitchen. Jimmy Crack stood there in sweatshirt and jeans, black hair sticking up from his skull. He spooned coffee into mugs. ‘You want one, Guv?’
Vanner nodded. ‘Where’s Slippery?’
‘Don’t know.’
Vanner looked at his watch. ‘He’s late. Why is he always late?’
‘He’s late because unlike some, he was still in West End Central at one o’clock this morning instead of home shagging his wife.’
Vanner looked round at Ryan, who stared out of slanted and bleary eyes at him. ‘Good morning, Guv’nor.’ He looked at Jimmy Crack. ‘Mine has two sugars all right?’
Vanner followed him into the office. Ryan dropped a plastic bag on the table and lit a cigarette. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm.
‘West End Central?’ Vanner said.
Ryan nodded. He gestured to the bag on the desk. ‘Skipper down there picked them up. Spotted my flag. AIU gave me a bell.’
Vanner looked at the face on the tablets. He knew he had seen it before. Somewhere in the past. ‘Wher
e’d he get them?’
‘Covent Garden. Blake’s wine bar. Geezer looking for a high-tension knee trembler from his bird.’
Vanner lifted one eyebrow.
‘You ever shagged a bird on this stuff?’ Ryan shook his head. ‘Thinking of taking one home for the wife.’
Vanner grinned at him. ‘So what’ve we got?’
‘Irish dealer. Maguire.’
‘We know him?’
‘Central do. He hangs out in the West End. Hails from Barnet though. Our turf.’
‘Do we have an address?’
‘We do.’
‘I wonder if he’s got a post office box.’
Night smudged the window, heavy cloud tonight. Before switching on the lamp he had been sitting in the darkness. He always thought best in darkness. He could sit for hours, with just the hum of the music in his skull and the strategies gradually building. He had built an empire on thought. Watches and boxes and padded envelopes and acid from America and Ecstasy from Amsterdam. Mr Plod. Mr VAT man. What the hell did they know? They were so short-staffed it was a joke. The rules of the game were not even fair.
But now Vanner on the Drug Squad. Somehow that changed things, if only a fraction. A little irony which disturbed him. But so far what had they got? Ringo May’s box. Ringo May was dead. There was nothing yet to worry about.
He hunched over the keyboard, wound the volume up in his ear and tapped in his password. The screens rolled and three options lifted before him. He pressed the letter O for Operatives and waited. A list of names and addresses filled the screen. So many now. Such a small investment. £120 for a watch, sixty post office boxes at £50 a time, and an empire built on losers. He rolled through the names and stopped at the letter P.
The Wasp flicked ash in the darkness. Next to him the silent warmth of a woman. He rolled onto his side away from her, drew on the cigarette and flicked more ash. She stirred beside him, body still hot with his sweat. He looked at her. Did she know she slept with a killer? Of course she didn’t. She, like all of them, knew nothing. He sucked hard on the cigarette. He was not the real killer though. He just stood and watched, as Ninja, crooked smile on his crooked, mashed-up face, buried that blade into Ringo. Man, but how blood gushes when you prick someone. Short sweeping blow with all the force of the gypsy’s arm. And Ringo May, his insides falling out of him, on his knees on the carpet.
