by Tim Weaver
By the time I got home, it was pitch black. The house was quiet and cold, and as I closed the kitchen door and put the kettle on, I thought of Healy. He would have been back in London by now, staying wherever it was he’d decided he was going to stay, for whatever reason he figured it was best to be back there. He hadn’t said anything before he left and I hadn’t expected him to, but I knew I was right: not being a cop any more, not being treated like one, not having the power of the badge, or a single person at the Met he could call in a favour from, had all got to him. He would have felt it keenly over the past couple of days too, first when the body washed up on the beach and he had to watch from the outside looking in; and then when I’d told him he was doing things my way on the Ling case – or not at all. London wouldn’t offer him any of those things back, but he would at least be closer to his boys, and from there he could think about starting to move his life on.
I headed upstairs, showered, and then prepared myself some dinner. I ate sitting in front of Paul Ling’s computer, looking at the Google Maps shot of the red phone box in Princetown. Five days after the last of the calls were made to Paul Ling by whoever had been using the payphone, the family were gone. That was too much of a coincidence, especially given the remoteness of the phone box and what had followed: a disguised call from a mystery number, then Paul’s aborted attempts to get in touch with a travel agent.
And that didn’t even take into account the second anonymous call to police about Miln Cross made in the days after the family were gone. I’d forgotten to ask Ewan Tasker whether that call had been traced, but I’d find out as soon as the file arrived.
I tried to make the natural leaps in logic. The only reason you’d try to disguise the origin of any call was to protect your identity – and there was really only one rationale for doing that with the Lings: in the days before they vanished, someone had threatened them and knew the number might lead somewhere; and then, in the days after, they’d called the police in order to force investigators away from whatever they were protecting.
Grabbing my pad, I went to a fresh page and started to make some notes – and then my phone started buzzing on the sofa next to me. Automatically, I reached down, picked it up and hit Answer, before I realized whose name was on the display: Liz.
It was too late to kill it.
‘Liz,’ I said softly.
Silence. I imagined she was shocked I’d even picked up.
‘David.’
‘How are you?’
‘I didn’t expect you to answer.’
There was so much in those six words: accusation, anger, grief, insinuation. ‘I’m sorry about …’ I paused. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called. This isn’t how I wanted it to be.’
‘Healy said …’ Her voice sounded uneven, as if she hadn’t been ready for me to answer either, as if all the things she’d planned on saying to me – all the conversations that had played out in her head – were gone. ‘Healy made it sound like we’d never speak again.’
‘Healy loves to be dramatic.’
‘He was good to me.’
‘I know. I know he was.’
A short silence, then she said, ‘So, how have you been?’
‘Fine. I’m getting there slowly.’
‘Physically?’
‘Physically, I feel fine.’ The first of the lies: I wasn’t grounded by the injury, but I could feel it most days. A dull ache. A sharp pain. If I told her exactly how I was feeling, it returned us to the point at which we’d parted: my job, its risks, the people I tried to find, and how she failed to understand the reasons why. From her side there was no failure to understand anything. After all, what was there to understand about a job that ended up with me on an operating table? To her, to most people, it was insane: a job full of uncalculated risk. To me, it was everything that mattered.
‘Are you coming back?’ she asked finally.
‘I don’t know, Liz.’
Silence. ‘I miss you.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you miss me?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and I did. That wasn’t a lie. ‘I miss what we had. I miss London and my home. I miss being close to you. I liked being able to come next door to chat to you. I liked having someone to share my life with again.’ I stopped, glancing at the photo on Paul Ling’s desktop. She needs to hear it. You owe her that much. ‘But this is my job.’
She didn’t respond.
‘The job is always going to come between us.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you have to do it?’ she said. There was less emotion in her voice now, and more resolve. ‘Why would you want to do a job that leads you to such dark places?’
‘I have a responsibility.’
‘To who?’
‘To the people I’m finding.’
‘A responsibility?’
‘They don’t have anyone else.’
More silence, and this time I imagined she was returning to the conversation we’d had almost a year before, in the aftermath of another case. We’d been sitting in a police interview room – solicitor and client – as I told her everything that had happened in the case and why I needed her to insulate me. And then she’d said something that had stuck with me ever since: You’re trying to plug holes in the world because you know what it’s like to lose someone, and you think it’s your job to stop anyone else suffering the same way. I’d denied it in the weeks after, to myself and to her face, and the relationship had begun and blossomed, and Liz had probably forgotten all about it. But somewhere, right at the back of my mind, I knew I could never get away from what she’d said.
Because she was right.
And now I had to tell her.
‘I can’t see you again,’ I said to her, and all I got back was the static on the line. ‘I care deeply for you, Liz, but this job has already come between us – and it always will.’
I waited for a response.
A couple of seconds later, she hung up.
The Six
Friday, 26 August 2011 | Fifteen Months Ago
Destiny was on her second Martini and thinking about leaving the MGM and going somewhere else when the man sat down on the stool next to her. She’d always been bad at guessing ages, but she’d have put him in his forties. He was clean-shaven and well groomed; a little thin for her tastes – but it was never about her tastes.
That was the last thing that mattered.
She turned away for a moment, trying not to get his attention – not yet, anyway – then stole a second look. Tailored black suit jacket: tick. Black shirt, Armani stitched into the breast pocket: tick. Gucci jeans: tick. Silver Rolex peeking out from under the shirt sleeves, and a gold wedding band: tick, tick. Men were weak, married men even more so, and that just meant less work for her: if they were here for the conferences and weren’t getting much back home, she could have them eating out of the palm of her hand inside thirty minutes. If they’d come just for the sex, it could take less than ten.
As he ordered a beer and picked at a bowl of nuts on the counter, she started to adjust herself in the mirror on the back wall of the bar. Most people would have pegged her for older than thirty-nine if they’d bothered looking at her properly, but as the way to a man’s heart was through his dick, it never really mattered that the drugs and the jail time had started to catch up with her. She took off her coat, laid it on the counter, straightened her skirt and undid the top buttons of her blouse. She had to be careful about what she came dressed in. Too slutty or even too classy and the managers would zero in on her, and the really officious ones would call the cops. Prostitution inside the city limits meant facing another misdemeanour, and that meant more time behind bars. So the choice of clothes was important, which was why she stuck to the same routine: knee-length skirt, pumps, white blouse, plenty of cleavage. Men generally didn’t need much more than the last one.
When she was ready, Destiny drained the rest of her Martini and then gestured for the woman behind the b
ar to come over. Out of the corner of his eye, the man next to her must have seen the movement and looked around. Destiny glanced at him, back to the woman behind the bar, then at the man for a second time – it was a fabricated double take, as if she hadn’t noticed him take a seat at the bar, but now she had she liked what she was seeing. The man smiled. Destiny smiled back. And then he said hello.
Gotcha, she thought.
The guy’s name was Hank; he was from Texas and was in town for a conference at the MGM. After about thirty minutes he’d given Destiny his entire life story. Married. Two kids. Dentist. Liked golf, fishing and football. Big blackjack fan, which was why he was so excited to be in Vegas. ‘This is my first time here,’ he told her after buying the fifth round of drinks, not noticing she’d switched to soda, ‘and I kinda expected the people to be … I don’t know … unfriendly, I guess. I mean, I come from a small town and when you hear about the big city, you hear about crime and drugs and all that kinda stuff. But, honestly, everyone’s been really great. Even the kids serving in McDonald’s are nice!’
Destiny nodded, then thought, Wait an hour, honey, then we’ll see how you feel.
‘Anyway, sorry. You must be bored.’
‘Not at all,’ she said, gazing into his eyes.
He coloured a little as she looked at him, and if she needed any more persuading that this was already a done deal, he shivered with excitement as she touched his leg.
‘Listen, hun, why don’t we get out of here?’
He swallowed.
‘My car’s parked just around the corner. We can go back to mine. It’s a twenty-minute drive.’ She paused deliberately. ‘In the morning, I can drop you back here.’
In the morning. She could see the effect that had.
Five minutes later, she was leading him out.
He was pretty drunk, which would make it even easier. They turned left out of the casino and headed north along the Boulevard. Her car, a crappy Honda Civic, was in the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant on East Flamingo. It had been closed for almost a year. Vegas had gone down the toilet since the recession – businesses going to the wall, houses being foreclosed, highest unemployment rate in the country – so there were empty spaces everywhere. She used the parking lot all the time. Close to the lights of Flamingo it was safe enough for Hank the dentist, but the further across the lot they got, the thicker the shadows became, and right at the back, hidden from view, was her Civic.
And somewhere near it was Carl.
‘Wheressshhh your car?’ Hank slurred.
She smiled at him, but he could barely even focus on her and that suited her fine: she could drop the act. ‘Just down here,’ she said, not even bothering to look at him this time, eyes fixed on the sidewalk, scanning her surroundings for potential witnesses or, worse, cops. They were about a block from the Chinese restaurant, its sign still standing at the furthermost edge of the lot. There were fifteen thousand miles of lights in Vegas, but none of them burned here. She grabbed Hank by the arm and yanked him along, half listening to him as he began talking about blackjack again. ‘Fucking blackjack,’ Destiny muttered, ‘Who gives a shit?’
Finally, they got to the parking lot.
‘Here we are, hun,’ she said, talking over him as she started marching him away from Flamingo and towards the shadows. Slowly, out of the darkness, came her Civic, its battered fender, its smashed front headlight, and after a couple of seconds she spotted Carl in his usual place, in a doorway that had once been a rear entrance for the restaurant. He nodded at her, a movement that said she’d done good. She nodded back and pulled Hank the rest of the way towards the Civic. When they got there, swathed in night, she propped him against the passenger door so that he was facing in the opposite direction from Carl. ‘You stay there a second while I unlock it, okay?’
But Hank was still mumbling about blackjack.
This is going to be simple, she thought, coming around the car to the driver’s side and then stepping back from the Civic as Carl made his approach. She glanced at him, at the gun in his hand – a Glock 22 he’d bought for a hundred bucks in North Las Vegas – and then back at Hank. ‘You doe ever wanna ssssix,’ he was saying to himself, words slurred, head lolling from side to side, ‘thas the worss card you can ged. You know why a six is the worss possible card you can ged? Cos there’s way more chans of bustin out.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Destiny said, eyes on Carl.
Carl emerged to her left and paused for a moment, sizing Hank up from the other side of the Civic. He was twelve years older than Destiny, greying and overweight, but he was strong and wasn’t scared of anyone. That’s what she liked about him: she felt safe around him, and he always looked out for her. They’d met at a bar on East Sahara five years before, when she was fresh out of a nine-month stretch for soliciting an undercover cop and he’d just moved down from LA after doing four years for assault. Most of the men she’d been with had used her. Carl used her too – but she got to use him back.
‘The sigs ish a bad cart,’ Hank was mumbling.
Carl moved around the Civic. ‘Shut the fuck up and give me your wallet.’
Carl emerged from the shadows to Hank’s right. Hank looked up at him, at the gun being pointed at his head. A split-second delay, massaged by the alcohol – and then he fell apart. ‘Oh shit, oh shit,’ he said, backing away automatically, one hand trying to find the trunk of the Civic behind him, the other up in front of his face. ‘Don’t hurt me.’
‘Gimme your wallet, your watch and your hotel keycard.’
‘Please don’t hurt me.’
‘Gimme your wallet!’
‘Okay,’ Hank slurred. ‘Okay. Okay.’
He began feeling around in his pocket for his wallet, but – in the panic – his hand slipped from the car and he stumbled back and landed hard on the ground.
Carl stepped forward, jabbing the gun at him. ‘Gimme your fuckin’ wallet!’
Destiny looked out, back on to Flamingo. A few people were walking past, but no one had looked in their direction. ‘Hurry up, Carl,’ she said, unlocking the Civic. As soon as they had the wallet, the watch and the keycard, and Hank was out cold, they could go.
‘You fly in or drive?’ Carl said, leaning over Hank.
‘Drive,’ came the feeble reply.
‘Where d’ya leave it?’
‘It’s a rental.’
‘I don’t give a fuck what it is! Where is it?’
‘In the parking’ – he waved his arms around desperately in front of him as if he’d forgotten the words – ‘parking garage! The parking garage at the MGM.’ He held up his wallet, Carl snatched it from him and Hank started to take off his watch.
‘Gimme that fuckin’ watch.’
‘I’ve got a family. I’ve got kids.’
‘I don’t give a shit what you got.’
Destiny flicked a look at Flamingo and then back across to the other side of the Civic. Hank seemed more sober now. That’s what a gun in the face does, she thought.
‘Have you got a valet ticket for the car?’
‘Yes,’ Hank said, his voice breaking up. ‘In my wallet.’
‘Is your room card in here too?’
‘Yes.’
Carl flipped open the wallet and checked.
Destiny opened up the Civic, got in and started up the car, keeping all the lights off. No head lamps. No internal light. Nothing to draw attention. In the hotel bar she’d got a glimpse of Hank’s wallet. He’d had about eight hundred bucks in it. He probably had more in the safe in his room. Maybe some other stuff in the car. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. As Carl opened up the passenger door and got in, she knew he’d be thinking the same as her: even if they didn’t get anything else, they were still eight hundred dollars better off.
‘Ready to go, baby?’ she asked.
Except when she looked around, it wasn’t Carl sitting next to her.
It was Hank.
‘What the fu–’
He move
d so fast, it was like being hit by a train. In a split second he’d clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her across the car towards him. She tried to fight back, tried to kick out her legs, but they were caught beneath the steering column. He second-guessed her next move, using his other arm to lock hers to the sides of her body and pull her in even closer. She couldn’t bite. Couldn’t scratch. Her screams came to nothing. The only noise inside the car was her desperate breathing, jetting out of her nostrils.
Her eyes swivelled out through the passenger door. In the darkness she could see Carl, face down on the floor, the gun on the ground about six inches away. There was a single puncture wound to his neck: a dark spot, slowly expanding, running off on to the concrete of the parking lot. ‘Your boyfriend is dead,’ Hank said to her quietly. He was totally different now: his demeanour, his physicality, even his accent. He’d spoken in a flawless Southern drawl before. Now she realized that was just a lie: he was English.
‘You stole something that doesn’t belong to you.’
She shook her head. No. No, I didn’t. No, I didn’t.
‘Yes, you did.’ Quickly, efficiently, he shifted his arm from her face to her throat and started choking her out. ‘And you know what that means, Destiny?’
Her vision started to blur.
‘It means you just got dealt a six.’
26
When I woke up, the rain had stopped and the wind had died away. In its place was the gentle warmth of autumn sun coming through the gaps in the curtains and falling across the bed. I lay there for a while thinking about how things had been left with Liz the night before, wondering if that really was it. Then, finally, I got up and headed downstairs.
The kitchen was like a greenhouse, sun streaming in through the rear window as it rose above the hills on the far side of the cove. I looked out. The beach was deserted, the sea calm, the sky pale but markless. I flicked on an old portable TV – the only one in the house – and then made a coffee and sat at the window, thinking about Liz and the Lings.
‘… body dumped on the beach …’
