by Claire Askew
‘All very interesting.’ Solomon held my gaze a few seconds longer, then turned to the three other goons as they came into view. The waiting room suddenly felt very full, and full of pungent male skin, muscle, sinew. I longed to get back in behind my hatch. Leaning against the wall in there was an iron bar and right then my palms itched to wrap around it, lift it, feel its wicked heft.
‘The boy known as Schenok.’ Solomon waved a long-nailed hand in my direction.
The three guys turned to look me up and down. None of them was familiar to me.
I steeled myself to be ambushed, bent backward, bundled down the stairs. Or perhaps they’d punch me out and drag me, oblivious, elsewhere. I wondered if I could make it into the hatch space before they got across the room. I wondered if I could barricade myself in there. I wondered whose side Izz would be on if I did.
But Solomon clapped his hands together, once, twice, and their collective attention zeroed in on the old man.
‘Well, boys,’ he said. ‘A good time was had?’
The goons made appreciative noises.
‘Excellent,’ he said.
We all watched him stand. He did it elegantly, but moved slow. He wasn’t the man he’d been, I could see – but I knew now that if I got out of this room unscathed, I’d never breathe easy in his presence. There was something deeply unsettling about him. Something wrong.
He moved towards Izz and extended his hand. The left, I noticed.
‘Sir,’ he said, as he and Izz shook. ‘Thank you. Your services, though excellent, are no longer required.’
Izz gave a deep nod that was ever-so-nearly a bow.
‘I do apologise,’ Solomon added, ‘for having disturbed your evening.’
‘Happy to help,’ Izz said, but he began backing away as soon as his hand came free of Solomon’s grip. As he passed me, he shot me a look that said, See you on the other side. I knew better than to acknowledge it.
Solomon waited until he could no longer hear Izz’s feet on the carpeted stairs.
‘Surprisingly good man,’ he said, to no one in particular, ‘for a black.’
I actually bit my tongue then: I felt a wedge of it between my back teeth. Behind Solomon, Abdul shifted his weight, seeming to shrink ever so slightly.
Then the old man advanced towards me, his four companions falling into a sort of formation behind him. I knew it was too late for the hatch, the bar, the barricade. I made myself stand still, and not recoil. It took every single nerve in my body.
When he came level with me, I realised we were almost the same height. That meant Solomon had been tall once, because I could see his frame was condensed with age, twisted down like metal left out in the elements. His face was close to mine, and I was confronted once again with those milky blue eyes.
‘I trust,’ he said, ‘that after this evening, I will not hear of you working additional jobs again?’
Fuck. He knew that I’d been out doing favours for Toad. ‘Yes,’ I said. My voice was hoarse.
‘I’ll ensure your mentor understands, too,’ Solomon said, ‘that you have certain priorities.’
I nodded.
‘You’re lucky,’ Solomon said, ‘to have Toad.’
I wondered how many times Toad had had his card marked now, and how many times he had left. This was the second time he’d apparently saved my arse. Though they were still here. They could still hurt me.
Solomon looked me up and down, then. Apparently approving of what he saw, he stepped back, and smiled a grisly smile. ‘You,’ he said, ‘are a promising young man.’
I ought to have felt relief, but none came.
‘A fine translator, too,’ he was saying.
I swilled around in my throat for what was left of my voice. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I’m glad,’ Solomon said, cocking his head and looking, again, somehow lizard-like, ‘I have your loyalty.’
I nodded. I nodded and I couldn’t stop. But it didn’t matter. Solomon swept past me, and Abdul and his friends fell into step behind him. None of them met my eye as they filed past, out of the white-painted door with its fire exit sign glowing overhead. I listened as the five of them creaked and shuddered down the stairs, and I waited for the sound of the stair door banging and the electric bolt clacking home.
‘But . . .’ Birch said. She was stalling for time, so she could think. ‘Perps recycle identities all the time. Charlie’s presumed dead. What’s to stop one of Solomon’s guys using him as an alias?’
Rab tipped his head, as though considering it.
I could tell him, she thought. He fucked up, too. He lost the informant. Maybe he’d understand.
‘I see yer thinking,’ Rab was saying. ‘But he didnae use the name Charlie Birch. He wis Nick Smith when he came tae me. Obviously that wis an alias.’
Birch tried to listen as her thoughts raced. No: what Rab did isn’t the same. Charlie did exactly what he expected him to. Rab tipped Charlie off, but that was an accident. Really his only mistake was hoping I’d do the right thing.
‘So I decided I’d run some checks,’ Rab went on. ‘First I bought him a coffee, got a partial fingerprint. Yer brother was previously fingerprinted in 2002.’
‘Yeah,’ Birch said. She must have looked at Charlie’s profile hundreds of times since she’d become a policewoman. She knew it by heart. ‘Drunk and disorderly in an Ibrox pub.’
Rab nodded. ‘That wis it,’ he said.
Rab did everything right, she thought. He expected you to fall into step. And you didn’t. He followed a hunch, but you committed a crime. No, she realised. She couldn’t tell him. The realisation hurt, and the hurt was unexpected. It would have felt so, so good to be able to come clean.
He was still speaking.
‘I ran the partial print and he wis a match, but I still couldnae be sure. I needed more. He tried tae be careful, but I managed tae meet him, just one time, where he’d be caught on CCTV. The photos matched, too. He’s grown up some, yer kid brother, but it wis him all right.’
Quiet fell.
‘Charlie,’ Birch said. Her brother’s name in her mouth made her want to cry. Fuck it, she thought, it helps with the lie. She let the tears come. ‘Charlie, working for Solomon.’
Rab had been keeping his face neutral, she could tell. But now, as she cried, he broke. His expression changed to one of sympathy, and he extended a hand across the table to take hers. She’d convinced him: the lie had worked. And with crying, of all things, she thought. The oldest perp trick in the book.
‘I’m sorry, lassie,’ he said. ‘I honestly thought he’d come tae you. I thought ye’d get him tae tell ye more. Tell ye something we could use. I thought I’d got the measure o’ the guy. I didnae think he’d just run.’
Birch felt sick. She’d broken the law. She’d lied about it. She’d wrecked Rab’s plan to bring Charlie in – a plan that had worked like clockwork, up until the point where she needed to step up. She’d wrecked the case. And now her brother really had run. Solomon’s boys might have found him already.
A new thought struck her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Her voice was feeble. ‘On Monday, in the pub. Or . . . whenever. Why didn’t you say to me, your brother’s about to turn up on your doorstep?’
Whatever, Helen, she thought. As if you’d have been any more likely to arrest him if you’d known he was coming. But then, she thought, I might have. I really might have been able to do it, if I’d prepared myself.
‘Because,’ Rab said, ‘I thought if he was going to arrive wi’ you, I wanted him tae get there and feel safe. Feel like he really had caught ye by surprise. I wanted him to settle somewhere, jist for a few hours. I wanted him tae talk, an’ feel like his every word wisnae being recorded for legal purposes. If ye’d been ready, waiting wi’ a wire on ye or half the force in yer front garden, that could have been it. I wisnae sure if he’d just shut up like a clam if we spooked him, like aw Solomon’s other guys. I lost him, but I really thought I’d find him again, and
I didnae want to jeopardise any chance to keep him talking.’
Birch couldn’t help it. She let her face fall into her hands, so Rab couldn’t see it. Your plan went like a Swiss watch, she wanted to say. I just spectacularly fucked up.
‘But,’ Rab said, ‘it wisnae a bad thing I had cause tae hand ye a panic button. I’d even considered putting surveillance on ye, if I’m honest, but it would have raised questions about why, and I’d have needed tae fess up that it wis me that lost him. Like I say, I’m no’ ready for that jist yet.’
‘Surveillance?’
Rab nodded. ‘I didnae ken if he might be violent.’
Her head snapped up again then, and she eyeballed him. ‘Why would Charlie be violent? To me? I’m his sister . . .’
Rab blinked. Tone it down.
But when he replied, his voice was gentle. ‘Because he’s been working fer Solomon, hen. I’m sorry tae tell ye this. But I doubt he’s the same wee Charlie Birch ye remember. He’s done a lot of bad things. He’s hurt a lot o’ folk in his time.’
Birch remembered hearing her own voice, only a day or so ago, reciting all the charges she reckoned she could level at her brother. GBH. Aggravated assault. Assault with a deadly weapon. Something else wormed deep inside her, too, adding to the general nausea she felt. The more she thought about it – and she couldn’t help but think about it – the more she suspected Charlie was guilty of murder.
And yet, you let him run.
Rab had levered himself upright. He walked round the table to stand next to her, bending to place one meaty arm around her shoulders. The gesture brought his face close. In another context, it might have been stifling, but Birch found it comforting. Fatherly, almost, though she wouldn’t know.
‘I’m so sorry, lassie,’ he said. ‘I’ve royally cocked up this hale case.’
You’re sorry? she thought. You have no idea.
‘But,’ Rab was saying. ‘Yer brother’s alive. He’s been alive, these fourteen years. I mean, being a violent wee shite, I’m afraid tae say. But alive.’
Birch felt able to tell another truth. ‘You don’t know that,’ she said. It sounded like she’d spat at him. ‘Not now. Not now he’s gone again.’
Rab straightened up. She’d wounded him. But there was no way to help it, unless she confessed, and then the tide would turn and rush in to drown her. Rab would be disciplined, no doubt, for his supposed mistake. But if hers were to surface, it wouldn’t just be the job she’d lose. She’d be up on criminal charges. She wouldn’t be able to afford the legal bills. It would be splashed all over the press in the most humiliating terms: the special terms reserved for police officers who broke the law. She imagined Lockley rejoicing in his prison cell, and a cold wave of revulsion passed through her. Social media would crucify her. Anjan would have nothing to do with her, ever again. And underneath it all, Charlie would still be gone – for ever this time, whether dead or run to some far corner of the known world to hide. No matter what, she’d lost him.
So yes, she thought, her head frighteningly clear now. Yes, I will let Rab take the fall. It’s a much smaller fall, one he’ll come back from. My brother is the only one who knows what I did, and he’s gone. I will keep up the lie. An internal voice – more her own than the first – replied, Who the fuck have you become?
‘Helen?’
She realised she’d been staring dead ahead, looking at the white-painted breezeblock wall on the other side of the room. Rab had his hand on the door handle, ready to let her go free.
‘Ye should take some time tae think, lassie,’ he said. ‘Process, ken?’
Birch looked up at him. Because nodding was called for, she nodded.
‘It’s a long shot, now,’ he went on, ‘but if ye can think of anywhere – I mean anywhere – that Charlie might have run . . . will ye tell me right away? Time’s against us.’
Again, she nodded. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘I’ll think on it, Rab.’
She stood, a little too fast. Her head buzzed. You did it. You fucked up and you lied and you might just get away with it.
She walked over to Rab, who twisted the handle and opened the door. He stepped back to let her through, ever the gentleman.
What sort of person are you?
As she passed him, Birch looked into his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and at that exact moment the same words came out of his mouth, too.
For what seemed like a long time, nothing happened, except she could feel DI Robson scrutinising her, still harbouring, she knew, a seed of doubt about something. She shook herself a little, and broke free, stumbling out into the corridor beyond. Immediately, she cannoned into someone.
‘Helen.’
Two hands wrapped around her upper arms, and steadied her. The face she looked into now was Anjan’s. His smell coiled round her like a warm scarf.
‘Are you all right?’
As he loosened his grip, Birch raised a hand to her face. Her fingertips came away smeared with mascara, and her face felt hot and puffy.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I’m a mess.’
‘Are you back at work too soon?’ Anjan asked. His face was full of concern.
She hauled in air. She was aware that Rab was still only feet away, locking the interview room door, listening.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. Forgive me. I just . . . had a moment.’
She pushed her shoulders back and tried to straighten her spine. Anjan’s expression didn’t change. I must look like absolute crap, she thought.
Anjan reached out his hand again and took her arm, this time near the elbow. The touch surprised her, but she allowed him to gently steer her up the corridor and away from Rab.
His voice dropped to a near-whisper. ‘I’m sorry, Helen,’ he said, still pulling her along. ‘But I’m worried about you, and I want to talk. Properly, not here.’
Birch shook her head. ‘Like I said last night, we shouldn’t. Not with the case.’ The words were bitter in her mouth. ‘I’m fine, really.’
Anjan glanced backward. Rab had begun to walk away in the other direction, having taken the hint.
Birch wondered what he must think: he was still a little suspicious of her. Now she was whispering with the defence lawyer. If this were a TV show, she thought, suddenly, I’d be the bent cop. Then, quick on the heels of that realisation, another came. You are a bent cop, Helen.
But Anjan was still talking. ‘I know that, I do. And you know I’m a stickler, ordinarily. So surely you realise how important this is to me, that I’m bending my own rules? Please?’
Birch sagged. She felt exhausted. Everything was wrong and there was nothing she could do to make it right. The path of least resistance was open before her, and it would be so easy to take it. But from somewhere, she summoned a final shred of energy. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really can’t.’
She stepped through Anjan’s warm cloud of scent, and walked away.
It was a while before any of the girls ventured out of their rooms. Out on the street I could hear the distant whooping of drunk lads, headed to the nearby strip clubs. In an hour or so some of those same blokes might be in this very room, waiting for the next available girl. I knew I had to get my head together. I was at work, after all.
One of the doors opened: Karen’s, at the furthest end of the corridor. She must have unlatched it pretty gingerly, because I didn’t realise she was there until she screamed, and scared the living shit out of me.
‘Vyshnya! Oh fuck.’
She clattered towards me down the corridor, as fast as her skyscraper heels would allow. I jolted upright, and she skidded to an uneasy halt beside the couch.
‘Oh Jesus,’ she said, throwing her hands up. ‘I thought you were fucking dead, pal. I thought they’d offed you.’
I tried to play it cool. ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘Just loafing about like usual.’
Karen rolled her eyes, and swivelled on one hip back towards the corridor. A couple of the other girls had poked their heads around
their own doors.
‘False alarm.’ Karen flapped her hand at them. ‘Sorry, chicks.’
Chicks was Vyshnya’s name for the girls: not in the derogatory English idiom sense, but in the sense that they were her flock, each one her own personal ptashenya. I felt as though something had tightened around my throat.
One of the pale faces hanging in the gloom of the corridor was Hanna’s.
‘Babygirl,’ I said, in a voice still cracked with fear. ‘It’s okay. They’re gone.’
I watched Hanna slide out into the corridor, one hand on her throat, pulling her dressing gown up tight at the neck.
Karen squared up to me. ‘You sure? They’re not coming back?’
I glanced over at the exit door. ‘I fucking hope not,’ I replied.
Hanna arrived at my side. It seemed melodramatic to pull her into my arms, though that was what I really wanted to do. Instead, side-on, I put one arm around her shoulders and squeezed. She didn’t let go of the dressing gown collar.
‘Where were you?’ she said. Her voice was very quiet.
‘Yeah,’ Karen chimed in. ‘Enquiring minds want to know.’
My throat was dry. ‘Baby . . . you know I was working for Toad tonight. It was a shitshow of a job to be honest. I was basically on my way here, and—’
‘Yeah,’ Karen spat. ‘Fuck that, actually.’
I tried for a glare, but couldn’t muster it. She was right, after all. ‘Vyshnya said she could handle it.’
Karen snorted.
‘Wait.’ Hanna’s voice was still small, fluttery. ‘Where is Vyshnya?’
I felt a stab of panic. It was as though my mind couldn’t handle what Solomon had asked of Vyshnya, and had let the knowledge slide out of view.
All the girls who’d signed up to work that night were now in the lounge, or dithering in the corridor, listening to us talk. Only one door was still closed.
I let go of Hanna, dodged Karen and strode down the corridor. I felt the girls press in around me as I pushed against the door knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t give.
I banged on it with an open palm. ‘Vyshnya?’ I said, and bent to put my ear close to the wood. Nothing.
