What You Pay For

by Claire Askew

  There was a heavy knock at her office door. Birch snapped her spine up straight. Look normal, Helen, she thought. She had no idea what that might involve.

  ‘Hello?’

  The door opened, and Big Rab poked his round, red face through the gap. ‘You all right, lassie?’

  Birch slapped on a smile, and hoped it looked genuine. ‘Just fine,’ she said. ‘Plodding along.’

  Rab pushed the door open a little further, and came into the room. He hovered there, his hand still on the door knob, as though waiting for an invitation. Birch decided not to extend one.

  ‘You’re lookin’ a wee bit pale,’ he said.

  Birch frowned. The impulse to tell him about the call was strong, but he was beginning to bother her. She felt under surveillance.

  ‘Just tired, I think,’ she said. Rab seemed to be waiting for her to say more. She didn’t.

  You’re being dreadful, she thought. Rab meant well. He was struggling under the weight of his own indiscretion: one that, now Solomon was free, he’d have to confess to sooner or later. She was the only one who knew, and maybe it brought him a measure of comfort to talk to someone he wasn’t hiding anything from. As the thought struck her, she felt a pang of jealousy.

  ‘Well.’ Rab seemed to sense the tension in the room. ‘Jist wanted to check ye were all right after yer wee altercation. We’ll no’ get to the report on that till Monday, like I say. Will ye be okay over the weekend?’

  Birch smiled again. ‘Just fine,’ she said. ‘It almost feels like a fever dream now. Like it didn’t really happen.’

  She was telling the truth. Her encounter with Fenton had been so surreal, and the phone conversation with Toad seemed to place it in a different context, somehow. How selfish I’ve been, she thought, to worry about my own safety. Charlie was the precious one: if he couldn’t be preserved to be put on the witness stand, he at least had to be able to get away clean. She’d been responsible for the collapse of Operation Citrine but she couldn’t be responsible for Charlie’s demise. She wouldn’t be.

  Rab was still looking at her.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Rab,’ she said. ‘I promise. I know I don’t have my phone, but I’ve got the panic button. If I need help, I’ll call the cavalry.’

  His look was the same as it had been when she’d left the interview room, after he’d told her his informant was Charlie. He’d known then that something wasn’t quite right, and he knew it now, too. Had the tables been turned, Birch would have given him the very same look. It made you suspicious, policework. Suspicious, jaded and, usually, right.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, not giving him the chance to question her further, ‘about Solomon.’

  Rab shook his head. ‘We just couldnae get it,’ he said. ‘Couldnae get an in.’

  She watched him think of something, then shrug it off.

  ‘My fault,’ he said.

  She dropped her gaze then, realising his internal monologue probably sounded much the same as hers. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, and realised she really meant it.

  Quiet hung in the room, and then Rab seemed to sever the invisible wire that had been vibrating between them.

  ‘Cannae be helped, lassie,’ he said, beginning to back out of the door again. ‘At least ye’ll be rid o’ me soon, an’ the merry band o’ Weegie bams I brought wi’ me.’

  Birch laughed. ‘You’ll be missed,’ she said.

  Rab eyed her then, halfway out into the corridor. ‘DI Birch,’ he said, ‘you’re a bad liar.’

  Birch angsted the rest of the day away.

  Five p.m. came and went. She had spent an hour or so tidying her office, a thing she couldn’t quite believe. But it helped: she was standing up, moving around, pacing from desk to recycle bin to shredder to desk to filing cabinet. Movement turned the anxiety into fuel, prevented it from accumulating in the sloshing bottle of her body like so much lukewarm rain. She’d discovered all sorts of things in the clear-out: a nearly-year-old newspaper with a piece about the Three Rivers case, in which she was named. She’d found scissors, a stapler, and an unopened packet of Blu-Tack: all things she’d hunted for in a moment of need, and been unable to find. A photograph of her and her mum: hospital, tubes, forced smiles. A nurse had taken it. Seeing it again felt like a kick to the chest, but Birch slid it into a drawer. One day Charlie might come back, want to see it. The thought made her hate herself and want to cry, in equal measure.

  Birch listened as the bullpen slowly emptied out. She heard the cries of cheerio and have a good weekend, and listened to her leaving colleagues’ footsteps clop past her office door. At one point she caught a snippet of Amy’s high, twinkly laugh, and she prayed that her friend wouldn’t knock on the door to see if Birch was still there. But the door was closed, and Amy must have passed it by without thinking to knock, or assumed Birch had already gone. Once her heel-clicks had faded, Birch felt relief, and also a sadness she hadn’t expected, and couldn’t quite name.

  Outside, it was pitch-dark. She could hear a cold wind starting up: it whistled through the elderly double-glazing out in the corridors, and the sound carried along the whole floor like the lonely call of some night-time bird. Seven p.m. came. Why am I still here? Birch mused. She knew why. When she got home, the house would be shut up. Charlie would not be there, no matter how much she wanted him to be. His ex-associates might be, though: the call had left her under no illusions. Birch doubted that the newly released Solomon would just let the sister of a supposed canary go about her business unscrutinised, especially after she’d blurted Charlie’s name out to Toad. Visions of the skull-faced man returned; the smell of the stale tobacco on Fenton’s hands. But for the first time, they inspired no terror. Let them come, she thought. Let them stake out my house for as long as they like. It was all buying time for Charlie, who wasn’t there, and wouldn’t come back now. She could pray and cry and worry all she liked. She’d fucked up from the start, and the only silver lining to be gleaned from the whole sorry mess was this: she could distract the bastards, and give her brother some time.

  At 8 p.m., the cleaners arrived. In the bullpen, Birch heard a vacuum cleaner rev up and begin its droning back and forth. She’d worked this late before: the Three Rivers case had seen her kicked out by the cleaners a good few times. The hoover was her cue to go. She liked the cleaning folks well enough, but had no desire for idle chat or jokey admonishments at her timekeeping. Not tonight. It was time to go home, and face whatever music her brother’s former friends had planned for her.

  There were a lot of meetings like that one, over the ten days or so that I filled in for Abdul. A lot of the same sort of conversations. In between, I texted Toad: Who’s going to contact me? What’s going on? He wasn’t replying. Zhaba, you okay? Nothing. I wondered if the previous text had been meant for someone else. I wondered if something bad had finally caught up with Toad.

  That day, it was a meeting with some Russians: middle of the day, in a shitehole of a shut-up pub where the barman let us in then locked up the shutters behind us and bolted into the back room. The Russians were ex-cons, I could tell by their tattoos, and their idioms. I also learned that day the limited extent of Solomon’s own Russian: at one point he faltered, threw up his hands and looked over at me. I finished his sentence for him, and then for the rest of the meeting acted as interpreter, letting Solomon speak English. Ez wasn’t happy, I could tell. He was used to being the right-hand guy, the one that Solomon relied on most. You can fucking keep it, I thought, but I couldn’t say anything.

  It was dark outside by the time we got out of the pub. A few dickheads had started banging on the shutters, wanting to get in for their weeknight bevvy. They soon shuffled off once the doors opened and those shpana daundered out, followed by Ez, Fitz and Malkie. Solomon hung back till they’d gone, not wanting to be seen, I guess, or maybe just not wanting to mix with the hoi-polloi. I was behind him, and couldn’t get out, so I just hovered there, too. I remember looking at the pale stripe of neck betwee
n the collar of his dreadful shirt – lilac, that day – and the neat bottom edge of his white hair. He’d been a fucking bam in his day: you could still see it. But now he was an old, old man. Of course I’d never broken anyone’s neck before, but I had a fairly good idea of how it might be done, and there was no way he’d have been able to overpower me. In those few moments, while the Russians saw off the would-be pissheads outside, I let myself imagine it. The pleasure I would take at his shocked noise: the air punched out of his lungs, his whole body flung back against mine. The crack of his upper vertebrae as they crunched together. I let myself wonder if the spinal cord would make a discernible sound as it was crushed.

  But he knew I wouldn’t do it, and I knew he knew it. He stood with his back to me, after all – vulnerable to any manner of attack – but upright, calm. Fucking smug. The more I imagined twisting his head off, the smaller and more pathetic I felt. It was like he was daring me, saying, Do it, you puppy. Do it. He knew I wouldn’t. He knew everything.

  And then, of course, the moment passed. The Russians had gone, farewells already having been made. Malkie reappeared in the half-unshuttered doorway, silhouetted against the tang of streetlight behind. In my pocket, I felt my phone buzz: Toad had finally replied to me. But I didn’t look. Solomon didn’t like to see anyone’s phone out during working hours.

  ‘Good to go, boss,’ Malkie said.

  The drive back was tense. Malkie rode beside me as always, but Ez was over my left shoulder, and I could feel his eyes on me in the rear-view mirror the whole time. In my pocket, the persistent vibration of texts arriving: Toad catching up. Explaining, I hoped, though I couldn’t check yet. I kept my eyes on the road. Solomon didn’t talk, so neither did we. We were almost back at the mansion when he finally spoke.

  ‘Malcolm.’

  Malkie swivelled his head round so quickly I imagined he’d given himself whiplash.

  ‘I believe we are expecting Abdul back shortly, am I correct?’

  I stiffened.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Malkie said. I felt him glance at me, but kept my eyes on the road. ‘He’s been out of the hospital two days, staying with family. He’s still only good for driving just now, no heavy stuff. But he could be back tomorrow, if you want him.’

  ‘I do.’ Solomon barely missed a beat.

  I felt heat spreading up my neck: all their eyes were on me. I should have felt relief. I’d be able to go back to my shite, boring life. Running the sauna. Going to the gym. Sleeping. Rinse and repeat. Yet I felt like I’d squandered something, wasted it. I hated Solomon more than I could say, yet there was a small part of me, I think, that wanted him to respect me. I think that small part of me had thought I might be kept on. I couldn’t quite believe myself. I was feeling rejected. What the fuck, Charlie.

  We got to the electronic gates, and Malkie pushed the remote to open them. I eased the Range Rover forward, out of the lit street and into the tree-lined darkness of Solomon’s long drive. The gravel scattered under the tyres. Malkie pushed the button again, and in the rear-view, beyond the searching glare of Ez, I watched the gates whisper closed behind us.

  Malkie and Solomon had begun talking again: Abdul would need to be briefed on the latest developments around what they were calling the Granton Job, and Malkie was agreeing that he would sit down with him, and they would—

  But I wasn’t listening. Up ahead, someone – or something – had run through the headlights’ beam. Out of the dark, a flash of movement, maybe ten yards or so away. Then it was gone again.

  ‘Did you guys see that?’

  I spoke almost without thinking. Malkie’s head whipped round again.

  ‘See wh—’

  A whir of white on my left-hand side. I flinched, jerking the steering wheel on the gravel and sending the whole vehicle into a skid. And then, wham. Her body hit the car, or the car hit her.

  ‘Jesus fuck.’

  She’d run at a diagonal, out of the darkness on the left-hand side, Malkie’s side. She’d hurled herself at the car, seemingly at the back door, but the front passenger-side corner had clipped her in the skid, flung her backward. Now she must be down, but I didn’t feel her under the wheels. She’d been thrown clear.

  I stood on the brakes, and felt the whole car slide as the tyres skidded on the gravel. Before we’d even reached a standstill, Malkie had opened the passenger side door, and Fitz was already out, his feet scrabbling for balance. Ez stayed put, but I saw him put a protective arm across Solomon’s chest. Through the open passenger-side doors, I could hear her howling, screaming, cursing.

  No, no, no, no.

  I squeezed my eyes closed, and tried to push down the vomit that was rising in my throat. Out of nowhere, I was pouring with sweat: the steering wheel was slippery in my grip, my knuckles whitened around it. My brain flooded like a fucked engine, flashbacks to every one of my God-awful trauma dreams, years of them playing out behind my eyelids at warp-speed, one after another. A woman, broken beyond repair, howling her pain and rage. Chasing me. Cursing the same curse words that streamed in through the Range Rover’s open doors, here and now. She was on the ground, clearly hurt by the car’s impact, pinned down by Malkie and Fitz, and screaming. Babbling what might have been nonsense, but was actually garbled Ukrainian.

  ‘Vyshnya,’ I said.

  The vomit I’d been holding back spattered the inside of the windscreen.

  Ez was out of the car, marching round to the driver’s door, yelling at me in Turkish. I got it: I’d lost control of the car and now thrown up all over it. He felt someone else ought to drive. I assisted him by climbing over the centre console away from his waving arms and folding myself down into the passenger footwell, pressing my face into the upholstered seat. The car stank. I was aware that Malkie and Fitz were wrestling the screaming woman into the boot.

  Vyshnya. Oh fuck, oh fuck.

  I kept my head pressed down and tried to tell myself it was a bad dream, just another of my many bad Vyshnya-related fucked-up PTSD bullshit dreams, and if I just waited, I’d wake up. I heard the boot lid slam, and then I could hear the thrashing and thumping of an unrestrained body, flailing and shouting right behind the back seat where Solomon was still sitting. Malkie and Fitz got back in, on either side of Solomon, and I heard the doors shut. The engine was still running, and Ez eased the Range Rover into motion. It hurtled up the driveway and then Ez brought us to a sudden abortive stop. The body in the boot slammed into the back of Solomon’s seat.

  Again, there was the opening of doors, the slamming of doors. The battering in the boot stopped as the lid was opened and Vyshnya must have flung herself at Malkie and Fitz.

  ‘Bitch,’ I heard Malkie spit. ‘Get her legs, man, get her fucking legs.’ And all the while, those same wild screams, hoarser now, but loud enough to split open the night.

  Ez cuffed me around the head, and I looked up. Solomon was sitting prissily in the middle of the back seat, looking at me. To my surprise, he looked amused.

  ‘Move, idiot,’ Ez growled, and the second time, I ducked his fist. I remember reaching behind me with a weird curl of the arm, and opening the passenger door. I let myself fall out onto the gravel below. I spat. I made myself stand before Ez had the chance to walk around the car and kick me: but of course, when I straightened up, I saw that he was ushering Solomon out of the back seat and guiding him towards the house, the way taxi drivers do for little old ladies.

  The four of them had left the Range Rover pinging to itself: the lights still on, and every one of the doors open. The engine was still running. I shut the front passenger door, and then the back one. As I walked round the back to where the boot gaped open, I saw a trail of dark liquid – Vyshnya’s blood – leading on to the pale pebbles of the driveway. There was a spatter, where she’d hit out at Fitz and Malkie, and then a smaller trail, up the steps and into the house.

  I retched, but didn’t throw up again. In the house above me, lights began to flick on in the windows. I heaved myself up and slammed t
he boot lid, then Malkie’s door. Finally, I climbed back into the driver’s seat. I thought for a brief moment about flooring the accelerator, racing back up the drive, and seeing if I could ram the Range Rover through the electronic gates and away. But then I’d have stolen Solomon’s hundred-grand car, on top of everything else. If I wasn’t a dead man now, I surely would be then. So instead, I turned off the ignition, got out, and locked the car.

  I staggered into the house after the others. My head was swimming, and a big part of me was still hoping this was some heinously vivid nightmare from which I would eventually wake. Besides: where else could I have gone?

  At first I didn’t know where they were. I stood in the massive hallway – my first time inside the house itself – and gawped up at the hideous frescoed ceiling, the obnoxious chandelier. Solomon didn’t have taste, he only had money. I couldn’t believe I thought it in that moment, but I did. The voice in my head sounded like Maw.

  But of course, there was the blood, and Solomon’s carpets were pale-coloured and deep. Vyshnya’s blood had smeared and spread: she’d clearly been half carried, half dragged, through a door to one side of the enormous staircase. I followed the trail, my gag reflex pulsing and pulsing. I didn’t know what I would find. I knew it wouldn’t be good. And I had to go, and be there, and try to pretend like I could still do my job. Try to save my own pathetic skin.

  I found them in a basement kitchen: obviously not one Solomon used himself, the kind that was staffed. Stainless-steel everything and a tiled floor. I knew Solomon held parties at this house: Toad had once talked about how snubbed he felt now that he was no longer invited to them. Fucking Toad, I thought. This is all his fault. My whole fucking life is that cunt’s fault. The walls were lined with kitchen utensils: steel kebab skewers, cleavers, long chef’s knives that gleamed under the banks of white lights. I swallowed hard. They’d shoved a kitchen bench to one side, and tied Vyshnya to a chair in the middle of the open space. She was gagged with a tea towel. I could see that the blood trail I’d followed came from a gaping wound in her arm: a compound fracture, the pale drumstick of a bone peeking through the skin. So that’s what happens, I thought, when you throw yourself into the path of a car.