Burning Crowe

by Geoff Smith

  'Have you phoned the police?' said Bart.

  'Not yet. I don't yet know the full situation yet, do I Sherlock? So is someone going to fill me in, or are we going to keep dancing around each other like a bunch of fairies?'

  'Should I phone them now?' Bart said. 'The police I mean, so they can get started?'

  Glenn Golden stood over him, all six foot three of the man.

  And he snarled, 'You wanna push my buttons, do you Sherlock? Well, do you? Well I'll tell you what. How about you tell me everything you know, right now - or I swear I'll - you little shite!' And then he paused, and he breathed deeply. 'This is my house, you understand? My house. And in my house you do it my way or you can fuck off and see how far you get. My house. My rules. You got that, Sherlock?'

  Zack looked at Bart and nodded, and Bart told Golden about the back-street. He told him about the tall guy with the black beard and the long coat and the cockney accent. He told him about the green hatchback and the white van and Golden listened intently.

  And when Bart had finished he said, 'So, Sherlock, I suppose the first question is - who is this fella? Isn't it?'

  Zack banged his beer bottle on the table.

  'Oh for fuck's sake Glenn, come on! Stop playing games! You know who it is! I know who it is! Just stop all this bollocks man, and tell me where to go to pick her up. I'll give you the fucking files. No problem. Just make the call, let her go and we'll finish this shit. I give up, okay.'

  Glenn Golden extracted a cigarette, and he looked hard at the two of them. Skinny lads with their slim brown bottles of beer. He snorted.

  'Fucking children!' he said. 'Look at you both. You're kids. Got no responsibilities - either of you - and that's the trouble. You know when I was eighteen -' He lit his cigarette, dragged and exhaled. 'When I was eighteen. Well, it was a different world I suppose. We had responsibilities. You guys today, it's not responsibilities, it's choices. Choices, choices, choices. You choose this. You choose that. An' you make your fucking choices and you please your fucking selves and that's your fucking lot. And then, when you don't like the consequences of your choices, well, all you've got to do is make another fucking choice and everything's supposed to go away, isn't it? Not a jot of responsibility in sight. You know when I was eighteen I had to support my Mum and my brother and three sisters. And I give all the money I had to my mother. Because she needed it more than me. But you two. Fuck. Self-obsessed gobshites, the pair of you. You really think I'd kidnap my own fucking daughter - No, no, no. You see, unlike you, I understand what responsibilities are.'

  He took another drag on the cigarette.

  Zack said, 'Oh come on, Glenn! Lay off, will you? What do you actually want here?'

  Smoke streamed from Golden's nose - he raised his head and his eyelids fell.

  'What do I want? Well, let me see. What have I loaned you that eight grand for, again?'

  Zack said, 'You haven't loaned me anything. Go fuck yourself!'

  'Oh I think it was a loan, Mr. Richards. But anyway, what was the security on that loan, now? Oh yes, it was that little picture that was supposed to be on your computer - except that my friends in the police, they say that it's not there.'

  Zack stood and he stepped closer to Golden.

  'You're talking to me about loans and photographs when your daughter is missing? And you seriously expect me to believe that you don't know where she is? Bollocks!'

  Glenn Golden smiled benignly and Zack moved across to the fireplace, taking a cigarette from Golden's pack and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

  Bart leaned back on the sofa and he said, 'But you think you can find her though, don't you, Glenn? What with all that spyware you've put on her phone. That's why you're not panicking, isn't it? That's why you're cutting a deal. You think you can get what you want, then check the software, and go collect. Maybe Graham's already on his way to wherever, right now.'

  Glenn Golden stubbed out his cigarette and he stared at Bart without speaking.

  'Oh - my - God,' Zack said. 'The detective's fucking right isn't he? You're spying on your own daughter, you twisted fuck.'

  Zack turned. He kicked the coffee table. And he kicked it so hard it toppled forward, Bart's beer falling to floor and draining onto the carpet.

  Golden grabbed Zack's arm but Zack shook him off. He sat down at Golden's laptop with Golden behind him, pulling at him, muttering threats.

  'You don't know what you're doing, kid!'

  Gravel crunched outside as a car pulled up.

  Zack tapped the keyboard and clicked on the mousepad.

  Glenn Golden lunged for the machine but Zack swung a fist over his shoulder into the big man's throat, and Golden fell, holding his throat, rasping.

  And Zack turned in the chair and he said, 'Do you want to start a fight with me? Now? Really? With the cops on their way here? I mean, do you? Because if you do, I'm fucking in!' Then, softening, 'Look man. This Microsoft shit is older than I am. I was born with this stuff okay. So shut up and leave me to it, yes.'

  Bart got up. He helped himself to a whisky from the mini bar, and pressed his face to the glass looking for the car outside.

  Zack turned to Golden and said, 'Okay, so I need your password.'

  And Glenn Golden shouldered him aside as he entered the code.

  And Zack said, 'Shit man! This thing has got like every text to and from Lola's phone. Some from me. You too, Crowe. Shit! Oh God! I'm sorry but Crowe, you are so sad.'

  'Just click on the fucking GPS, will you,' Golden growled, and then he reached for his cigarettes.

  Zack clicked, and clicked again.

  'It's not working.'

  Golden leaned over, squeezing the unlit cigarette between thumb and forefinger.

  'Let me see.'

  And he moved the mouse around and he tapped the keyboard harder as if he didn't trust the machine to do its job, and he put his hands behind his neck and walked towards Bart at the window.

  Zack slapped the keyboard with the palm of his hand.

  And Bart said,'Her phone's switched off isn't it?'

  'Yeah,' said Zack. 'It's almost like our guy knew what you were up to, Glenn.'

  'Either that, or he's got half a brain in his head,' Bart added. 'I mean, would you really let a kidnap victim keep their phone, knowing what the police can do, now? I wouldn't.'

  And when Golden turned he looked genuinely upset.

  'You know what Crowe? You - are a fucking gobshite and a smartarse. And you are no fucking use to me whatsoever. I'm thinking you should leave.'

  Bart looked about the room, and he tried to focus, to find something that made him necessary. But there was nothing. So he steadied himself and squared up to Golden.

  Bart said, 'You know what, Golden. You're all show,' his chest swelling. 'You're the one with nothing. You're empty. And maybe you do know who's kidnapped your daughter. Maybe Zack knows too. Maybe. But the thing is, what good is that if you can't find him? This whole big man, Glenn Golden thing. It's all an act, and you're a sham.'

  Golden clenched a fist and he said, 'You take a look at yourself, boy! You think I'm all show! Fucking little Sherlock. Who the fuck are you then? Answer me that, cos I don't bloody know? You're not a detective. Not a professional. Not like any that I've ever dealt with. And who's paying you for this? I'm not bloody paying you, I know that. And you owe me a grand. So that makes you a fraud as well, doesn't it? You're the only fake here, Mr. Crowe. Nobody wants you. You're not needed. So get out. Get out of my house. Get out of my business. And while you're about it, get the fuck out of my town!'

  Bart looked to Zack for support but Zack gave him none.

  Glenn Golden crossed his arms, and he placed his legs wider apart.

  But Bart said, 'You two! You think you've got this sewn up, don't you? So confident. But you can't do it. You don't know enough. Well, do you? So tell me what you've got. I can help. I'll help you get your daughter back! You know, whatever this is, I'm already in it. Give me a
chance, okay?'

  Golden waited, evaluating, like a farmer at a stock market, and then he sneered and hot smoke streamed from his nose.

  'Now you listen to me,' he said. 'You are nothing, Bartholomew Crowe. You're nothing. You're a lost little boy. Nothing more. So why don't you put your sorry little arse in your pretty little car and fuck off back home to your Mummy and Daddy, and leave the men to do their work, all right?'

  Bart frowned.

  'You're serious? You really think you can do this by yourself. You're such a big man, Glenn Golden. You know, while we're thinking about ourselves you might stop and think about who really created this mess? Because you know what? From what I can see, all of it, every miserable thing that's happened here, it's all on you, Glenn. You think no one's paying me? Well my best friend has a bullet hole in her side. She's lucky to be alive. So I say to you, I've got plenty to work for.'

  At the back of the room, the curtains parted. Graham Cameron stepped in, and he hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. Glenn Golden poured another glass of whisky and he smiled without happiness.

  'Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Such a simple fella aren't you? Someone to blame for everything. Always a cause and an effect. I bet you were really good at school. Always there, ready with an answer. Teacher's little pet I expect. Oh that's fantastic. Good for you, I say. And I'll tell you what. You need to get yourself back to to that cosy little world. Get yourself off to a posh university. Get a cosy little job somewhere. Be a doctor. Be a lawyer. You'd be good at that. All neat and tidy, cause and effect. Of course I'm not from your world, Mr. Crowe. Where I come from the only thing that matters is getting the right result for yourself and for those closest to you. And you know why? It's because the rest of the world is doing exactly the same fucking thing.

  'Now I wasn't great at school. I've not got any of them qualifications you modern lot stack up. And my dad didn't have any neither. No, my dad worked in a paper mill and drank like a sailor. And he'd come home and he'd hit my mother when he was pissed. And Mum was a boozer too. And sometimes he'd give her no money at all. And she would have to beg for booze from the neighbours and from family and that - and maybe she'd get some food as well. And I was on the streets all hours back then, on the lookout for cash. A bit of shoplifting here, a bit there. Always plenty of older lads'd pay me to steal to order. Clothes and shit. Some of them would give me little packets to take places. And every time I picked up or dropped off, I saw these guys with wads of money. Tens and twenties. And girls too. Pretty girls. And I thought I'd have me some of that one day. And so I started selling as soon as I could. For others at first and then for meself. Pretty quick I was making good money. About your age I was. And I was earning way more money than my Dad ever did. And I let him know it too. I gave money to mum and it was my house then. I came and I went as I pleased. Mum couldn't do enough for me. I brought mates back, and girls, and Mum and Dad never raised a finger. Dad just stayed out later, getting more drunk. It wasn't legal, what I was doing then, and it wasn't right. But it felt good and I did it, and I'd do it again. So tell me Crowe, who was to blame for all that? Me? Or not me?'

  Bart shifted uncomfortably. Golden's eyes widened and his mouth hung slightly open, showing the tips of his yellowed teeth.

  'Anyway that's how I learned my numbers. Not in some schoolroom with grades and fucking stickers. I drank and smoked and dealed and fucked. And pretty soon I came to realise that most of the lads I once looked up to were weak. No work ethic. I saw 'em getting caught and arrested and stabbed and shot. And I started to make sure some of them did get arrested - or otherwise dissuaded. But you know what, Mr. Crowe, a crook can't be a crook forever. My little kingdom could've crumbled with a single knock at the door. And that was no good. I needed something that would offer me protection in law. Insurance if you like. And that's when I discovered property. Legitimate income. So I bought places and I rented them. It wasn't instant, Mr. Crowe, but I made money. And it was easy. Money for old rope. And it wasn't thieving or dealing or any of that stuff, but the principles were the same. And that was my education. Problem was, once I was legit, I couldn't stay in Birmingham any more. Too many people with too much to say. So I looked around until I found Margate. It was cheap back then, and by the sea, and there was government money to be had. So I bought big houses and turned them into care homes and kids' homes, or bed and breakfasts for DSS. And then there was my casino, and my arcade. All little vanities. Little profits. But you know, I'm a gambler, Crowe. I like a flutter. But good gamblers don't lose, do they? So I never do. I do what I have to and I take what I can. And you can hate me if you want. And you can try and bring me down. But can you blame me? Truthfully? Because I don't blame myself. Never. Because what was the alternative? Poverty? Depravity? Death? Dependence? No, no, no. I do what's necessary. And right now, Mr. Crowe, it's necessary for you to leave. Graham will take you where you need to go.'

  Bart looked from Golden to Zack, and from Zack to Graham Cameron and not one of them offered him hope. Zack was leaning forward in his chair, waiting to see what Bart would do. His expression was unreadable.

  'You know you're wrong, Glenn,' Bart said. 'I mean - you say everyone else is doing the same as you. but they're not! They're just not! You know why? Because the moment they do, you're screwed! We all are. So you know what, I'll go. Okay. I'll get out of here. And you can do what's 'necessary' and you can go to Hell, and I'll do what's right. You coming Zack?'

  Zack Richards flicked his hair and said, 'You'd should go, buddy. It's for the best.'

  And Bart could feel his stomach churn.

  And Golden's pale eyes gleamed and his chest swelled.

  'Okay.' Bart said. And he finished his drink and he placed down the glass so that it made a loud clink. 'But you better open those gates for me because I'm walking out of here alone. I think I need some air. It's all a bit close in here.'

  And Graham Cameron glowered as he passed.

  46

  At the water's edge, the calls and shouts of the dying night disappeared into the ripples and mist. He pulled down his beanie and held the phone to his ear and the November chill tickled his cheeks.

  'You're going to need to report this through the proper channels -'

  'I know,' Bart said. 'But I'm telling you, we've got to take action - do something - tonight - or there's going to be a mess. God Wayne, I don't know what to do - and I - well - I think I trust you.'

  'I wish I could say the feeling was entirely mutual, but all-right. Go on. Talk.'

  'Right, well, the kidnapper - it has to be the same guy that beat up the old lady today. That's obvious, right? Too many similarities.'

  'Such as?'

  'The accent. Maybe it's real, maybe it's fake, but both the same. Then the long, dark hair. He must be the same guy, he must be. And the guy tonight had a gun, and I can't be sure but I've been looking on the net and think it was a Heckler and Koch. That's a 9mm. Could be the same gun from the Music Hall shooting and the Feathers murder. I mean, how many people in this country have an automatic pistol? And then there's Glenn Golden. He knows something. I don't know what it is but it's something, and he's planning to act on it, whatever it is.'

  'Okay Bart. So let's say Golden does know something, and let's say that Richards is in on it. What exactly do you think is going to happen between now and tomorrow?'

  'Golden was ready to torture me to get to Richards. And now they're working together. That's a pretty dramatic turn around. Golden's daughter is missing, and he knows about it but he's not reporting it. There's already been a murder and a shooting and, God, I just know someone else is going to get hurt, unless we step up and we stop it.'

  'All right, all right, slow down. Look, let's be honest. We don't actually know what's going to happen. So the real question is, how do we find this girl?'

  'Well, I've got the plates of vehicles that left the scene straight after the snatch. I can mail you the pics. You guys can track the vehicles and identify owners,
can't you? And that has to lead us somewhere, right?'

  There was a pause. Wayne Simmonds let out a long breath.

  'Bart - if you report the crime we can look at that, yes. But I can't just run number plates on a whim. Do you have anything else?'

  His arm dropped and the phone hung loose at his side, the waves lapping at his feet.

  'Bart? - you still there? Hello?'

  'Hi. Look. Okay. Listen. I just need - God - tomorrow - it's going to be too late. I need your help now, Wayne! And I need someone to believe what I'm saying. Someone who believes in justice like I do. Someone who's going to make the world a better place. So no. Okay. I've got nothing else. I've got nothing except you. That's it. You're all I've got, okay.'

  No one spoke for a second.

  Simmonds said, 'You know, it sounds as though you're asking me to be proactive, Mr. Crowe. You do know we don't work that way.'

  And Bart breathed in and salt air spiked his lungs.

  'Maybe they don't,' Bart said. 'But I'm hoping you do.'

  A protracted sigh.

  'Send me the plates,' Simmonds said. 'Go on. I've got nothing better to do. Just sleep. And who needs sleep, right? I'm going to hang up now. When I call back don't answer. I'll leave a message. I'll tell you what to do about reporting the crime. Listen to it. Act on it. Then delete it. Got that?'

  'Listen. Act. Delete. Yes I've got it. Hey, thanks Wayne. I've got to tell you -'

  The phone beeped twice and the line went dead.

  47

  Bart shone the flashlight through the bars of Golden's gate. He could see the tail-light of Golden's Jaguar. No sign of Cameron's BMW. The garden wall was high, but he figured he could do it. He backed into the road and took a run at it. It took a couple of goes to get a good grip on the top of the wall. But as he pulled himself up, his phone vibrated and he slipped back, landing on his arse in the road.

  He cursed at the phone as he swiped the display.