‘Don’t tell me – abused as a kid?’
‘More than likely. Anyway, the sect’s broken up now, and his parents are – dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘His father died in a fire, supposedly accidental; his mother fell down a flight of stairs. Both open verdicts, so work it out for yourself.’
‘Oh.’
Moir nodded. ‘Indeed. Well, to cut a long story shortish, Cain was eventually discharged into our wonderful care-in-the-community programme, where he got in with the scurviest lowlifes going. Like attracts like. He dropped the Hutton, attached himself to the gay boys and started to behave like a star.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve been after him for ages. This might be our big chance.’
‘Why haven’t you moved in on him before now?’
‘Because it’s not that simple. Up to a wee while ago Cain was just your average psychotic scum, but recently, he seems to have moved up in the world.’
‘How?’
‘Proper job, for a start. He claims to be in the import-export business,’ said Moir with a sneer.
‘Importing and exporting what?’
‘What d’you think? Oh, it’s all legit to look at – on paper anyway. Leather jackets, hold-alls. Taiwan’s finest. We think someone is putting up the money, Cain’s fronting it and the drugs are hitting the street through it. The money from the drugs is laundered through that many different sources, it would take years and more manpower and computers than we’ve got to track it down. He’s got this thing sealed up tighter than a gnat’s arse, and we want him out of circulation. But we need something watertight to pin him down.’
‘Like my testimony.’
‘Mr Larkin, I cannot impress upon you strongly enough that this man must be put away. This is strictly off the record – but if there’s anything you can find out, anywhere you can go that I can’t, then do it.’
Larkin looked at him. ‘So you’re asking me to risk my life against this bloke? After what happened last time?’
Moir’s face was impassive. ‘Yes.’
‘And what do I get out of it?’
‘Enough background information to write the feature of your career.’
Larkin thought for a moment, then sighed. ‘Put like that, I’ve got no choice, have I?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘OK, then,’ Larkin said, ‘trade of information. It was on the gay scene that he met Charles Twigge?’
‘Looks like it. By the way, we’ve got a warrant out for his arrest too. Conspiring with our friend to do you over.’
‘Really?’ Larkin couldn’t disguise his joy.
‘Thought that would please you. We talked to his wife today. Apparently, she knew he was gay—’
‘I know.’ Larkin was wary.
‘Oh, well. Takes all sorts.’ Moir looked round the room. ‘What about this Terry guy? What d’you make of him, Stephen?’
‘I dunno. I thought at first that he might be Gary Fenwick, but he looks nothing like him, and anyway Fenwick’s still in Durham, isn’t he?’
Moir stiffened.
‘Isn’t he?’ said Larkin, a note of fear in his voice.
‘Stephen, you’ve been honest with me, so I’ll be honest with you. As a rule I don’t like the representatives of the media, but I also pride myself on being a good judge of character. If I tell you this, you can’t use it, OK? We’ve been trying to keep a lid on it, but I suppose it’ll get out soon enough.’
‘What? Tell me.’
Moir drew a deep breath. ‘Well, technically speaking, Fenwick is still in custody. The only thing he isn’t, is alive.’ He fell silent, waiting for Larkin’s reaction; Larkin didn’t disappoint him.
‘What? What happened?’
‘Found only this morning in the showers. Apparently he slipped, hit his head on the wall.’ Moir exhaled. ‘From the look of it I’d say he was travelling at a couple of hundred miles an hour at the time. And he enjoyed it so much he did it again and again.’
‘Didn’t anybody see anything? Aren’t there any witnesses?’
‘Of course! But no one’ll admit it. It’ll be an accidental death, or misadventure – anything but the truth.’
‘The truth being murder?’
‘Spot on.’
‘Why? Why him? Why now?’
‘Because he was all set to turn Queen’s Evidence, that’s why.’ Moir made an exasperated little noise in the back of his throat. ‘It took us fucking ages to get him to do that. To talk. Even to acknowledge why he was there.’ He sighed. ‘Gone. The whole bloody deal.’
‘Why was he going to inform? What did you offer him?’
‘We worked out a bargain. Tried to get his sentence reduced to manslaughter, make it out to be a drunken brawl. In return he was going to tell us everything he knew about the drugs rings in Newcastle. It’s a real bastard. Can’t say I’m sorry about the wee bag o’ shite, though.’
‘So what happens next?’ asked Larkin.
‘That’s up to you.’
‘Will I have protection?’
‘As much as I can give. Discreetly.’
‘Meaning none at all.’
‘Meaning as much as I can give. Discreetly.’
Larkin sighed. ‘Fair enough.’
There was an uneasy silence, broken by Moir. ‘You got a picture of this Terry?’
‘Yeah, somewhere.’ He attempted to look around. ‘Try my leather jacket – wherever that is.’
Moir looked round the room until he found it, took the photo out and came back over. He looked at it. ‘This him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who’s this with him? His mother?’
‘No, that’s Mary. His girlfriend.’
‘Girlfriend? He must like older women.’
Something tingled in Larkin’s brain. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t name it, but it was there.
Moir handed him the photo. ‘Anything else you have to tell me?’
Larkin thought for a moment. ‘Yeah,’ he eventually said. ‘Not tell you – ask you.’
Moir braced himself.
‘What’s your opinion of Sir James Lascelles?’
Moir frowned. ‘Some things are better left unsaid.’
Larkin was suddenly curious. ‘Why?’
‘He’s a very wealthy, powerful man. And that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Tell me. Tell me what you know.’ Nothing. Stonewall. ‘Come on! I’ve told you everything, you give me this.’
Moir sighed. ‘You’re a persistent bastard, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well – this is all conjecture, mind, but—’ Moir sighed and continued. ‘A property owned by Lascelles was turned into a nightclub. We got a tip-off about it one night, raided it, found an under-age girl ODing on heroin on the toilet floor. She was dead before she got in the ambulance. The manager was hauled in for questioning. Eventually he cracked. He was an amateur. He said that Lascelles set him up in the club, told him to turn a blind eye to certain nefarious goings-on. We duly grabbed Lascelles, he claimed the manager’s story was all bollocks. Of course, there was no evidence. The club’s owner then changed his story, said it was was all his own doing, he’d been dealing on the side.’
‘What happened at the trial?’
‘There wasn’t one. The manager was found dead a week before. Suicide – apparently. Left a note expressing remorse for the girl’s death. End of story.’
‘So you think Lascelles is dirty.’
‘I know he is. But for all the damage I can do to him, I may as well try to demolish that godawful building of his with a toffee-hammer.’ The admission was clearly a painful one.
Larkin sighed. ‘Always the same, isn’t it? The real villains always get off.’
Moir nodded sullenly. ‘Aye. For now. That’s why I do what I can. Try to make a difference.’ Then he spat out, ‘Bastards like him don’t make it any easier.’
There was nothing to add to that. Moir looked at his watch and stoo
d up.
‘I’d best be off.’ He passed Larkin his card – a well-thumbed specimen – thanked him for his help and clumped off into the street.
Surprisingly, Larkin had rather enjoyed Moir’s visit. There was still something niggling, though. Something Moir had said …
And then, with an icy lurch in his stomach, he knew. It was the piece of the jigsaw with the complicated pattern on it, the one that looked like it fitted nowhere but, once in place, made the picture complete. He’d found it. And it was so obvious it had literally been staring him in the face all along.
He reached for the phone and called Andy’s hotel. After the same rigmarole as before, Andy was on the line. He had managed to score; Larkin told him to get over to the house right away.
‘What’s the big rush?’
‘The rush is, places to go, people to see!’ Larkin could barely contain his excitement.
Andy was confused. ‘What you on about?’
‘What am I on about? I know who Terry is. Not only that, but I know how to find him. You coming?’
Andy was coming. And as Larkin rang off, he realised that, although he was unable to move without severe pain, although he had recently faced death, he had never felt more alive.
22: Jigsaw Pieces
‘So tell me again, right, what we doin’ now?’ asked Andy, not for the first time.
He was behind the wheel of a hired Citroen, doing eighty down the southbound carriageway of the Al.
‘Something we should have done in the first place. I haven’t been thinking straight, Andy. I could have prevented a lot of trouble.’
‘Oh, right.’ Andy lapsed into silence again, pissed off with the fact that Larkin seemed to be speaking in code.
Larkin sat back and stretched, feeling his artifical life-support system kicking in. He was buzzing, highs and lows fighting each other for dominance. He felt as if he could slam his hand in a door and send himself into raptures about it. No doubt about it – Andy had scored some good stuff.
After leaving Charlotte’s place, they had gone to see The Prof. He was propped up in bed, smiling; at first Larkin had thought it was because The Prof was pleased to see him, but he soon realised the beatific look hid a mind that was more offkilter than it had ever been.
He said hello. The Prof’s smile stayed in place, unwavering. Larkin looked at Andy, who shrugged. He tried again.
‘Prof, it’s Stephen.’
The Prof’s eyes immediately flashed with recognition and he nodded his head slightly, his mouth open.
Larkin stood silent, uncomfortable. ‘Look, Prof, I’m sorry about—’
The Prof shook his head violently, his mouth trembling as he groped for the words. ‘No! It was the cave …’
‘What? What cave?’
‘The cave …’ He drifted off again; after a few breaths he came back. ‘Entered the … cave. Faced fear … New man.’
Larkin could sense Andy’s impatience. ‘Listen, Prof, I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important – but did you find out anything?’
Prof stared into space.
‘Prof?’
Prof grabbed Larkin’s arm. ‘He’s bad. But I was in the cave – he didn’t know what I heard.’
‘What did you hear?’
Prof’s eyes were wide open, staring. ‘Oh …’ He shook his head.
‘Prof, what did you hear?’ said Larkin authoritatively.
Prof’s eyes came back into focus. ‘Sunday. Every … everyday is like … Sunday. Ships. Ship …’
‘A ship coming in on Sunday?’
The Prof shook his head furiously. ‘Ship! Ship …’ He paused. ‘A shipment!’ He sounded triumphant.
‘Where? What time?’
The Prof shrugged.
‘What is this shipment – d’you know?’
Prof creased his forehead, deep in concentration. ‘It’s London …’
Larkin and Andy looked at each other.
The Prof’s eyes were clear as he imparted his last piece of information. ‘London. Taking over.’
They left almost immediately, Larkin giving Andy directions and little else. They passed Durham, the Cathedral tower glimpsed distantly from the motorway; still Larkin wouldn’t say where they were going.
‘You know,’ said Andy, making conversation, ‘I always reckoned they should legalise drugs.’
‘What kind?’
‘All kinds, I reckon.’
‘They should decriminalise cannabis. Even the police agree on that one. LSD too, I reckon. Can’t ever imagine myself in favour of heroin and crack, though. All that real dodgy fuck-up stuff.’
‘True …’ Andy’s voice trailed off. ‘Hey, if they legalised it all, right, what would happen to the pushers and dealers?’
Larkin smiled. ‘Dunno. Go into politics, maybe?’
They travelled further in silence until Larkin said, ‘Turn off left.’
Andy looked at the sign.
‘Darlington? Who do we know in Darlington?’
Larkin gave him a wide-eyed amphetamine smile.
‘Terry.’
Larkin thought he had considered every angle, but when they pulled up outside the house, he was taken aback to find a white Lancia parked there. Seeing it again made his stomach turn over with fear and anger. Beside it, on the two-car drive, sat a Nissan Micra.
‘Stop here,’ he said to Andy, and the Citroën pulled up behind the Lancia. Larkin started to struggle out, still handicapped by the bandage he had refused to change. Shrugging off Andy’s offer of help, he lurched down the driveway to the house, a detached mock-Tudor pile with exposed black beams over white stucco and period UPVC leaded windows.
Larkin rang the bell; its twee chimes could be heard reverberating all over the house. Eventually the door was opened by a middle-aged but well-preserved woman. The smile she gave them curled the corners of her mouth but didn’t reach her eyes, as if it had been regularly used to wallpaper over a particularly persistent crack. She was wearing slacks and a pastel-coloured polo shirt; her hair had been bobbed short to disguise the flecks of grey.
On seeing the drug-addled Larkin and the hardly more respectable Andy her smile threatened to leave her face. ‘Hello? Can I help you?’
‘Yes,’ began Larkin. ‘You don’t know me – but I’ve met your husband. Is he in?’
The nervous glance behind her confirmed that he was. ‘I … who is it that’s calling?’
‘You must be … Carol, right?’ said Larkin, in what he hoped was his most charming manner. ‘If you could just tell him that I’m here, and would like to see him?’
Carol looked even more wary when he mentioned her name. ‘Just a minute,’ she said and disappeared into the house, closing the front door behind her. Larkin and Andy had just sufficient time to exchange nervous glances when it opened again. And there stood Torrington.
He wasn’t prepared for Larkin. His eyes widened and he stumbled back slightly. Larkin, inwardly shaking at confronting his attempted murderer, used this to his advantage. He smiled, took control.
‘Hello, Phillip! Bet you didn’t expect to see me again.’
Torrington tried to speak but the sound withered and died in his throat.
‘Can we come in?’ asked Larkin. Torrington mutely stood back and allowed them into the hall. Obviously he didn’t want to make a scene where the neighbours might see it.
Torrington’s wife hurried to his side. ‘What is it, Phillip?’ The fear in her voice was obvious.
Larkin turned round. ‘How about some tea?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Torrington weakly. ‘Could we have some tea please, Carol?’
She disappeared, leaving Larkin and Andy to make their way into the living room. It was a vast expanse – chintz curtains at the front window, gold-framed David Shepherd prints at the other. In between was a huge stone fireplace, complete with living-flame fire, a chintz three-piece and a cream-coloured fitted Wilton carpet. The only touch of individuality came from the shelved video col
lection behind the huge TV and video combination: David Attenborough, and golf, all neatly stacked and indexed. The whole room seemed somehow airless, untouched, as if it were being preserved for an occasion that would never arise.
Andy sat down on the settee. It was a wonder it hadn’t been encased in plastic, thought Larkin. He stood, feeling the superhuman rush of chemicals pumping round his system once more. Torrington had followed them in.
‘Didn’t think I’d find you, did you?’
No reply.
‘Suit yourself.’ Larkin looked round, trying to stay calm. ‘OK – where is he?’
‘I … I don’t know …’ Torrington stammered.
‘Oh, come on, Phillip, you can do better than that! You tried to kill me, didn’t you? Don’t try to deny it – the weapon’s parked out front. Now, to do that, you must think I know something that would make life awkward for you. And, to be honest, I didn’t, not before you tried to run me over.’ He moved nearer. ‘But I do now. I know plenty. So where is he?’
He stared at Torrington; Torrington couldn’t hold his gaze.
‘Please leave me alone. I can’t help you. I don’t know anything—’
‘Oh, you do. You of all people. I want the address of your son. Danny, isn’t it?’ He was up close now, eyeball to eyeball, catching Torrington’s flickering, cowardly gaze. ‘Come on. You know where he is, you know what he’s doing. Tell me.’
Torrington started to blabber his excuses again, but Larkin had had enough. He brought his fist down on a china vase sitting on top of the TV, sending it shattering. The blow made even Andy jump. It also brought Carol rushing from the kitchen, just in time to see a wild-eyed Larkin grab her husband by his shirt-front. And, in a voice that was all the more terrifying because of its quiet urgency, he spoke.
‘Your son ran past me the night I saw Charles and Hutton doing a deal outside a gay club. I saw him at Edgell’s funeral, again with Charles. He’s pushing drugs, Torrington – drugs. Not soft drugs, but the hard stuff. Crack. Heroin. D’you know what that does to you? Do you? The first time you take it, it feels like you’ve hit heaven, so you do it again. And again. And before you know it, it’s stopped being heaven and it’s turned into hell. And you can’t fucking get out. Your arms look like a spastic spider’s woven a web all over them, you can’t shoot up there anymore, so you do your thighs. And when they’ve turned into bastard pincushions, you try your arse. And when that’s used up you do the soles of your feet, or between your knuckles. Or your eyeballs. Anywhere, just so long as you get back that little piece of heaven. That’s what your son deals in, Torrington. And if he’s pushing it, chances are he’s doing it. That loving, fucking scumbag you’re trying to protect. That’s what he does for a living. So I’ll ask you again, and this time you’d better give me the right answer. Where is he?’
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