Torrington started to cry, big, blubbery sobs that twisted his face into an ugly mask.
‘And you can stop that as well. It’s too fucking late for that now.’
Torrington looked at Larkin, his eyes pleading for mercy. He found none.
‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry …’
‘Talk!’
Andy twitched uncomfortably on the settee, disturbed by a side of Larkin he’d never dreamed he’d see. There was silence in the room until, from the kitchen, the kettle started singing in a long, protracted whine.
‘I’m waiting.’
Torrington heaved a sigh that seemed to take his soul with it. He opened his mouth and, as if finding his voice for the first time, began to talk.
‘I’ve known all along … what he was doing,’ he started weakly. ‘The drugs. Everything. But it wasn’t our fault! We brought him up as best as we could. We gave him everything. It wasn’t our fault that he turned out the way he did. That he was … queer.’
He broke off into self-pitying tears; Larkin’s death-ray stare never left his face. Torrington composed himself and kept going.
‘Well … I mean, it wasn’t what we wanted … how he turned out. I can’t help it. I …’
‘You disowned your son because he was gay? You made his life hell so he had to move out, is that it?’
‘I couldn’t help it!’ Torrington said between fragmented sobs. ‘It was his fault – not mine.’
‘Whose fault?’
‘That solicitor. Charles Twigge,’ he spat out. ‘I wanted Danny to be a man, to stand up for himself. All my life I tried to instil that into him. I wanted him to be a good, honest, hard working boy.’ Torrington gave a snort. ‘I had it tough! Much worse than he ever did. Didn’t make me turn out like … like that. Made me stronger! Made me the man I am today,’ he said, a look of complacence creeping into his face. ‘Gave me all this,’ he said, with a sweep of his arm.
Larkin looked round the sterile room. He said nothing. Torrington’s voice dropped.
‘I wanted him to be the kind of son a father could be proud of,’ he said. ‘Go to the pub, have a couple of pints, go round the golf course. Man to man!’ His voice trailed off again. ‘Man to man.’
‘So Charles.’ said Larkin, ‘what did he do?’
Carol Torrington took over. ‘When we … when he left home, he went to stay with his Auntie Mary.’ She looked pointedly at Torrington. ‘He said she was more understanding. She took him to parties, tried to introduce him to people that were … better equipped to help him.’
‘Which was where the photo was taken. The one you gave me. He went to a party hosted by Sir James Lascelles.’
‘Yes.’ Torrington again.
‘And it was there that he met Charles?’
‘Yes. And that bitch of a wife of his, the one who pretends he’s not queer. Ruthless scheming bitch! She knew that, and still married him – she disgusts me.’
‘And your son started to see Charles.’
Torrington turned on him, mania in his eyes. ‘Seeing? Seeing? Is that what you call it? What he did to my son, what that bastard turned him into, you call that “seeing”? That sick pervert got his hands on him and … and … I can’t even say it!’ Torrington turned away, shaking with rage. ‘And he thinks he can get away with it! Well, let me tell you, he won’t. He’s going to pay!’
Larkin grabbed Torrington by the shoulders and stared into his zealot’s eyes. ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think – or what you think you’ve lost. You forfeited the right to my compassion when you tried to run me over. I just want answers. Now, when your sister died you knew Danny was involved, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Torrington, hesitantly.
‘So you tried to hide any part of his involvement from me. Especially, when I’d mistakenly put two and two together and come up with six. Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So where is he now?’
Silence.
‘I’m not playing games, Torrington. Where is he?’
Again, nothing.
Larkin shook him, hard. ‘Where is he?’ he screamed, as loud as he could, using it as an outlet for all the rage that had been welling up inside him. Torrington looked terrified and slowly told him. The tension subsided a little; Larkin relaxed his grip.
‘Why do you still protect him? You can’t bear what he is, you hate what he’s become – so why?’
The sobs started again.
‘He’s my son, isn’t he?’
There was nothing more to say. Larkin motioned to Andy, who made a mumbled, inappropriate apology to Carol for not getting a chance to drink her tea, and they left the Torringtons standing amidst the wreckage of their life. Not wanting to face each other, not wanting to take responsibility for their complicity. Just dumbly listening to the wail of the kettle in the kitchen.
It was raining by the time Larkin and Andy reached their destination. Larkin had thought he would never see Grimley again – yet here he was.
They found what they were looking for: an upstairs flat in a stone terraced street. The curtain of the downstairs bay window twitched; Larkin didn’t even acknowledge it.
There was the dull sound of feet descending carpeted stairs; Larkin braced himself. The door opened.
‘Hello, Danny.’
Danny saw them both and froze. He assessed his chances and decided to make a run for it; but Andy was too quick for him, seizing him round his legs in a flying rugby tackle, bringing him down on the wet tarmac, leaving Larkin to finish the job by walloping him in the stomach with his size elevens.
‘Come on,’ said Larkin. ‘Inside.’
Andy hauled Danny’s defeated body to its feet and bundled him through the door. As they entered, Larkin allowed himself a look at the twitching net curtain; telling the occupant, in no uncertain terms, not to interfere.
They marched Danny up the stairs, threw him into the living room. It was better furnished than the outside of the building would have led them to suspect, but it still lagged some way behind the oppulence of a Columbian drug baron’s mansion. EastEnders was on the TV, Kath and Phil gorblimeying at each other; Larkin switched it off. Andy guarded the door. Larkin remained silent until Danny’s terror had grown to sufficient proportions, then spoke.
‘Danny. Or do you prefer to be called Terry?’
A mumbled, inaudible response.
‘Pardon?’
‘Danny!’
‘That’s better! Now, we’ve met before, of course – remember?’
Larkin held up his right hand where the corroded, blood-soaked bandage had started to unravel.
No reply.
‘You were looking for Charles, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you had your very own key. Must have got the shock of your life when you saw me!’
He didn’t answer.
‘All right, Danny – talk. Tell me everything.’
‘Make me.’
Larkin gave a very unpleasant grin.
‘If you want me to.’
He went up to the bedroom. He’d had enough. The silence had eventually given way to shouting and he’d been too weak to reply. Too weak. It was time he faced facts. It was time he stood up for himself, did something. Like a man should.
He closed the bedroom door behind him, leaving Carol sobbing inarticulately downstairs. She hated him now, he knew that. But he had a plan that would make everything right again. She’d stop hating him. They could be a happy family, as he’d always planned.
He opened the wardrobe door, looked in. It was so long since he’d used it; he hoped it would still work. He pulled out shoes and clothes, uncovered the locked, stainless steel cupboard built into the back. He opened the door with a small key. There it was – still looking good. He had wanted to use it to go hunting and fishing with Danny, like a father does with a son. No chance of that now. He checked himself. He mustn’t say things like that! There was a chance, of course there was. Th
at’s why he was doing this.
Yes, he thought, this would make them look at him with respect once more. This time tomorrow he would have his family back. And he tucked the gun under his arm and left the room, making for the car outside.
* * *
Now, last time we met,’ said Larkin to Danny Torrington, ‘you had me at a disadvantage. Least I could do was return the favour.’
Danny was sitting in the very centre of his living room, tied to a straight-backed dining chair with whatever Larkin and Andy had managed to lay their hands on: string, parcel tape, sellotape, electrical wire – even a length of clothes line. Danny couldn’t move.
He had submitted willingly, as if to the inevitable; he hadn’t struggled at all while Larkin and Andy positioned him on the chair. But his passivity extended to his mouth. Larkin knew that drastic action was called for.
‘Are you just going to sit there, Danny, and say nothing?’
Danny was silent.
‘OK, then, what we’ll do is call the police. I’ve got a friend on the force with a vested interest in all of this. He’ll make you talk.’ Larkin stuck his face close to Danny’s. ‘They love to get a gay boy down in the cells.’
Danny flinched, but remained silent. Larkin stood up. ‘Still keeping mum? That’s a shame. A real shame. Because – as the saying goes – we have ways of making you talk.’
He turned and left the room. Andy sat on the sofa, minding the immobile Danny. He picked up a newspaper that had been left on the arm of the sofa and started to read.
From the kitchen there was a clatter of cupboards being ransacked, drawers being rummaged through. Eventually Larkin returned to the living room clutching a can of lighter fluid, a box of matches and a couple of firelighters. Andy looked up, and did a double take.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he said.
‘This little bastard’s going to talk. One way or the other.’ Larkin plucked the newspaper from Andy’s hand. ‘Very thoughtful,’ he said, and began to wad the sheets up into balls and place them at Danny’s feet.
‘Stevie, stop it,’ said Andy, a note of panic creeping into his voice.
Larkin didn’t answer. He placed the firelighters on the newspaper and opened the can of lighter fluid; Danny began to look seriously scared.
‘This ain’t funny anymore,’ said Andy.
‘It never was funny,’ said Larkin, and poured the lighter fluid over Danny’s feet. Using the remainder, he made a trail across the carpet to the door.
‘Right,’ said Larkin, taking a match from the box, ‘let’s find out if we understand each other.’ Danny began to pull, feebly, at his restraints.
‘Tell me what I want to know, Danny – and you walk. No police. It’s as simple as that. But fuck me about—’ – he waved the match – ‘and up you go. What d’you say?’
Danny stared at the match. ‘You wouldn’t,’ he said in a cracked voice.
‘Don’t be silly, Danny. If I were you, I’d assume that I would.’ Larkin held the match to the box. ‘Well?’
Silence. No one dared to move. Eventually Danny spoke. ‘All right – what d’you want to know?’
‘That’s better,’ said Larkin; Andy looked distinctly relieved. ‘Let’s start with why you came to Charlotte’s house before sunrise?’
‘I was looking for Charles,’ Danny mumbled. ‘He’d been staying here, with me. He got a phone call in the middle of the night, said he had to go out for a while. When he didn’t come back, I got worried.’
‘And you were sleeping with him?’
Fire came into Danny’s eyes. ‘I love him! And now he’s gone, and I don’t know where.’
‘OK,’ said Larkin, ‘We’ll leave that aside for the moment. So how d’you know Edgell?’
‘He was Auntie Mary’s boyfriend. Charles knew what Wayne did for a living and he wanted a piece of it. He told Wayne he could introduce him to a lot of people.’
Larkin moved closer to Danny. ‘So what’s Mary’s part in all this?’
Danny looked at the floor again. ‘She was unlucky. The lot up here got wind that we were moving in. They sent Fenwick to spy on Wayne. He went to Mary’s house. I don’t know what happened in there—’
‘But Fenwick killed Mary with a shotgun.’
Danny nodded, sadly.
‘And then he went after Edgell, found him in Grimley, in that tacky nightclub, and killed him.’
Danny nodded again.
Larkin breathed out. ‘OK, Danny – one more thing and you can go. This shipment today – when and where?’
And Danny told him.
Andy went to get a kitchen knife; Larkin looked round, half-appalled, at the mess he had made of the flat. The relief he felt at getting the truth was almost post-orgasmic.
‘So where are you going to go?’ asked Larkin.
Danny raised his head. No longer the flash young man he had first appeared to be, he looked disappointed, defeated. Like the pathetic failure he was. ‘As far away from cunts like you as possible,’ he spat defiantly. Larkin almost felt sorry for him.
Andy came back, loosened one of Danny’s arms and passed him the knife. They left him there, sawing at his bonds, trying desperately to make himself free.
Larkin held the crumpled card in the fingertips of his right hand and the receiver in his left. The phone box could only take one person, so Andy was in the car. Larkin stared, transfixed, at his own reflection; the rain bleaching down the side of the glass had distorted it beyond all recognition. He didn’t know himself any more.
The phone was answered: a bleary, Scottish voice.
‘Hello, Inspector Moir.’
‘Who’s this?’ He sounded like a bear interrupted during hibernation.
‘It’s Larkin.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In a phone box in Gateshead.’
‘What the fuck are you doing there? I thought you couldn’t bloody move!’
‘The miracle of modern pharmaceuticals. I’ve been out, earning my background information for the feature of my career. You want to know what I’ve discovered?’
Moir grunted.
‘I’ll take that for a yes. Actually, you gave me the clue yourself. You said Terry looked like Mary’s son. Once that fell into place, the rest was easy.’ Larkin told Moir everything that Danny had told him, barring the time and place of the drug pick-up; he was keeping that for later. Moir listened in silence as Larkin finished his story. When Larkin stopped speaking he grunted again.
‘Where’s this Danny now?’
‘Dunno.’ Larkin didn’t want to admit to Moir that he had let him go. But Moir said, ‘Fuck him, anyway. He’s not important.’
Larkin tried to change the subject, just in case. ‘What about Fenwick?’
‘Bit of a mad bastard, all right,’ said Moir. ‘Eager to make a name for himself in the hard-man stakes. And what a cock-up he made. All he was supposed to do was ask a few questions. I doubt he meant to kill her.’
Larkin stopped. ‘You knew?’
Moir made a noise, a cross between a gloating chuckle and a smoker’s death rattle. ‘Of course we fucking knew! How many women commit suicide with a shotgun? Statistically, none.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Need-to-know. It’s an ongoing police investgation. We were happy to let the suicide story go round – we’re after bigger fish here. You’d have been told eventually.’
Larkin tried to regain some ground. ‘Fenwick was killed in prison because he was going to turn Queen’s Evidence?’
‘Sort of,’ said Moir. ‘He thought he’d be rewarded for what he’d done. For killing Edgell. Trouble was, he made such a balls-up of what should have been a simple job that they cut him adrift. He was a bit of a loose cannon as far as they were concerned. Best get him out of the way.’
‘OK,’ said Larkin. ‘You think you hold all the cards, and it must be great fun to ask me to risk my neck and not let me have the full story – but two can play at
that game.’
Moir snorted. ‘Oh really?’
‘You see, I know where and when the next shipment arrives. And I’m not going to tell you unless Andy comes along and we get an exclusive on it. What d’you say, Henry?’
23: The Pay-Off
The rain was hitting hard now, roaring as the wind carried it, bouncing up into little crowns as it hit the ground. Moir was at the wheel of the car, Larkin beside him. In the back seat sat Andy, weighted down by cameras and attendant paraphernalia, which he nervously checked every few minutes. They had been in the car for the best part of an hour and beyond the merest civilities, it had been spent in silence. The air was thick with testosterone, tension and sweat.
Larkin had been told that the lorry would pull into Grimley motorway services at ten-thirty, in order to unload into the feeder van. It was now quarter to eleven and there was no sign of either vehicle. Larkin groaned quietly. He had topped up his artificial life-support until he was at screaming point; but from now on, he would have to use it carefully. There was only a little left, and coming down off each new jag was more painful than the last. The pay-off would come soon, though – he could feel it. Then all he’d have to cope with was coming down for good.
Through the rain he could just make out the lights of the cafe over the bridge, hear the mechanical drawl of the passing cars. They waited. At five to eleven an articulated lorry pulled into the parking area and stopped dead. Moir, Larkin and Andy hardly dared breathe as the radio crackled into static life. Moir acknowledged the distorted voice, told it to wait for the signal. They watched as the driver stepped down from the cab and walked over the bridge to the cafe. He didn’t look back.
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