And the only thing, really, that stopped me hating myself more than I did was that, sometimes, when she’d been with me, she’d forget herself and be happy.
That sadness was in Dunham’s wife and Brenda. It was in Tina too. I suppose it was to do with the men in their lives. Paget, Marriot, Dunham – even Eddie, even, maybe, me. The women had children, or wanted children, and the men took them away, hurt them, used them.
I wasn’t like that, at least. Maybe I wasn’t so ugly after all.
When she was a few feet from me, I stepped forward enough so that she’d see the movement, but not enough so that the driver could see me.
‘Hey,’ I said.
She stopped and, for a moment, she froze and stared at me.
‘Look in the window,’ I said. ‘Turn away from the car.’
She didn’t move and I thought I’d blown it. I heard a car door open and a man’s voice.
‘Mrs D?’ the bloke called out.
She flinched.
‘I need your help,’ I said.
She looked at me blankly, and I braced myself, sure now that I was going to have to tackle the driver, and lose my one good chance. But then she blinked, and turned away from me, towards the voice that had called.
‘It’s okay, Tom,’ she said, smiling. ‘Just a minute.’
She turned to look in the cafe window. I waited until I heard the car door close. I said, ‘There’s a garden out back. Go tell your driver you’re going to get a coffee.’
She didn’t move, or even look my way, but I could see in her eyes that she understood, and that she would do it. I hadn’t been sure she would. After all, she was running a risk. I had to hope I’d been right about her.
After a while, she walked on, out of my sight. I heard her say something. I braced myself, hand on my gun, just in case she’d grassed me up. But nothing happened.
She brushed past me and into the cafe. I followed and we went through and out the back door.
She glanced round at the walled courtyard. She shivered, held her arms around her. It was drizzling and fine drops of rain clung to her hair.
‘I had to tell them I was using the bathroom,’ she said. ‘Otherwise they’d have come in to wait with me.’
‘They?’
‘In the car. Two of them.’
I’d missed the second bloke. That was sloppy.
‘But they’ll come looking for me soon,’ she was saying. ‘One of them is young and a bit stupid. The other’s not stupid, though.’
‘You remember me,’ I said.
‘Is that some kind of joke?’ she said. ‘I’ll never forget you.’
‘You know who I am?’
‘You’re my husband’s enemy.’
‘You know he wants to kill me?’
‘Of course. That’s how Victor treats enemies.’
She put the tip of her ring finger to the corner of her eye, and seemed to wipe something away. There was nothing there to wipe away, as far as I could see.
‘They’re not supposed to let me out of their sight. You’ve done well to see me alone. You’ve outwitted Victor. He doesn’t like being made a fool of. If he ever finds out, he’ll be angry.’
‘He wants me dead, how much angrier can he get?’
Her eyes sparked for a moment, and I saw fear and fury.
‘I meant he’d be angry with me. Do you understand what that means? What do you think he’ll do to me if he finds out?’
She held her arms tighter about her body, but I didn’t think it was the coldness that made her do that.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ she said, looking back towards the door from the cafe. ‘I can’t help you. No one can.’
She started to walk away. I grabbed her. She stopped, looked at my hand on her arm.
‘What are you gonna do?’ she said. ‘Kill me?’
I took my hand away. Then I took a step back. She could’ve left if she’d wanted. But she didn’t move. She felt inside her coat pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The cigarette trembled as she put it to her lips. I took the lighter from her and fired the smoke.
‘Why did you come to me? What makes you think I’d help you?’ she said, letting smoke fall from her mouth.
‘The same reason you tried to stop your husband from having me killed.’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘Eddie gave me a choice.’
‘I asked Eddie to stop Victor,’ she said. ‘Or to help you. Did he?’
‘He tried, but not too hard.’
She nodded. I wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.
‘Why did you do that?’ I said.
‘You saved my daughter. My husband brought that man – Paget – to our house. He knew what he was, what he did.’
‘Eddie knew too.’
‘Eddie. Yes. Eddie knew.’
She said it softly. That spoke volumes. She expected her husband to be ruthless, but Eddie … that hurt, that was betrayal.
‘You said you needed my help. How?’
‘I need to find a man called Michael Glazer. He’s a copper.’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Your husband has. He’s got him somewhere.’
A car horn blared twice.
‘Oh Christ,’ she said. ‘They’ll come soon. I have to go.’
She dropped the cigarette, stamped it out.
‘I have to go,’ she said again.
‘Glazer’s in danger. He’s got something your husband wants, and your husband will get it from him. Now, you know something important. You could go to the police with what I’ve told you, but that would end in a bloodbath at worst, imprisonment for your husband and Eddie at best. I’d go in quietly, get Glazer out.’
‘Why would I help you? Aren’t you just the same as the rest of them? As Victor and Eddie? Why would you risk your neck for this man Glazer?’
‘I knew a woman once. Paget killed her.’
It wasn’t an answer, and I thought she was probably too smart to fall for my spiel. What choice did I have? If I’d told her I wanted to kill Glazer, she’d have run a mile.
She looked at me, into me.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember what you said to him, to Paget. She was someone you loved?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She was.’
She nodded.
‘Paget … he mocked you for loving her.’
I don’t know why that mattered to her, but it seemed to.
Then we heard a creak and we both looked at the back door. The handle turned and I threw myself back against the wall of the cafe, to the side of the door. I pulled my gun and held it at head height.
The door opened and I heard a man’s voice.
‘What are you doing, Mrs Dunham?’
The doorway was recessed and the door opened inwards. Flat against the wall, I couldn’t see the man. Dunham’s wife stood directly before the doorway, her face white, her eyes fixed. If the bloke moved forward a step, he’d see me.
‘I, uh …’ the woman said.
Then another voice; this one younger.
‘She’s not in the bog,’ the voice said. ‘Oh, Mrs D. You said you were gonna use the bathroom.’
‘I just wanted some fresh air. And a moment to myself,’ she said, her voice tight.
‘We’re supposed to be with you all the time, Mrs Dunham,’ the older voice said.
‘I know, Matt. I’m sorry. But this is just a walled garden out here. And I’m by myself, so it’s okay. You go back to the car, I won’t be long.’
The men didn’t move, didn’t say anything. I wondered about that and my hand tightened on the grip of my Makarov.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she said. ‘I just wanted a moment by myself. I’m surrounded by you lot day and night. The only person I can talk to is my daughter, and she’d rather be at school with her friends. Just go back to the bloody car. I won’t be long then you can lock me in and throw away the key.’
‘We’re only doing what we’re told, Mrs Dunham.’
She sighed.
‘I know, Matt. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.’
‘We’ll grab a coffee inside. We’ll wait for you there, alright?’
‘That’s fine. Thanks.’
The door closed and I let my gun down.
She took out another cigarette and lit it and stood in the middle of the yard, looking down at the paving stones and the weeds pushing their way through the cracks.
‘Shit,’ she said, brushing some of her hair back.
I stayed with my back against the wall, watching her.
‘I heard Vic on the phone,’ she said finally. ‘He was talking to Eddie. He said, “We’ve got him at the factory.”’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. Vic’s got lots of places, all over London and Essex, but I never heard of a factory.’
That had been my fear. She couldn’t help me, even if she’d wanted to.
‘Does that help?’ she said.
‘No. I don’t know where that is. I could try asking around, but it’ll take time.’
We stood there for a while. The drizzle was getting heavier. Those two inside would start to wonder why Dunham’s wife would want to stand out in the rain.
‘You’d better go,’ I said. ‘Or they’ll come back for you.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
She dropped her cigarette and let it fizzle out on the wet floor. She wrapped her arms about her again and started to walk towards the door. But then she stopped and turned to me.
‘I could find out where it is,’ she said. ‘If it’s important. If you can help him, the man, Glazer.’
‘How?’
She shrugged.
‘I’ll ask someone. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t tell me. There’s a man called Andrew. He’s a business manager.’
So, she called this Andrew and asked him about any factories her husband owned. She told him she wanted a list of her husband’s properties. That was all she had to do. She wrote an address down and gave it to me.
‘Your husband will find out you were asking about it,’ I said to her.
‘I know.’
‘You’ll be in trouble.’
She laughed at that.
‘I’ve been in trouble a long time.’
Now, standing in the middle of that walled yard, with her arms wrapped around her like that, she seemed more alone, and I thought again of Brenda and wondered how alone she’d been, even when I’d been with her. Is that what we did to women – me and Dunham and Eddie and Paget and Marriot, all hurting them, making them suffer alone?
Here I was, lying to the woman, letting herself offer to get into the worst trouble with a violent man just so that I could exact my revenge on the man she thought I’d try to save.
Yes, that’s what we did. We made women suffer. We made them suffer alone. It’s what we’ve always done.
‘Tell them I had a gun,’ I said. ‘Tell them I threatened your daughter. They’ll believe that.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was past eleven by the time I found the industrial estate. The midday traffic was building up and my head had started to throb again. There was a dark, rainy sky, the lights from cars and lorries bouncing off the wet road and splintering into my eyes, the fumes smothering me, the engine noise drilling into my head.
It was a relief to get off the busy roads and into the estate.
I drove slowly, scanning the lock-ups and warehouses and the odd power generator. No vehicles passed me, there were no lights on in any of the buildings. There were no people that I could see, no sounds of industry. Some of the places had been closed up, wooden boards over the windows, graffiti on the walls.
There were trees around, and areas of overgrown grass and, running through the site were potholed roads. No repairs had been done to the roads in years. The whole place was rotting into the ground.
It was near the River Lea, so half of the estate faced a path with the river, straightened up into a canal, beyond. It seemed that the Lea had once been used here, maybe for transport, maybe for water or waste.
Plot 36 was at the end of one of the roads. There was a wooden sign screwed to the building. The paint had flaked, but the sign was still readable. ‘Curran Automotive Engineering’ it read and, below that, in smaller letters, ‘custom fuel systems – bespoke carburettors – fuel injection systems’. This was the factory, then. I stopped the car, reversed slowly and parked out of sight. Then I got out and neared the place gradually, the Makarov in my hand.
There was an eight-foot high, spiked, galvanized steel fence going around the whole lot, except for the opening for vehicles. In the middle of the plot, surrounded by tarmac, was a stubby single-storey building that looked like some kind of government place, council offices or something functional like that.
The brickwork was a dirty brown colour, the mortar almost black. The windows were large but divided into small panes, and the glass itself was frosted so that the whole building looked like a prison.
The fence and tarmac were a problem. I wasn’t going to get through that steel fence and getting over would be difficult. Even if I did that, I’d be exposed for ten seconds while I ran across to the building. If there were sentries, I’d be dead before I got a dozen yards. I could wander in through the vehicular entrance, but, again, I’d be exposed.
Because it was at the end of the estate, the river ran two sides and the road one side. The fourth side bordered a set of garages, all of which looked like they hadn’t been used in twenty years. The roof of one had fallen in, and a few broken cars lay about, their skeletons rusted, weeds growing up the sides. The earth was dragging them back.
On that fourth side, the windows of the building were small, narrow and high up, and I thought they probably belonged to the toilet block or something like that.
The garages were open to the road, no fencing or anything. I went into that lot.
I waited for a few minutes and watched. There were no CCTV cameras that I could see in plot 36, no patrols came round. For a moment, I had the feeling that it was all a trap, that as soon as I entered the building I’d be caught. But that was just panic. I got hold of it and got hold of my Makarov and felt better.
There’d be men inside the building, sure, but nothing I couldn’t handle. But then I noticed that there were no cars parked, and that only made sense if nobody was there. Dunham’s men would’ve come by car in case they were called away suddenly. Maybe Dunham’s wife had lied, or got it wrong. Maybe they’d come and gone. It always seemed to be too late.
I looked around the garage lot and saw something I could use. Over by one of the garages, half-covered in a tarpaulin, was a pile of tyres. I went over and tried to lift the first one. It wouldn’t budge, had become glued to the one below by years of decomposition. I kicked at the pile, using the flat of my foot and all my weight. A crack appeared between the first and second. I tried to lift it again, and this time it came.
It took a while, but it was quiet work, and, over that side of the building, I was sure I couldn’t be seen. Finally, I had a pile of tyres five feet high, standing next to the galvanized fence. I climbed on top of them, stepped up onto the top of the fence and let myself drop down to the other side, bending my knees to soften the impact. I landed quietly and stayed like that, in a crouched position. I’d stowed the Makarov. Now I reached for it and held it ready. Nothing happened. Nobody shouted. No sirens went off. No security lights came on.
I thought again about the lack of cars. They would’ve needed cars to get to a place like this, and there’d be at least one here if Glazer was here too. It had to mean I was too late.
There were two doors, one front, one back. Both were made of the same grey metal. Both were locked. I went around again, checking the windows this time. Mostly they were shut tight, with no way to open them from the outside short of
smashing them, but there was one on the far side that had been broken and was an inch ajar. It was a large window, and the bottom of it was only waste high. I put my fingers in the gap and pulled. It was tight, and it creaked as it opened. I froze. To me, in that quietness, the noise had sounded like a tree falling.
After a while, when there was no other sound, I opened the window more, pulling it quickly this time. When the gap was wide enough, I climbed in and found myself squatting in a small, carpeted corridor, with white walls and a couple of doors leading off. The carpet was good quality and meant my footsteps were noiseless. I’d bought a small torch with an adjustable lens to make the light larger. I opened the first door slowly, my gun ready, the light from my torch bouncing around. It was a small room, windowless and empty. Probably it had once been a storage room. I tried the next one and this was about the same, only smaller.
I moved down the corridor and through a fire door. I went through into a big space. This had to be the workshop. It smelled of metal and dust. It felt empty, gaping and cold.
I levelled my gun and moved the torch’s beam around. It was a long room, maybe fifty feet by twenty, and must’ve taken up half of the building. The ceiling was high and strip lighting ran the length. There were long metal benches along both sides of the room, and twisted metal shavings on the floor. There were small holes and angular patches where machinery had once been bolted to the benches. There was metallic dust all over the floor, and footprints in the dust. They could’ve been there years – or not.
I gripped the Makarov tightly, and moved forward slowly, listening, waiting.
When I’d gone the length of the room, I came up against the back wall, windows high up, too dirty to let much light in. To my right was another door, thick and heavy. I opened it slowly and stopped. The light here was enough so that I could see clearly.
The room was bigger than the workshop, and the windows larger. Probably it had been a place for fixing the motors; there was space for several cars. It was damp and cold and empty – except for the thin, metal-framed, plastic chair and the man tied into it.
To Fight For Page 20
