Dirty Weekend (Macrae and Silver Book 1)

by Alan Scholefield

  She had also taken him to a camping store and they had stolen a sleeping bag and a plastic groundsheet and she had brought him back with her to her lair under Hungerford Bridge.

  It was comfortable, much more comfortable than the dustbin room. He was warm. He was also excited. He was in the middle of things. It was better than home, that is until she popped a handful of pills and was out for nearly sixteen hours.

  When she woke she taught him how to beg on the trains and in the underground stations and in narrow passageways linking the various lines where it was difficult for people not to notice them.

  He wasn’t sure at the beginning why Gail had taken him back with her. Later he realised she wanted someone she could trust while she was zonked out. Someone who would watch her gear. There had been someone before him, a girl from the north, but she’d gone home.

  He needed Gail now. She would know where he could hide, where he’d be safe.

  He came down from his nest and said goodbye to the horses, then he climbed up to the window, pushed it open and swung himself through. It was still early and there was no one about.

  He was walking towards the end of the mews in the direction of Paddington Station when he saw the police car. It was parked on the opposite side of the street.

  He panicked. He turned and ran back to the stables, hoisted himself up and was through the window in a flash. The horses jerked in their stalls, turning wide eyes towards him. He shot up the ladder and flung himself down in the straw.

  He had only been back a few minutes when he heard locks being turned and chains lifted and the big stable doors were swung open. A young girl, not much older than himself, took a fork down from the rack and began to muck out each stall in turn. As she did so she spoke softly to the horses.

  Soon she would want more straw, he thought. Soon she would come up the ladder. He pushed himself further and further into the old straw until finally he was against the wall between the stable and the adjoining house. He moved along the wall, silently working himself as far from the top of the stairs as possible. He was now almost buried by straw and hidden by bales and pieces of old tack which had been thrown up there over the years.

  His hand touched something. He moved the straw away. He saw a small door, no larger than a trapdoor. It was held by a bolt and padlock. But neither had been used for many years and the woodwork was rotten. He waited until the girl went out into the mews to empty a bucket of water then he gave the padlock a wrench. The screws came away easily. He opened the little door and wriggled through. He found himself in the roofspace of the house next door. He pulled the trapdoor closed behind him.

  Chapter Twelve

  The telephone shattered Silver’s dream. He came bursting through into wakefulness like a missile leaving a silo. There was a faint memory of a languorous, golden moment but it was sucked away by the blast.

  Its very urgency caused him to sit up in bed, heart racing, stomach twisting.

  ‘Is that you, laddie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  Silver looked at the wall-clock. It was 10.45. He’d had three hours’ sleep. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Missing Persons have come up with a candidate. Eddie’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes.’ The phone went dead.

  Slowly Silver lowered himself back on to the pillow. The cold light of mid-morning seeped in through the yellow curtains. The whole apartment was yellow and orange: fitted carpets, sofa and chair coverings. They had had to go to the limit of their credit ratings. ‘In London you’re on the inside looking out,’ Zoe had said. ‘The inside’s got to be good.’

  Forty-five minutes. He didn’t have to rush. Shower, change, and another cup of coffee. Easy.

  A line of Thomson’s suddenly flashed into his mind: ‘A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was . . .’ It had had something to do with his dream.

  Was it about Zoe? He often dreamed about her. Sometimes he dreamed they were making love and he would wake and find her next to him and they would do it for real. And afterwards, if the sun was coming through the yellow curtains, the moments would be golden and languorous.

  Earlier, they had done a turnabout. He had got undressed and into bed and she had gone to work. He had lain in bed watching her dress. Her breasts were small and firm and high and she had no need for a bra. She sat on the bed to put on her tights and he had cupped his hand round one of her breasts and stroked it.

  ‘Like lemons,’ he had said. ‘Those big luscious Italian lemons.’

  She had removed his hand and crossed to the built-in wardrobe. ‘Don’t handle the fruit if you’re not going to buy.’

  ‘You want to try me?’

  ‘You’re very brave when you know you’re safe. Let’s save it for tonight.’

  ‘If there is a tonight. Christ knows what Macrae’s got up his sleeve.’

  She shrugged into a blouse and began to button it.

  ‘He’s a bastard,’ Silver said.

  ‘So?’ Her voice lost some of its playfulness.

  ‘We had a kid in for questioning. He sent me out to get him a cup of tea. When I came back there was blood all over the kid’s face. It’s not the first time either.’

  She didn’t react. It was as though she did not want to hear criticism of Macrae or the police in general, he thought. She was absolutely one hundred per cent certain that criminals deserved all they got and if people were a bit roughed up in the process that was just too bad. The police were angels and she was on the side of the angels.

  It wasn’t hard to understand why but it had the effect of making Silver’s own attitude ambivalent and he didn’t want to be surrounded by doubt. His family, with the exception of his mother, were dead against the police. Especially Ruth.

  My daughter Ruth, the lawyer. My son Leo, the police sergeant.

  Not quite the same ring, he thought.

  He wanted to defend the police, not find fault, yet Zoe in a sense turned him against himself.

  ‘You told me once you had to cut corners. If you didn’t you’d never get anything done.’

  ‘That’s not me. That’s Macrae. He’s got it tattooed on his forehead.’

  ‘No, it’s what you said. I remember.’

  She moved round the room busily and then went into the bathroom to put on her face. When she came out she said, ‘If you don’t like him why don’t you do something about it?’ She kissed him lightly on the forehead. ‘You thinking of an orgy tonight?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  He heard the chain being lifted and the locks turning and the door closing, then being relocked. This was what the holding cells at Cannon Row sounded like when they had a batch of prisoners.

  *

  At eleven twenty-five Silver finished dressing and finished his cup of coffee. He looked at himself in the long mirror in the bedroom. He saw a slender man of just over medium height dressed all in black. It was part of a style he had begun to develop at university. Black rollneck sweater, black leather jacket, black needlecord slacks and black loafers.

  He locked the apartment and went out on to the cold, blustery pavement. At precisely eleven-thirty an unmarked Ford Granada drew up beside him. Eddie Twyford was at the wheel. Macrae sat beside him. Silver got into the back. They grunted at each other. The car took off into the traffic.

  *

  ‘Caesar! Caesar! Where are you?’

  Maria walked down the drive between the hedges of laurel, calling the dog. The snow and sleet of the previous night had given way to racing clouds and a blustery wind and she was wearing a heavy sheepskin coat.

  ‘Caesar!’

  She was angry with the dog, yet, at the same time, she knew that she was only using him as a focal point. She was angry at herself; also frightened and guilt-ridden, and this was exacerbated by the hangover she felt from the mixture of sleeping pills and alcohol.

  She had slept badly then finally heavily and had woken up an hour ago to discover it was past ten o’clock.

&nb
sp; ‘Good boy!’ She tried to make her voice cajoling.

  She went down to the end of the drive where it joined a small road. Other drives to other houses began here and at the bottom of each drive were a couple of dustbins set out for collection later that day. Caesar was investigating some further up the road.

  ‘Here you are,’ she called.

  The phrase penetrated the dog’s mind because it was often used in conjunction with food. He came back in a fawning manner and took a dog biscuit from her hand while she slipped the catch of the lead on to his collar. As she did so she noticed a man at the end of the road. He had been looking towards her, now he turned and walked quickly away and got into a small white car.

  She felt better with Caesar on the lead. He was a big dog. If someone didn’t know how cowardly he was she supposed he might act as a deterrent.

  She walked back to the house and put Caesar into the kitchen. She was going out to do some shopping before everything closed up for the weekend. Suddenly she thought: I don’t have to meet Jack! All she needed to do was phone the house around six o’clock and tell him.

  On the other hand she wanted to do something. She did not want to sit at home. She went to her bedroom and picked up her bag.

  Or she could spend the Easter weekend in a hotel. But she thought of the faded country hotels around her. More like homes for the aged than lively establishments. Nothing would be more depressing than sitting at one end of a dining-room with the muzak turned low and half a dozen spinsters/divorcees/widows alone at their personal tables with their personal tomato ketchup bottles and their personal napkin rings.

  To hell with that.

  She locked the door and drove to the shops. The little white car was there but no sign of the man.

  *

  In the police car crossing London, Macrae and the driver Eddie Twyford were arguing about the route as usual.

  Eddie was saying, ‘. . . along the Euston Road, then the Caledonian Road, and into Holloway Road . . .’

  He was touchy about his knowledge of routes. He’d been a police driver in the old days and had worked for Macrae for the past few years, much to Wilson’s irritation. When Macrae talked of him, he would say, ‘There’re two things Eddie Twyford knows, cars and routes. That’s why I want him.’

  But, Silver thought, there was a third. Houseplants. Eddie and his wife lived in Tooting in a small council flat and you practically needed a machete to get into the living-room. Silver had been there several times. The foliage of spider plants, rubber plants, ficuses, ferns, Swiss cheese plants, hanging baskets of pelargoniums, was so luxurious that he would not have been surprised to see monkeys in the foliage or hear the distant beat of drums.

  Eddie was thin and bald and had a greying moustache. He had joined the police at the same time as Macrae but had never been promising material. Except as a driver. He could find his way anywhere in London better than most taxi drivers and was proud of it. Twice Macrae had saved him from being made redundant. The result was that for most of the time Eddie would have walked on hot coals for him. But not when he argued about routes.

  ‘The best way is through Regent’s Park, then along Camden Road,’ Macrae said.

  ‘Camden Road was jammed solid last time we went anywhere near it, guv’nor.’

  ‘That was because of a burst water-main.’

  Eddie swung the wheel savagely and they sped up Baker Street towards the Park. Almost immediately they were checked by traffic. Macrae scowled through the window.

  ‘What do you want me to do, guv’nor?’ Eddie said, angrily.

  ‘Go any way you like.’

  This is how it always ended, Silver thought, and again he wondered why Macrae bothered.

  Eddie usually kept up a running commentary about other people’s driving. ‘That’s right, don’t signal . . .’ or ‘What d’you think your brakes are for . . .?’

  Most of the time neither Macrae nor Silver took any notice.

  Now Eddie said, ‘Look at that bastard!’ pointing to a black man on a bicycle who was weaving in and out of the cars. ‘All the way from Trinidad to cause a bloody traffic jam in London.’

  ‘You just keep your eyes on the road,’ Macrae said, as Eddie turned to shout at the cyclist.

  Silver switched off. Something was troubling him. Zoe? No. His family? They always troubled him, but not any more than usual at this moment. Then he remembered. It was the dead man’s apartment.

  It was at the far end of the Fulham Road, one of a block of post-war flats, comprising sitting-room, bedroom, small kitchen and bathroom.

  A police constable had been on duty outside the door when they arrived sometime after midnight. To Macrae’s inquiry the PC said that Forensic hadn’t been yet.

  The two of them had gone in. Macrae had taken out his pen and used it to switch on the lights.

  ‘There’s something bothering me about Foster’s flat,’ Silver said to Macrae.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was too neat.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, I thought of what it would have been like if it’d been mine.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been neat.’

  Both Macrae and Silver were thinking the same thought. They were thinking of Macrae’s house. Silver was remembering the last time he had been there. Macrae had been so drunk he could hardly stand and Silver had had to put him to bed. This was not a rare occurrence and Silver had hated each occasion. He hated seeing Macrae – the good thief-taker – so paralysed he couldn’t find his way to his own room.

  The first time Silver had seen the interior of the house he had gagged at the unwashed dishes in the kitchen.

  ‘Well, go on,’ Macrae said.

  Silver thought of Foster’s living-room with the severe office furniture, the word processor, the photo-copying machine, the bookcase containing fifty or sixty video cassettes. Then the bedroom. A double-bed. Cheval mirror. Built-in cupboards. The bed neatly made, everything in its place.

  ‘It just doesn’t seem . . .’

  ‘You don’t murder someone because he’s neat.’

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ Eddie said to the driver in front.

  Macrae had turned to listen to Silver and now he waited for him to continue. Macrae took thieves because he had good contacts. The psychology of crime held little interest for him. When a crime was committed he would get on the telephone. The word would go out. He’d meet someone in a pub near King’s Cross and be halfway to solving it.

  But for the past two years he’d watched Silver at work. It was a different method from his own, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work. Just that it wouldn’t work most of the time.

  ‘It wasn’t only the neatness,’ Silver said. ‘I’ll have another look at it.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The estate was called the Douglas Garden Estate, which was a bitter irony. It lay in North London just beyond the borders of fashionable Islington. It had been created at the end of the nineteenth century by the wealthy philanthropist, Sir Gavin Douglas, for the new breed of factory workers drawn into London from the poverty-ridden countryside.

  Sir Gavin had visualised the kind of village – with vegetable gardens and roses round the doors – which they were used to, or which he thought they were used to, instead of the slums of Shoreditch and Whitechapel.

  His dream lasted until the 1960s when the town planners ripped it down and put in its place a series of high- and low-rise apartment blocks surrounded by lawns and trees, with concrete walkways and concrete playgrounds.

  On paper it had looked terrific. Now, less than thirty years later, it was suffering from neglect, vandalism, blight and the result of cheap-jack system building.

  Silver had never been to the Douglas Garden Estate and, as Eddie Twyford drove slowly into the grounds, he looked about him with a rising sense of disgust.

  At first, it seemed as though the place might have been the scene of some World War I battle. Trees w
ere stripped of their branches, the grass was churned into mud, the grey walls of one apartment block were stained by smoke, and many of the windows were boarded up with corrugated iron sheets.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Macrae said.

  ‘It looks like a bomb hit it,’ Silver said.

  ‘It did in a way,’ Eddie said. He turned to Macrae. ‘Remember 1986?’

  Silver knew that it had been the scene of a riot that had ended in a battle between the local youth and the police in which a policeman had been killed.

  The car moved slowly up one of the concrete roads which linked the apartment blocks.

  ‘You’re looking at a no-go area, laddie. We tell everybody there aren’t any in London. Well, this is one. The postmen don’t call here any longer. The milkmen won’t deliver. Nor will anyone else. And if you have a heart attack say your prayers because ambulances won’t come without police protection.’

  As Silver looked around, he could not see a living soul.

  Macrae read his mind. ‘They’re watching us all right. Don’t you mistake it.’ He waved at the grey concrete towers. ‘Every window’s like an eye. More crack’s sold here than anywhere else in London.’

  ‘What’s the name? Thack-something?’ Eddie said.

  ‘Thackeray.’

  The blocks had been named after famous authors: Thackeray House, Trollope House, Eliot House, Austen House and Dickens House. Silver doubted whether many books got read on the Douglas Garden Estate.

  ‘Here you are guv’nor,’ Eddie said, coming to a stop.

  ‘Thackeray House.’

  Macrae and Silver got out. Nothing moved. The cold wind blew scraps of paper on to a chain-link fence.

  ‘It’s like a bloody graveyard,’ Macrae said.

  And as he spoke something landed behind them with a terrible crash.

  Not more than a few feet away was a block of concrete about the size of a brick. It had smashed on landing and parts had struck the car. Eddie leaped out. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Silver was already racing into the front of the building. The lift had an Out of Order notice on the open doors and he took the stairs three at a time.