by Parker Bilal
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
Kostas tapped his protruding belly. ‘I eat too much, always, but I will die a happy man.’
‘Don’t we all?’
The Ithaka was almost empty, but still Drake took his usual table at the back, generally reserved for staff. Kostas brought over a bowl of ice and a bottle of ouzo. He sat and poured without asking, his eyes searching Drake’s face.
‘You’re good?’
‘Busy.’
‘On the news they say two people were found dead on a building site. No accident?’
‘No accident.’ Drake poured a splash of water into the glass and watched the liquid turn cloudy. He stared at it for a long while. ‘Someone crushed them to death on purpose.’
Kostas winced. ‘People are crazy. I’ve said that all my life, but you know what? Every day the world proves me right.’
‘He’s boring you? I can throw him out.’ Eleni set a plate of roasted lamb and pasta in front of Drake. ‘Kali órexi.’ She stood with her hands wrapped over her apron, as she always did, waiting for his approval. ‘He’s a one man show. All he is lacking is some of that pink sugar on his head.’
‘Candy floss?’
‘Exactly.’ She stroked her husband’s bald pate. ‘You like?’
‘Delicious. I don’t know why I eat anywhere else.’
‘Ah, be careful, you make him jealous.’
The two of them disappeared into the kitchen. Drake was happy to be left to his own thoughts. From time to time he glanced up at the television screen on the wall. Magnolia Quays was front and centre. Two people crushed to death made for a juicy story. A shaky camera panned across the rain-swept building site. Long shots of the workers and uniformed officers standing around. They tried to speak to a couple of labourers, but they seemed reluctant, shaking their heads and ducking away. Drake stopped chewing, his eyes scanning the faces, the movements of people in the background. Perpetrators had been known to hang around the scene of a crime, just to get a glimpse of the investigation. He reached for his glass as the images turned to shots of ambulances and police vehicles, SOCOs wandering around in their Teletubby suits looking lost. As the news moved on, Drake went back over the crime scene in his head. Was there something he’d missed?
His train of thought was broken as the door opened and five men entered. At the head of the line was the unmistakable figure of Adonis ‘Donny’ Apostolis. A short, stocky brute of a man with a bronzed shaven head and a goatee that made him look rather like a deranged jazz musician. He wore so many rings on his fingers it was hard to imagine how he got anything done. He led the way to a table in the middle of the room where he threw himself down. His goons settled around him like plump crows. They all subscribed to the same fashion code. Knock-off replicas of designer-label T-shirts, Dolce this and Armani that, all in black, matched with elasticated tracksuit pants to accommodate expanding waistlines.
Donny was the head of the Apostolis family. There were nine brothers and sisters. Their main legitimate enterprise was the furniture business. They brought it in from the Far East, adding to the decimation of Indonesia’s hard-wood forests in order to stock garden centres and furniture warehouses with crappy benches and lopsided tables. Who cares about the planet when there’s a market to exploit? Global entrepreneurs. They ran kebab bars, chip shops, cafés, hotels, car washes, fitness centres and lap-dancing clubs. The other stuff – the drugs, the stolen cars, the money laundering and what have you – took place behind the curtain of the legit stuff. Donny had connections everywhere, from Surabaya to Saint Petersburg, by way of Chicago, Sicily and Sinaloa.
They had posted a guard outside. Donny had enough enemies to dictate that he never took chances. Another sat waiting behind the wheel of the Merc. Drake picked out the one they called King – Donny’s closest bodyguard. Wherever Donny went, King went too. Small and compact, as mean as a circus dwarf on steroids, he had one glass eye, his real one lost in a fight back in the day. He also had a crown tattooed on the back of his neck. Drake couldn’t think of a lot of people with a tattoo like that. He wondered if Kardax would be able to recognize him from a mugshot. Even if he did, Drake knew there was a good chance the foreman would be reluctant to identify King.
Kostas greeted Donny who then launched into a long monologue in Greek. Time to leave. Drake got to his feet, placing a note on the counter as he went by.
‘Dibble Dibble. Who do I see?’
There was a gentle chorus of laughter from Donny’s entourage. People around Donny tended to laugh when he did. Most of his musclemen had the IQ of a dumb-bell. They chortled now. Probably had no idea who Top Cat’s policeman was. Donny waved him over, eyes and rings glinting in the harsh neon.
‘Officer Dibble. You know, when I see you, I see a dead man walking.’ In his right hand Donny carried a rosary. He was always flipping the prayer beads. Some kind of nod towards respectability. He saw himself as a responsible member of his community, but he still looked like a thug flipping a string of beads.
‘What’s happening, Donny?’
‘You see?’ He grinned like a shark, revealing a flash of gold from an eye tooth. ‘We’re like old friends. Our fates are tied together in a way that the ancients would understand.’
‘You always had a lively imagination, Donny.’
Donny threw back his head and laughed like a hyena on speed. ‘You see why I love this man? He has spirit. Not like the other malakias. In the old days I would have cut him into pieces and roasted him on the grill like lamb’s kidneys. I’m kidding, eh? I’m just kidding. Come and have a drink.’
‘Sorry, no drinking with the clients.’
Donny wagged a finger. ‘Now you’re being impolite.’
‘Some other time.’
‘Ah, you’re busy chasing the little criminals.’
‘Someone has to do it.’
‘Keeping the world safe. Good for you.’ Somewhere underneath that waxed glare lurked a very dangerous animal, one that could turn in a heartbeat.
‘I’ll be seeing you, Donny.’ Drake reached for the door. He would have made it if one of the goons hadn’t stepped in his way. King. Drake held his gaze.
‘Just the man I was looking for. I hear you’ve been nosing around Magnolia Quays.’
King’s face scrunched itself up into a scowl. For a second Drake thought he was going to take a swing at him. Instead, he looked over towards his boss. Donny got to his feet and clicked his fingers. King stepped aside. Donny leaned in close.
‘You know, I liked you better in the old days, when you didn’t take your work so seriously.’
‘What can I tell you, Donny? We all have to move with the times. When did you take an interest in the construction business?’
‘Who said I did? You know who you remind me of?’ Donny snapped his fingers. ‘That movie about the Indian who becomes a cowboy, then he becomes an Indian again?’ He drew blank stares from his audience. Finding Nemo was more their style. ‘Dustin Hoffman? I love that movie. No, I swear. I love it. Just like you, I’m never sure whose side you’re on.’
‘See you around, Donny.’
CHAPTER 14
Outside, Drake stood for a moment in the rain and took a deep breath to clear his head. Battersea Park Road was quiet. Too early for the gangbangers, too late for the commuters. He waited for a double-decker bus to hum by before crossing the street on foot, cutting through the car park and between the Neptune Chip Shop and the Hot Thai Take Away. There was the usual collection of smokers hanging on the stairs beneath the sign for the Anchor. Ducking through the shadows, Drake turned a corner towards the block where he lived.
The row of flats was originally built as council housing but most had been sold off over the years. Drake had been lucky. He came home at the right time. One good thing you could say about the war. Up on the top floor, Drake still enjoyed a view of the London skyline that was the envy of many an estate agent. How long it would last was anybody’s guess. At the rate they were bui
lding round here he would soon be staring at another block of luxury lifestyle units, or whatever the current term was.
The hallway was dark. Nobody had managed to change the lightbulb yet. The lift clanked and creaked so much that Drake generally felt safer taking the stairs. On the floor below his he hesitated. He could hear music from the door on the right. Stan Getz and João Gilberto. ‘The Girl From Ipanema’. Drake leaned a hand on the doorframe, debating whether to knock. As if by magic the door opened.
‘You think you can just walk by my door and not stop?’
‘It’s late and I’m tired,’ said Drake, but he was already addressing an empty space. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
The entrance was lit only by a faint red light that came from within a fusebox on the wall. Cal felt his way along until he could find the opening to the kitchen. Maritza was already fixing him a drink, pouring dark rum over ice and a slice of lime before sashaying through the bead curtain on the other side. Drake picked up the glass as he followed her through to the living room.
She threw herself down into an old leather armchair that seemed to have given up all hope of having a shape. He sank into the sofa opposite.
‘Where’s Joe?’
‘Ah, my god!’ She slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘He’s driving me crazy.’
Joe, or João, as he was properly named, was Maritza’s seven-year-old boy.
‘Always he’s asking questions. How can a child’s head be so full of ideas?’
Drake had to smile. He sipped his drink while she talked. About her boy, but also about her work. Canvasses were stacked four or five deep along the walls. It was a mystery to him, but Maritza somehow made a living from painting. She drew pictures of strange still lifes. He didn’t know how else to describe them. Giant ravens spread out over stark forests. The paintings were haunting yet not scary. They seemed to represent some kind of magical world. It always amazed him that they had all come from inside the head of one person.
The two of them had met a couple of months ago, when Cal had seen her struggling up the stairs with shopping bags in one hand and a child writhing about in the other. He hesitated, knowing that sometimes help was not welcomed, but by the time they had made it up another flight she relented. They looked at one another, and although they had never really exchanged anything more than a passing greeting, there was an immediate understanding. He reached out and she handed him the bags.
‘Pride will only get you so far,’ she muttered.
‘You’d do the same for me, right?’ he grinned.
‘Right.’
In return she had cooked a meal for him, the first of many. On the second date they had slept together. Drake wasn’t the most expressive person in the world. He knew that. He tended to push people away from him, afraid of getting too close. But in Maritza he had found someone who basically wanted the same. She had her life in place. She worked, earned enough to feed herself and her child.
‘I’m not looking for some kind of sugar daddy,’ she told him.
‘That’s good,’ Drake laughed, ‘because you’re not looking at one.’
They finished their rum and then it was late. Drake watched her get to her feet and walk over towards the hallway. She turned around when she reached the doorway. Then she reached down to the hem of her dress and pulled it slowly up over her head.
‘Are you coming ?’
He woke in the early hours, shivering and bathed in sweat The sound of a helicopter drifting away over the rooftops. It always happened like this. The chop of rotors brought out a visceral reaction. It triggered something deep in his memory, brought him awake, no matter how deeply he had been sleeping. It was always there, waiting to be found again.
The sky tilted and through the open side of the Westland Lynx, the earth rushed up to meet them. They were east of Basra when they were hit by small-arms fire. An occupational hazard, but the bullets must have hit something vital. The aft rotor whined that it was out of action. Black smoke began streaming into the cabin. Alarms went off as they spun round in space losing height. The pilot did his best to right the machine as they went down. The strange keening sound of that helicopter as it went down was wired into his memory. Even in sleep, he felt it. His body tensing, getting ready to run or fight, getting ready to die.
Cal’s leg was broken in three places when they struck the ground. Of the six people on board, only he and one other survived, Corporal Jamie Miller, whose spine was broken on impact. Drake managed to pull Miller from the machine, dragging both of them through the sand on his back with his one good leg. A bloody shard of bone protruded from the other. Flames were already licking around the interior. Sparks sputtered from the wiring. Miller was screaming. There was no way Drake could get anyone else out.
By the time they reached the shelter of a long mound of earth beside an irrigation ditch they were already under attack. Light automatic weapons coming from a line of date palms across a sodden field. Drake managed to return fire, holding off the insurgents until help arrived.
It was 3 a.m. as he climbed the stairs to his own flat. The layout was identical to Maritza’s place, but unlike hers, his looked abandoned. There were cardboard storage boxes stacked by the door that for some reason he had never got round to unpacking. A pile of coats hung from a rack that was falling off the wall. Plates were stacked in the kitchen sink. He walked straight past them to stand by the window. Dawn was still some hours away, but the night sky was bright with the glow of artificial light. The four towers of Battersea power station stood out like the pillars of a shattered temple. The horizon was still dotted with angry red eyes; the warning lights on dozens of crane rigs that ranged across the skyline. He didn’t bother undressing and going to bed. Instead he threw himself down on the sofa and lay there. Through the window he watched the sky unfolding, clouds sliding overhead, their colours shifting from purple to orange and black. After a while his eyes closed, and for a time he found peace.
CHAPTER 15
The early hours found Ray Crane still restless. The previous evening she had allowed herself to be talked into taking part in a discussion panel on Radio Four. One of those late-night programmes that nobody ever listens to. It didn’t matter. She found herself facing a spokesman for the new populism. His line was that Britain was under siege. ‘We are under attack. Our way of life is under threat,’ he kept saying.
‘Who is “we”?’ she asked, several times. He sidestepped the question.
It wasn’t that she lacked experience. She was more than adequate when it came to defending her position, and she was usually good at sniffing out set-ups. In this instance she had not seen it coming. Her opponent had been primed and the presenter had soft footed around him, allowing him to speak unimpeded, which left Ray to pick up the pieces. You never knew nowadays with broadcasters.
It was not the first time she had felt annoyed with herself following a media appearance. She hated the things, but she knew it was necessary. Nowadays if you weren’t working on raising your profile you were basically busy sinking without trace.
She changed out of her clothes and went straight into a workout in the downstairs gym area. She warmed up with a skipping rope and then went at the heavy bag with punches and kicks until the sweat was pouring down her face. Then she took a shower and padded upstairs in a tracksuit to her office.
The practice was located in an extensive terraced house that lay on one of those little mews behind Paddington Station. The narrow street that dipped down from the main road was still covered in cobblestones from the days when these buildings were stables. There were people who would have killed for a place like this but Ray had simply inherited it all from her former employer, the late, rather eccentric Doctor Julius Rosen.
Five years ago, after her career hit an unexpected bump, Ray had opted out. She spent two years travelling the world. It would be fair to say she went off the rails. Things got pretty wild for a time. She just wanted to get away from it all, to lose herself i
n the world, and for a time she did. Berlin, Barcelona, Prague, Paris, then further afield; Beirut, Bamako, Nairobi, Marrakesh. A few months here, a few weeks there. She kept herself moving, refusing to put down roots or form lasting bonds.
In the end, standing on the sea front in Lamu she saw that she was coming to the end. Running out of funds and desperate for work, tired of the despair that comes from aimless wandering, she came home. She missed the discipline of being a professional, the intellectual challenge. She was tired of punishing herself. Julius Rosen took her in. He was, by any measure, one eccentric character. His partner had recently died, and he was trying to run the practice alone. Ray was young and hungry, and had enough of an offbeat streak to endear her to him. He took her on as a junior partner. They each had an office on either side of the staircase. The central area was a shared reception office, run by the dutiful Heather, who had worked there for years. At some point the ground-floor garage was converted into a communal living space that was now her home. Julius thought this only fair; she had been crashing there since she had first appeared on his doorstep after all.
Both of them needed the operation to work, and it did. To say they got along well would be an understatement. They understood one another to the point where they could finish each other’s sentences. Julius Rosen realized that he had stumbled upon the perfect partner.
‘If we were just a couple of decades closer in age I could have married you,’ he once said. ‘It would have been ideal.’
‘Except for the fact that you’re gay.’
‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘nobody’s perfect.’
Perhaps not, but their partnership worked well enough for both of them. It was almost too good to be true. Then, nine months ago, Julius had been diagnosed with a brain tumour. Three months later he was dead. Ray was left to run the whole place by herself. She thought about finding a new partner to share the practice, and even interviewed a couple of people. But somehow it never felt quite right. It was as if bringing someone else in would be a betrayal of what she and Julius had had together. So everything had remained the way it was. Every morning, Heather would dutifully go through to his side and water all the plants, as if he was just away on holiday, and not dead at all. But along with the practice, Ray had also inherited a sizeable hole in his accounts. Apparently, Julius had been borrowing against the house, which left Ray with a choice; give up the property or try and pay off the money he owed. It wasn’t a huge amount, but the payments along with general overheads meant she found herself struggling to decide which to pay and which to hold off.
