by Chris Parker
‘Are you listening to me now? Are you taking more notice than you did when I told you to prioritise keeping two coppers outside that hospital door? Are you starting to understand the magnitude of your arrogant mistake?’
‘It … It wasn’t arrogance.’
‘You chose to ignore me! You – you! – decided I was wrong! You made the deliberate decision to do the precise opposite of what a senior officer told you to do! You did this, no fucker else!’ Peter paused, taking a deliberate breath, using the brief silence to increase the pressure, managing and directing his very real anger with deliberation. Now it was time to lower his voice, to condense the emotion. ‘So, tell me Barry, who’s going to clean your mess up? Eh? Who’s going to appease the Superintendent, front the media, reassure the people of Nottingham? Who’s gonna catch him again Barry? Is it you?’ Peter leaned forward, resting both hands on the desk that separated them. His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. He didn’t need to shout anymore. Everyone else had seen and heard enough. The story of this interaction would spread just as he needed it to, a quick and powerful reminder that you didn’t ignore Jonah’s instructions. ‘Is it going to be you, Barry?’ He asked again. ‘Or is that person going to be me?’
‘It’s going to be you,’ Barry’s voice was as low as his gaze.
‘Too fucking right.’ Peter straightened. ‘And I suggest you keep your fingers crossed that I get him before some poor unfortunate in Nottingham pays an unnecessary price.’
‘Why…Why are you so sure he’ll stay here?’
‘Three reasons, if you must know. One, he’s a loner. He doesn’t have anyone to help him. Two, he’s not a professional at this sort of thing. So without real criminal advice he won’t be able to move far without us spotting him. And three…’ Peter’s voice trailed off. This time his hesitation was not a deliberate ploy to stress the other man; this time it was something altogether different. He felt the fear twist and tug in his stomach. ‘Three, I know this man. I’ve had an insight into his mind, into his motives. He won’t try to leave the city – at least not for a while yet. He’s got unfinished business.’
18
Ethan Hall was finding it almost impossible to ignore the stench inside Darren’s house. He managed it as well as he could by treating it as a training exercise in attention management, by focussing on something else or nothing at all. ‘If you can control your sense of smell, you can control any aspect of yourself,’ he murmured, gazing at the filthy lounge carpet and letting his mind wander back to the night he had almost killed Marcus Kline, particularly to the sound, sight and feeling of the two bullets penetrating his chest.
The memory was broken by Darren opening the front door. His stink preceded him. ‘I’ve got it, mate.’ Darren was talking even before he was in the room. ‘What you’ve been waiting for. From Calvin Brent himself. Look. Message in a bottle.’ He grinned, gap-toothed and proud of his offering.
‘It’s an envelope, not a bottle.’
Darren shrugged. ‘Just a saying, mate. That’s all.’ He handed it over and then stepped back a pace, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.
‘Sit down. Tell me precisely what happened.’
Darren sat. ‘I met up with one CB’s boys – a big fella, called Matt –’
‘- I know him.’
‘Do you? Oh, well, he didn’t say.’
‘No.’
Ethan’s smile barely slit his face. It made Darren think of a cut made by a stiletto just a fraction of a second before the blood started leaking. He couldn’t help but scratch the scar on the palm of his left hand. ‘So, er, so he gave me the envelope, told me it was private business between you and the boss.’
‘Is that all he said?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Then that isn’t all he said, is it?’
The smile seemed to harden before it disappeared.
‘The only other thing was that I had to act, you know, as the go-between from now on.’
‘Between me and Brent?’
‘Between you and them, yeah. To be honest mate, you won’t get near CB again. That’s not how it works. He always keeps his distance. Truth be told, you did better than most getting to meet him in the first place. No, it’ll be Matt I meet with.’
‘Unless I tell you otherwise.’
‘Yeah. Well, sure. But there’ll be no need for that will there? I mean, you’ve got all the info in there, right?’ Darren gestured towards the envelope on Ethan’s lap.
‘How do you know what’s in here?’
‘I don’t really. It’s just that Matt told me there was everything you’d need and you’d know what to do once you’d read it. He said ‘e’d see you t’morrow.’
‘He said that?’ Ethan straightened.
‘Yeah. ‘E said ‘e was gonna be yo’r driver for the next couple of days. Didn’t seem too ‘appy about it, t’be ‘onest with ya.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?’
‘Because I figured you already knew! C’mon mate, I’m doing my best ‘ere! I’m on your side, you know that!’
‘Of course I do.’ Ethan looked at the envelope as he spoke. ‘Make sure it’s the side you stay on.’ He used his right forefinger to pry open the sealed flap and took out the folded sheet of paper. It took less than a second to read. It was not the list of addresses he’d asked for. Instead there was just one blunt directive from Calvin Brent. One sentence. One instruction.
Be ready for pick-up at 10am.
The crime boss was making a point, showing him who was in control. Ethan stared at the sheet of paper; wished it were a face.
A few feet away, Darren recoiled from the sudden cold rush of emotion flooding the room. He pushed himself back into his stained corduroy armchair. It was a futile gesture. There was no escape. No high-ground. For a second, crazily, he was sure he was drowning.
Ethan felt his rage pulsing against his skin. He let it grow. Wordless. A violent meditation. A silent promise. He rode it back to the shore. And realised Darren was holding his breath.
‘I wonder why Matt’s not too happy about being my driver?’ Ethan couldn’t keep the smirk from his face. He didn’t wonder at all. Matt would still be reliving the fact that he’d come within a heartbeat of putting a bullet through his own brain. He’d be terrified, and pretending to his boss that he wasn’t. Calvin Brent, on the other hand, was a fool. He was a fool for showing his hand so brazenly. He was a fool for not being afraid. He was a fool for giving him Matt again. But, then, Ethan reflected, it didn’t really matter who his driver was. He would own them regardless.
‘I, er, I dunno why ‘e’s feelin’ that way mate.’ Darren managed to breathe out an answer. ‘I’d of thought it was just a normal job fer ‘im, all in a day’s work if y’know what I mean? After all, why should it be anythin’ else?’
‘Why indeed?’ Ethan imagined fresh, garden air and inhaled deeply.
‘Tha’s right!’ Darren nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’ll just be a straight-forward thing, ‘course it will. And once you’re done, I reckon Matt ‘ll fill CB in on all the details, I’ll report back what he says and we’ll all be quids in.’
‘There’ll be nothing to report back. I’m not one of Brent’s lackeys. We have a business deal and once the business is done, the deal is over. Then…’ Ethan looked up at the grimy ceiling, ‘…we’re both free to pursue our own agendas.’
‘I know what you’re saying mate. I really do. It’s just that CB decides when the business is over. People don’t tell him. He tells them. I’m only saying, ‘cos, you know, you’re my mate an’ that.’
‘I’m not people.’
‘Course not.’ Darren swallowed.
‘Then make sure you remember it. It’s just like you said, I can do things no one else can. So the one thing you can be sure of mate, is that it’ll be crystal clear to everyone – including him – when my business is finished. Do you understand?’
‘Yeah. Sur
e. Whatever you say.’
‘That’s right. That’s always how it is. It’s always whatever I say.’ The smile returned abruptly, wider this time, open like a wound.
Darren squeezed his left hand until it hurt.
19
The world was pressing in from every direction. That’s how it felt. As if there was a critical mass surrounding him, tightening its grip, providing an unrelenting three-hundred-and-sixty-degree compression without the slightest indication of an escape route or shelter.
For the first time ever, Marcus Kline was finding himself lost for words. The pressure wasn’t just taking his breath away it was taking his words also, inside and out. He was struggling to think clearly. He was struggling to speak with skill and authority. The cracks Ethan had caused in his confidence and sense of superiority, cracks he had barely been able to cope with, were suddenly spreading and widening at an alarming speed.
‘The structure of your own identity,’ he said as if talking to a client rather than himself, ‘that very structure is in danger of falling apart. And if it goes…’
His voice stopped as the words disappeared, leaving him once again with only an awareness – even that more like shadows in a fog than his once taken for granted clarity – of the frightening internal emptiness beyond his control.
Marcus kept walking. It was 9.30am. The early morning city rush was over. The streets were still relatively busy, but most people who came here to work were already hard at it. Marcus, disoriented by the fog, was able – just – to steer a path without bumping accidently into anyone. Once upon a time, and it seemed a very long time ago, he had welcomed the bustle and energy of a crowded street. It had been one of his many playgrounds. A place to observe, read and influence others. Now he was incapable of giving those around him the attention that used to come so easily. Now he just kept moving because it was the only alternative open to him.
One of his favourite maxims was, When you can’t move your body, move your mind; when you can’t move your mind, move your body. He had shared it with many of his clients and fans through his talks and writing. It had even formed a major part of one of his first books. He had never considered he would one day be so desperate, so close to breaking completely, he would apply it to himself.
Marcus was making his way to his office on High Pavement, a fashionable street on the edge of the Lace Market, one of Nottingham’s trendiest areas. He had parked in the Victoria Centre car park nearly a mile away on the other side of the city. He was trying desperately to use the movement to get the voice and words of Peter Jones out of his mind.
Peter had met with him and Anne-Marie at their rented house in the valley. His best friend had, once again, turned into the terse, sharp-edged, professional Marcus had clashed with when Ethan first entered their lives. Only this time the DCI was even more direct, even more authoritative.
‘You both need to be in a safe house. So let me do my job and get you out of here.’
‘No.’ Marcus hadn’t even looked at his wife. ‘We won last time and we’ll win again. We’ve lost one home already.’
‘This isn’t a home. It’s a bolthole. Last time you’d have died if you hadn’t been lucky. And you’ve both got enough to manage without the increased stress of having to worry about Ethan.’ Peter did look at Anne-Marie. She was staring out of the window.
‘Last time you didn’t know who you were looking for. This time you do.’ Even though Marcus kept his gaze fixed on the detective, he’d seen Anne-Marie flinch at the word bolthole. ‘Ethan might be unique, but he isn’t a professional at this stuff. He can’t evade you for long, can he?’
‘It’s not a question of how long he can stay free; it’s a question of how much damage he can cause whilst he is. I’d have thought you’d have learnt by now, it doesn’t take long to ruin or end a life.’
‘If you follow that logic through, he can be caught in a minute too.’
‘Would you get out of your arse!’ Peter exploded. ‘If you’re not shit-scared, you bloody well should be! And if you are, there’s no shame in admitting it! For Christ’s sake, just make this as easy as possible for all of us! This is as real and as bad as it gets!’
Even with the terror coursing through his veins, Marcus couldn’t help but look at the DCI and think of a volcano, powerful and still – immoveable – firing from its core. Only a fool would choose to hold his ground and attempt to divert what was heading his way, only a fool or someone incapable of moving. At that moment, Marcus reflected, he had probably been both. That was why he was making himself walk today. Better late than never.
Hopefully.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ he had said. ‘We’re not running away just because you can’t do your job.’
‘What?’
‘You lost him. It seems to me that, having both been victims of Ethan, we’re now both victims of police incompetence.’
‘You’re treading on very dangerous ground!’
Anne-Marie took a step closer to the window, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
‘Why should stating the facts be dangerous?’ Marcus retorted. ‘I always thought that’s what the police longed for. Or is it that you only welcome facts when they support you?’
‘You have no idea what you are talking about! The fact of the matter – the fact that matters above all else – is that I can only guarantee your safety if you do what I’m saying.’
‘So you’re admitting you can’t protect us if we stay here, where we need to?’
The volcano shuddered briefly. ‘I’m saying, as with all things in life, it makes sense to avoid unnecessary risk. Especially when your life is on the line!’
‘Just because you managed to lose him, it doesn’t follow that he’ll come after me again. And even if he does, it doesn’t follow that he’ll come out on top. Last time he took me by surprise. He doesn’t have that advantage anymore.’
‘This is not a fucking sporting competition! And it isn’t all about you and your overgrown ego!’ Peter took a step back and forced himself to release his clenched fists. He offered his open palms as a sign of peace. ‘Listen, please, if you can’t do this for yourself, at least do it for Anne-Marie.’
For the first time both men looked at her. She shook her head silently, her eyes fixed, unblinking, on the view over the fields. ‘Wherever you move us I’ll take what’s inside with me,’ she said simply. ‘And it won’t stop you two fighting. Ethan Hall’s a cancer. His presence in the world is corrosive. There’s no location can change that.’
‘So you want to stay here?’ Peter’s voice softened.
‘Why not?’ Anne-Marie’s eyes watered. ‘I think I need to be selfish.’
‘Then I’ll arrange a visit from a crime prevention officer. He’ll sort out an alarm and offer some advice about personal security. It would be really good if you follow it.’
‘Of course.’ Anne-Marie forced a smile.
‘If you both follow it.’
‘Count me in.’ Marcus’s smile was a deliberate victory signal, intended to annoy. He had hoped that Peter Jones couldn’t see past it.
20
‘Wow, it’s you!’
Marcus came out of his reverie and peered through the fog clouding his brain. At first the man in front of him was a dull grey shape, blocking his path, impossible to see beyond.
‘You’re Marcus Kline! What are the odds of that?’
‘They’re not exceptional. I’ve always been Marcus Kline.’ The words were quick and aggressively defensive, just as they had been when addressing Peter. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Dave, Dave Johnson, I, er, unexpectedly found myself involved in your story a few months ago.’
‘My story?’ Marcus heard himself ask the unnecessary question and felt the colour draining from his face. The man had already given the game away, so why had he felt the need to double-check? The answer was simple: you double-check because when self-belief goes, the ability to trust your own skills and per
ception goes with it. Even if those skills and that level of perception have marked you out as one of the very best in the world.
I used to believe I was the best. Now a man who’s obviously a reporter stops me and I still doubt myself.
‘You’re right. It’s not just your story. It’s the story of you and Ethan Hall.’ Johnson spread his hands apologetically. ‘Didn’t mean to short-hand your experience.’
Marcus’s vision was clearing in the heat of his anger. ‘So, to go back to your original question, the odds were all stacked in your favour. You know where my office is and you’re hanging around waiting to see me. The thing that really fucks me off is that you know who I am and what I do and you still decided you could get away with some bullshit ‘who’d have thought it?’ approach. So I’ll tell you what Dave, let’s call a spade a spade, you’re a low-grade alcoholic reporter who’s fucked up his life and is grabbing desperately at something that touched him somehow in some vague way, in the hope that if he’s lucky he’ll have his own thread bare story to tell the other early morning drinkers – in there and the other places where I’m sure you’re much better known.’
Marcus was standing outside The Cross Keys pub. It was less than two hundred yards from his office. It was the place where Simon Westbury, his young and unbelievably enthusiastic protégé, used to breakfast most days of the week.
Used to.
Before Ethan Hall killed him in horrific fashion in what had been his final, perverse message to Marcus prior to his own terrifying confrontation.
