Little Triggers

by Martyn Waites

  Harvey screwed his face up, pushed his hands so tightly into his face that his fingertips began to turn white from the pressure, and slow trickles of blood began to seep through the cracks between his fingers. A low whimpering, muffled by his fingers, started. And Harvey’s body began to contract until his head was on the table and his elbows were tucked into his chest.

  Larkin reached over and grabbed hold of Harvey’s hands, attempting to prise them from his face. Harvey’s whining increased in pitch but he held on, tenaciously.

  “Give it up!” hissed Larkin. With one last surge of strength he forced Harvey’s hands down. Harvey, face uncovered, began to cry, his body as limp as a ragdoll.

  “Tell us his name,” Larkin commanded, steel in his eyes.

  Harvey threw his head back. “I’m dead! I’m dead!” he shouted, stamping his feet furiously, shaking his shoulders, all control gone. “I’m dead! I’m dead …” He repeated it over and over, like a mantra. As Larkin and Andy watched, Harvey began to wag his head to and fro as if it had become loose; his eyes took on a glassy, distant look.

  “Reckon we’ve lost him,” said Andy, sadly.

  Larkin sighed. “Reckon you’re right. Let’s call the police.”

  “What the hell happened to him?” the uniformed constable asked Larkin when he saw the state Harvey was in.

  “Fell down the stairs,” Larkin replied.

  “Pity he didn’t fall a bit harder,” the policeman said with a knowing smirk. “Will he be pressing charges, d’you think?”

  “I doubt it very much,” said Larkin.

  “Good. Makes it easier to see who the villains are. Mind you,” the constable leaned in conspiratorially, “once they get with their briefs it makes them brave.”

  Larkin glanced at Harvey. The man, still sitting on a kitchen chair, seemed to have passed into a persistent vegetative state. “I don’t think this one’s going to give you any trouble.”

  When the police had been mentioned, Harvey had freaked out. He had jumped up, made a pathetic, staggering run to the door, shouting the whole time. Larkin and Andy had grabbed hold of him; he had struggled, flailing his arms about like a madman. Larkin managed to pin the man’s arms by his side while Andy rooted through the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen, eventually tugging a length of electrical flex from a lamp and binding his wrists together. Once bound, Harvey had become motionless, silent, as if the last remnants of his personality had been extinguished.

  Larkin had initially tried to contact Moir, but was unable to reach the big man. He then dialled 999 and asked for police and an ambulance.

  While waiting for the emergency services to arrive, Larkin and Andy checked out the tapes from the security cameras, hoping for clues as to the third man’s identity. But when they shoved the tape in the machine, the screen filled with nothing but static. They tried a different tape: same thing.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” said Andy in exasperation, “the bastard’s wiped them. They don’t take any chances this lot, do they?”

  “Bollocks,” said Larkin.

  “Back to square one.”

  Larkin’s eyes acquired a glint. “Maybe not.”

  Before Andy could inquire further, the two boys were stretchered out; no permanent physical damage, one of the paramedics said, but as for the effect on their psyches, who could tell? Larkin then gave the CID men an account of his involvement that was nothing if not creative: playing down Andy’s surveillance, playing up the element of chance in finding the house. Larkin stressed the fact that they had been invited in, even threw Moir’s name into the conversation to add credibility. CID took full statements, saying they would have the rest of the “ring” – meaning Haining and Noble – in custody by that evening.

  After Harvey’s house had been securely locked and the police had left, Larkin turned to Andy. “We’d better get going – back to Newcastle.”

  “Hold on a moment,” said Andy, puzzled.

  Larkin, on his way to the car, stopped. “What?”

  “I said this was a dead end, you said ‘Maybe not’. What do you know?”

  Larkin smiled. “I know enough, Andy. I know who the third man is.”

  19: The Batphone Rings

  “So come on then,” said Andy, at the wheel of the Vitara – they were travelling back to Warkworth to pick up the Golf. As soon as they were on the road and away from the ears of the police, Larkin had told Andy his suspicions about the third man’s identity. “Who is ’e?”

  “Swanson,” said Larkin simply.

  Andy laughed incredulously. “I thought it might be. You’re determined to nail that geezer one way or the other, aren’t you?”

  “It makes perfect sense, Andy. I told you about the break-in, the computer disks going missing, the threat – all that. The only other thing apart from work I’ve been doing recently is shaking down councillors. And my partner in that little sideline is dead. So I’m either pissing off a politician, or a paedophile, or both. I’m starting to think the two things might be related, and Swanson makes the perfect link. He’s got good connections to protect him; he’s also got something significant to lose.”

  Andy looked thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said at great length, “an’ I suppose this mysterious Third Man fits that an’ all. They’ve certainly done all they can to keep him under wraps.” He nodded. “Yeah. You might be right there.”

  They drove for some time in silence, both lost in their own musings. Eventually Andy spoke.

  “Of course,” he said, brow furrowed, “there’s always the chance you might be wrong.”

  “I won’t be.”

  Andy gave a snort of a laugh. “Let’s hope not,” he said, “or we’re both fucked.”

  Back in his own car, Larkin slipped an Aretha Franklin tape into the deck and tuned out the day’s events. He tried to think of something positive and uplifting in his life; to blot out what he’d seen and heard at Harvey’s house; his mind latched instinctively onto Jane and he actually found himself smiling. He was really looking forward to seeing her again. He liked her – probably more than he would allow himself to admit. And then, into his head, like a ghost, came Charlotte. He remembered how fond he had been of her – how much he had loved her – and look where it had got him. He was taking it slowly with Jane, not pushing it. Letting it come easy.

  He eased back in his seat and drove back to Newcastle, while Aretha sang about the lover she still said prayers for.

  Once in the office of The News Agents, the real work began. Larkin wrote up the morning’s exploits, carefully skirting round what he couldn’t legally say, since the case was a long way off coming to trial and was therefore still sub judice. All he printed was the facts, and they were damning enough. Andy did overtime in the office’s photographic facilities, and the story was ready for the late editions of the Chronicle and the early editions of next morning’s nationals.

  Bolland, needless to say, was over the moon. Apart from anything else, the money the story represented in splashes and spreads provided by his agency was major. He took them over to the pub to celebrate – a unique event in itself. The Blackie Boy, near the bottom of the Bigg Market, had been refurbished a few years ago in dark wood and stained glass, in an attempt to give it some history and character. It now held several years of use, but instead of looking lived-in it just looked worn-out. The three men got their drinks – at Bolland’s expense – and sat down at a window table.

  “Well,” toasted Bolland expansively, pint raised in the air, “here’s to the successful conclusion of a job well done!” They clinked glasses, drank long and deep.

  Then Larkin was assailed by a momentary mental image of the two boys lying in the cellar. He quickly blinked it – and the accompanying guilt for drinking a toast over their battered bodies – out of his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure it’s concluded,” he said, setting his glass down. “There’s still Noble, and this Haining guy to track down — ”

  “But the evidence!” enthused Bolland. “Th
e two boys, the video tapes, the photos … Harvey might have wiped the security tapes, but there’s computer disks with customers’ names and addresses. Once Harvey gives up the access codes the police’ll be able to reap that little harvest. No,” he continued, wagging a finger at Larkin and Andy, “mark my words, this is huge! Bigger than huge!” He reached across and enfolded Larkin in a bear hug, squeezing too tightly for comfort. They must have taught him this at his male bonding class, thought Larkin, raising his eyebrows at Andy over Bolland’s shoulder.

  “Love ’im! Love ’im!” Bolland, thankfully, released Larkin from his grasp. “What did I tell you, Steve? If there’s an award winner in this agency, it’s you!”

  “Yeah, but,” said Larkin, “there’s still the court case.”

  “And then there’s the Third Man,” chimed in Andy.

  “Oh, they’ll find him,” said Bolland with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Once they’ve got the others, it’s inevitable. No, this is your moment of glory. You deserve it – bask in it!”

  I might if you’d shut up and give me the chance, thought Larkin. But he said only, “Yeah. Right.”

  Bolland started to gibber excitedly once more, but his eulogies were cut short by the trilling of Larkin’s mobile. He answered: it was Jane. No pleasantries – she came straight to the point.

  “I’ve just had the police on the phone. It’s Noble. He’s dead.”

  That news was shocking enough, but what she told him next had Larkin grabbing Andy and running from the pub as fast as possible.

  Bolland stared after them, taken aback. He shrugged and smiled to himself. “There you go,” he said. “When the Batphone rings, the dynamic duo swing into action.” He downed his drink and wondered where they were going. And how much money it was going to make him.

  20: A Noble End

  When the Vitara attempted to pull into Noble’s street, Andy found the amount of people thronging the place made access almost impossible. Clearly the crowds had sensed something important was happening, something that would make the news. Carefully Andy steered the jeep through the crowds, only to stop short at the inevitable cordon. The police had used so much marker tape, they could have gift-wrapped the street for Christmas.

  Larkin and Andy parked the vehicle where it had come to rest and hopped down. Already the TV news teams, both local and national, were hovering; cameras poised like electronic scalpels, waiting to rip open whatever story was there, spill its guts all over the public. Print journalists were also gathered; Larkin caught the predatory eye of Carrie Brewer. She didn’t waste much time before heading in his direction.

  “Thought dead children weren’t your thing?” she said as unpleasantly as possible.

  “Frightened someone else’ll get your exclusive?” Larkin replied.

  Andy’s assessment of the situation was razor-sharp. “One exclusive in the day’s quite enough, don’t you think?” he said. Brewer recoiled as if she’d been slapped.

  “Have you met Andy?” Larkin asked innocently. “I can tell the two of you are going to get along famously.”

  She attempted to recover her composure. “I don’t know what you expect to find here. Even I can’t get anything out of them.”

  “Really?” said Larkin, raising his eyebrows in mock-surprise. He pulled out his mobile, punched in a number. “I’m here,” he said when it was answered and listened for the response. He hung up, pocketing the phone. Revenge was going to be very sweet.

  Less than a minute later, a uniformed constable called his name. He made himself known, and the policeman allowed Andy and Larkin – who tried not to look too smug – under the tape. Carrie Brewer’s jaw just about hit the ground. Larkin couldn’t resist blowing her a kiss as he went.

  “Bit of a childish victory,” said Andy as they followed the policeman towards Noble’s flat.

  “I know,” agreed Larkin, “but bloody satisfying, even under the circumstances.”

  “Now don’t think I only brought you in here to give you an exclusive,” Moir said, as soon as Larkin and Andy reached Noble’s front door. “You’re here as witnesses. I’ll be wanting statements.”

  Larkin was shocked to see Moir: he looked terrible. Clothes more dishevelled even than usual, hair like greying straw, eyes bloodshot, black-rimmed. Most disturbing of all, the big man’s hands had a nasty touch of the shakes. Larkin suspected he was tottering on the edge of burn-out.

  After Jane’s call in the pub, Larkin had phoned Moir; he’d been asked to come, with Andy, straight to Noble’s flat. Moir’s tone had told them to expect, not only the worst, but also a hard time.

  At first glance Noble’s flat looked much as Larkin had left it, leaving aside the white-suited hordes of SOCOs. “We’ll talk in here,” Moir said, and led them into the living room, where he sat heavily on one of the dining chairs, visibly glad to take the weight off his feet. He checked no one else was in earshot before he spoke. “Place look as you left it?”

  “Pretty much,” said Larkin. “So what happened?”

  “Well, we began to make a routine enquiry into the abuse allegations brought about by your friend Ms Howells,” Moir started, folding his hands into his lap, trying to conceal the shaking. “The uniforms were told Noble hadn’t turned up for work today, so they came round here. No reply. Fearing he’d done a runner, they entered forcibly and found … I’d better show you.”

  Moir stood up and walked to the bathroom, Larkin and Andy close behind him. The tiny off-white tiled room was full of people; print-lifting, photographing, sample collecting. Noble was getting more attention dead than he had ever had when he was alive.

  “Bit busy still – we’ll have to watch it from here,” said Moir.

  Swallowing hard, Larkin looked in. He knew the naked body in the bath had once been Noble, but it was hard to imagine. The skin was soft-looking, blue-white, beginning to bloat. An arm hung limply over the side of the bath, vicious slashes visible at the inside of the wrist. Blood had stained the tiled walls in a collection of magnificently abstract arcs, trickling down the grouting, dying the carpet a coppery brown. The bath water was deep pink. Noble’s head was thrown back, eyes staring, mouth gaping. Shit floated on the water, evidence of the moment when his muscles had finally given up the fight, the moment when he had died.

  “Fuckin’ ’ell …” said Andy, his face twisting at the stench.

  “Want to take some pics?” asked Moir, cynically.

  “No way,” Andy said, shocked for once. “I doubt my usual publishers would touch this stuff. I hate to think who would wanna publish it.”

  “Fair enough,” Moir replied. “Shame – the general public should see this. It would put them off Hollywood’s idea of self-destruction.”

  “So this was definitely a suicide?” asked Larkin. “On the phone, you mentioned a note — ”

  Moir gave a cryptic smile. “Follow me,” he said, and led them back to the living room.

  “We found it on the screen,” he said, pointing to the word processor. “Unsigned, of course. We printed a copy off.” He produced a sheet of A4 paper from inside his coat, sealed in a plastic evidence bag. He laid it flat on the table. “Have a read,” he said.

  Larkin and Andy both bent over.

  I admit I killed Jason Winship. I can’t live with the guilt any more and have decided to end my life.

  They straightened up. “Short and sweet,” said Andy.

  “And very convenient,” added Larkin. “Does he know where Lord Lucan and Shergar are as well?”

  Moir nodded. “My sentiments exactly. But until our investigations turn up anything else we’ll have to go with it.”

  “What about his shrine? Have you seen that?” asked Larkin.

  “You mean that little wank cupboard off the bedroom?” Moir replied. “Yeah – we found it.”

  “The polaroids round the mirror,” said Larkin, “they were taken in Harvey’s cellar. Might be worth checking them out, trying to trace the kids involved.”

 
; Moir looked confused. “Polaroids? There weren’t any polaroids.”

  “Really,” said Larkin. “Then either Noble tidied them away to preserve his posthumous reputation, or some visitors with a line in self-protection have done it for him.”

  “Fuck!” spat Moir.

  “Quite,” said Larkin. Uneasy, he crossed to the window. The sky was rapidly darkening, and the spectators were beginning to drift off. Once they’d realised that nothing dramatic was going to happen, Eastenders had begun to look more attractive. Noble had had his fifteen minutes of notoriety.

  As Larkin idly stared, trying to make sense of it all, the tape in the street was lifted by a couple of uniformed officers to allow the entrance of a car: a top-of-the-range Rover, sanctioned for official purposes. It purred to a halt outside the house, next to Noble’s Fiesta. And from the back stepped Alan Swanson.

  An unpleasant frisson ran the length of Larkin’s spine. “Andy – we’ve got company.”

  Andy joined him at the window, and quickly did a double-take.

  “I know exactly what you’re thinking,” said Larkin. “Hey, Henry, how did that pisshead describe the bloke seen when Jason was abducted? Middle-aged, flash bloke, flash car? Come and look at this.”

  Moir joined them at the window. Swanson was surveying first the dwindling crowd, then the house; his expression was grim. “Swanson. Heard he was coming. He’s going to talk to the media. High-profile case like this, specially where kids are involved …” Moir trailed off, looked at Larkin. “You’re not thinkin’ …”

  “Why not? He fits the bill, doesn’t he?”

  Moir shook his head in disbelief. As the three men watched, McMahon emerged from the other side of the car; he too wore an expensive suit and a sombre expression. They came together on the pavement, exchanged words. Swanson shook his head, his face drawn.

  “Look at the state of that,” Moir said, referring to his boss. “More like a politician than the politician. They could be brothers.”