But tonight she would walk it. Because she was feeling good. She was about to come into money.
She had to admit, she had taken some convincing. But Mikey had managed.
Mikey. She smiled.
Janine had found him creepy at first, the kind of person your parents tell you to avoid when you’re younger. But he wasn’t like that when you got to know him. He was a sad little man, really. Even sweet in his own kind of way.
But not that sweet. Not sweet enough.
Footsteps behind her. She took a sharp intake of breath, turned, quickly.
No one.
She breathed out. Berated herself for panicking.
Her recent experiences with Alan Keenyside had left her shaky. Another deep breath. She rationalized. Other people used this footpath. Plenty of them. It was just a normal commuter short cut.
Just in case, she quickened her step.
Heard footsteps behind her again.
Probably no one. Not a monster, at any rate. Just someone on their way home from work. Or Mikey.
She sighed. Sad though he was, she suspected he could become a nuisance. She would have to be firm with him. Tell him that she wasn’t interested in him. Perhaps they could be friends, but …
The footsteps got louder, came closer.
It would be Mikey. She knew it now.
She turned, ready to show him her irritation, hear what pretext he had followed her home on, see his morose little face drop further when she told him to go away.
But it wasn’t Mikey.
He was big, shaven-headed. Powerfully built. Violence emanated from him.
Her eyes showed fear. He smiled. Streetlight caught the blue-jewelled tooth in his mouth.
Her legs felt as if they had been set in concrete.
She screamed, but no sound came out.
He advanced, raised his hands. FEAR and LOVE.
Coming towards her at an unavoidable speed.
Those words the last thing she saw before darkness brutally, forcefully, claimed her.
30
Donovan stared at Sharkey. Sharkey looked around the room, saw Peta, Jamal and Amar staring at him, too. None of them smiled.
‘Well?’ said Donovan.
Sharkey ostentatiously cleared his throat. Pulled his silk dressing gown about him. ‘I tried to tell you …’ The words sounded weak.
Donovan said nothing. Remained unblinking.
Sharkey shifted uncomfortably on the hotel chair, as if his buttocks were hot. ‘You wouldn’t listen …’ Even weaker.
Sharkey’s hotel room. Nearly midnight.
Donovan had phoned Amar on the way back from Jaywick, told him to come to his room at the hotel, bring Jamal. An information-sharing session. Urgent.
Donovan was pleased to see Jamal. Surprised, in fact, at how pleased. Judging from the smile Jamal had given him, the feeling was evidently mutual. The boy looked relaxed, thought Donovan. Happy, even.
Then quickly down to business.
Peta and Donovan told of their meeting with Tosher. Amar went one better, played the recording of Jamal explaining what had been on the minidisc.
A sullen silence had followed. Broken when Donovan strode out of the room and down the hall. Banged frantically on Sharkey’s door, shouted his name.
Sharkey had let them in, complaining about the noise but shutting up when he saw Donovan’s expression. Donovan pushed him back into the room, straight on to a chair, told him what he had just learned. The others followed.
Donovan stood over the sitting lawyer, crossed his arms. Sharkey flinched at the movement. Donovan said nothing, stared, allowed his brain to process the information he had just absorbed.
Outside, the final Metro train of the night crossed the bridge. Inside was silence.
‘Maria,’ said Donovan eventually, his voice controlled, ‘was sent to Newcastle by you because that’s where the story was. Or rather, was going to be.’
Sharkey raised his hands, tried to protest. ‘Ah. Now that’s not fair. I was—’
Donovan talked over him. ‘But you couldn’t tell her what was happening, could you? You wouldn’t even give her that respect, that decency.’
Sharkey tried again. Donovan ignored him.
‘You couldn’t. Because she might have called the whole thing off. Or gone to the police, spoken to someone.’ Donovan was breathing heavily. ‘And if she’d done that, she’d still be alive. And this little sting of yours wouldn’t have gone massively out of control.’
‘And why you, anyway?’ Donovan’s teeth were clenched tight. ‘Why were you so bothered about all this?’
‘Because,’ Sharkey said, ‘in my profession I’ve met a sickening amount of bent, amoral, even murderous coppers, and to have the opportunity to personally dispose of one was too good to miss.’
‘And grab the glory.’
Sharkey looked affronted. ‘I have more morality than you think.’
Donovan turned away from him, shaking with anger. And in that rage came another epiphany. He turned back to face Sharkey.
‘You never had any information for me, did you? Nothing that would lead me to David. Nothing that would help me find my son …’
Sharkey stood up, hands before him as if preparing to ward off blows. ‘Ah,’ he said, scrabbling for his courtroom identity. ‘In mitigation, I never said I did. If you remember, I quite distinctly said that we would give you access to as many resources and files as possible, plus the means to follow up any leads or sightings. My words were very specific.’
Donovan, breathing harder than an enraged bull: ‘Course they fucking were …’ He grabbed him by the front of his dressing gown, slamming him against the wall.
‘Bastard!’ shouted Donovan. ‘You fucking bastard!’
‘Look,’ gasped Sharkey, winded, ‘we needed you for this.’
‘We?’
‘All right, me. When Myers went missing and your name was reintroduced, I thought you’d be perfect for taking care of things instead, if needs be. When Gary turned up dead, I knew you had to be.’
‘What d’you mean?’
Sharkey sighed. ‘It had to be someone unknown to Keenyside but someone with comparable skills and talents to Gary Myers. Someone who knew the background. You were perfect.’
Donovan stared at him, eyes blazing. Too angry to speak.
‘Unfortunately,’ Sharkey continued, ‘you weren’t in quite the right frame of mind for the job. I needed something to sharpen you up.’ His voice dropped. ‘That’s why I made you the offer.’
Donovan stared at him, eyes aflame, teeth bared.
‘Look,’ said Sharkey, exasperation overtaking his voice, ‘I needed you to have your wits about you when the call came in.’ He risked a smile. ‘And it’s come. Colin Huntley is alive and the deal is still on. All it needs is for you to front it.’
Sharkey raised his eyebrows: a question.
Donovan could no longer look at the man. He spun him round, threw him to the floor. Began kicking him.
‘Bastard! Was it worth it … was it … you fucking bastard …’
Sharkey rolled round, tried to avoid the kicks, stop them from doing too much damage. Donovan kept going, all his pent-up anger channelled into the attack.
Peta and Amar were on him. One on each side, dragging him back, forcing him to the far corner of the room, holding him against the wall until his anger had dissipated.
Jamal covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh my days …’
Sharkey lay still, tried to regain his breath. Slowly, he began to pull himself up. Pain lanced through his ribcage. He managed to prop himself up on his elbow, used the bed as leverage to reach his feet. Once upright, he felt his sides. They hurt.
He looked at Donovan; malevolent death beams lasered from his eyes.
‘So,’ said Sharkey, straightening his dressing gown, smoothing down his hair, ‘do I take that as a yes?’
It took three attempts, but Mikey finally got the key in the lock.
He pushed the door, lost it to his fingers, heard it slam back against the wall. A dog began barking further down the block. Mikey ignored it. Didn’t matter. He would be out of this place soon enough.
He closed the door, lurched down the hall.
Not drunk, he told himself, just merry.
A night in the pub. By himself. Mobile switched off. Planning. Plotting.
Keenyside’s death. Then his subsequent romance with a grateful and free Janine.
He had imagined his plans in exquisite detail, the situations so real, the other players so tangible they had been there with him, talking to him. Perhaps a little too loudly, if the looks from the bar staff and other drinkers were anything to go by.
At kicking-out time he had gone willingly. Basking in the warm glow of an imaginary happy future.
Now, a round of toast, a cup of tea and a good night’s sleep to top off a satisfactory evening.
He opened the living room door.
And froze.
In his old, threadbare armchair, head on one side, still. Already changing colour.
Janine.
Arm tied off, vein plumped up. Works on the floor beside her.
He sobered up immediately.
His heart was pounding fast, reaching bursting point. His chest felt like it was sucking air in through an eiderdown. His arms, legs, began to shake. Emotions flew at him fast, hit him hard like runaway trains.
He felt trapped, like he was back in prison.
‘Keenyside …’ He didn’t realize he had spoken. ‘You fucker …’
His bones gave way. He sank to his knees, flopped on the floor like a dying fish. Tears began welling behind his eyes.
Then he heard the sirens.
Faint, in the distance, but becoming louder, getting nearer.
Coming, he knew, for him.
They would never dare venture on to the estate under normal circumstances. Only if they were riding a dead cert. And when they came down, they came down hard. Well tooled up. Riot gear. Dogs, even.
Mikey got slowly to his feet. Shook his head.
He had to get a grip. Had to get out.
He ran into the bedroom, felt under the bed. Found it. His gun. He slipped it into his overcoat pocket, felt round even further. His old tin box containing what money he had. He slipped that into his other pocket.
Then he was out of the door and off, adrenalin pushing his legs faster than he had ever used them. The fear of prison an effective deterrent.
The sirens became louder. Dogs started barking again.
Mikey set off round the darkened alleyways of the estate, hoped his knowledge of the shadow-overhung thoroughfares would be to his advantage.
Hoped he could get as far away as possible from the police.
Hoped he could be free.
Mikey ran for his life.
31
Intermezzo coffee bar. Nine thirty the following day. Friday morning.
TFI. But little sense of relaxation.
Donovan sat with his back to the red-padded wall of a booth sipping his large cappuccino. Peta next to him doing likewise. Opposite on stools were Nattrass and Turnbull, neither drinking, wearing work clothes and expressions of extreme annoyance.
Turnbull, Donovan noticed, was very ill at ease. He kept turning round, eyeballing the Guardian/New Statesman/European-novel-reading clientele, providing himself with a sub-audible running commentary of sneers and grunts on eavesdropped conversations. Despising anyone who wasn’t part of his buttoned-down world.
Peta, he also noticed, seemed to be enjoying Turnbull’s discomfort. She also seemed to be sitting very close to Donovan. Thigh against thigh. He affected not to notice.
Nattrass’ focus was on the table. Purely business.
On the sound system: a compilation of the best of the Pixies. ‘Debaser’. Worth it, thought Donovan, just to see Turnbull’s face.
Donovan swallowed his coffee, replaced his cup on the saucer. Sat forward.
‘Before I tell you anything,’ he said, locking eyes with each of them in turn, ‘I want certain assurances.’
Turnbull snorted. ‘You got anything to tell me, you tell me. Otherwise I’ll do you for withholding information in a murder enquiry. At the very least.’
Donovan turned to Nattrass. ‘Told you this meeting should have just been you and me.’
Nattrass didn’t blink. ‘What sort of assurances?’ No questioning inflection. Just hard and flat.
‘Ones that say this information was given free and willingly. And that none of the charges your judicially zealous colleague here was about to list can be used against the bringers of this information.’
Turnbull bristled, was about to argue; Nattrass silenced him with a look.
‘Define “bringers”,’ she said.
‘Myself, Peta here, Amar Miah and a boy named Jamal Jenkins.’
Nattrass kept those unblinking eyes on him. ‘Anyone else?’
He thought of Sharkey. ‘No.’
Nattrass looked between the two of them, weighing it up. ‘All right,’ she said eventually. ‘Deal.’
Turnbull shook his head. Peta favoured him with a cloyingly sweet smile. This, Donovan noted, seemed to upset him more than the deal, the Guardian readers and the Pixies put together.
Donovan took another mouthful of coffee. Started to talk.
He told them everything. From his point of view, using the chronology of the facts he himself had experienced. He kept nothing out, held nothing back. No truth concealed, no opinion or supposition hidden. He no longer possessed the luxury of selectivity. Events had moved beyond that now.
Peta confirmed events, clarified situations. Supplemented Donovan’s account.
Nattrass and Turnbull listened. Sometimes in amazement, sometimes in anger, sometimes in awe. Never non-committally. They made notes. Asked for clarifications, repetitions.
They took everything in.
Finished, Donovan picked up his coffee, sat back, put it to his lips. Replaced it on the saucer. ‘Cold,’ he said. He looked between the two police. ‘Well?’
Turnbull spoke first. ‘I think we should bring this Sharkey character in. Throw the book at him.’ His face twisted with disdain. ‘Or does he qualify for your protection?’
‘Do what you like with him,’ said Donovan. ‘He’s a cunt.’
Peta and Nattrass both stared at him.
‘Excuse me?’ said Nattrass.
Donovan shrugged. ‘Well, he is.’
Nattrass shook her head, studied her notes. ‘This meeting,’ she said. ‘When’s it taking place?’
‘Today.’
‘What?’ Anger turned her face an immediate purple.
‘Today. Six o’clock tonight. In the café bar on the ground floor of the Baltic. The big one with the glass front.’
Nattrass and Turnbull stared at him.
‘We need more warning than that,’ said Nattrass.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Donovan, ‘but there’s nothing I can do about it. I just found out myself a few hours ago.’
Nattrass shook her head. ‘This is almost too much to take in.’
‘D’you know Alan Keenyside?’ asked Peta.
‘Not much. Met him once or twice,’ said Turnbull. ‘West was his patch. Seemed OK to me. Decent bloke.’ He shook his head. ‘Hard to believe all this …’
‘I know a DCI works out of that station,’ said Nattrass, ‘since we’re sharing information. Says the dirty squad are after him.’
‘What for?’ asked Peta.
‘You name it,’ Nattrass said. ‘Bent as they come, if the rumours are true. Drugs, mainly. Fit-ups, ripping off dealers, setting up his own network. Been after him for years, apparently. Finally got someone in his squad to turn.’
Donovan nodded. ‘So he’ll be desperate for this deal to go through.’
‘Thinks the cash will enable him to put a bit of blue sky between himself and the investigation,’ said Nattrass. ‘He’s not going to be a happy bunn
y, is he?’
‘You heard about that filing clerk worked out of that station?’ said Turnbull. He went on to tell them about Janine’s death. ‘OD’d in some dealer’s flat in Scotswood last night. Apparently her mother said she’d had trouble with drugs for a while. Some secret bloke got her hooked.’
‘Not so secret now,’ said Peta.
‘Wonder if Keenyside was behind that too?’ said Donovan.
Nods, murmurs of assent.
‘What did you say his name was? His henchman? Hammer?’ said Nattrass.
Donovan nodded.
‘I remember him. Yeah. Maria Bennett … Caroline Huntley … Yes. That would fit.’
‘So?’ said Donovan.
‘Well, if memory serves correctly, he used to be a leg-breaker for the Spalding family.’
‘Chief leg-breaker, I think,’ said Turnbull.
Nattrass nodded. ‘They’ve got ranks. How nice. Now what was his name?’ She closed her eyes, tipped her head back. ‘Henderson. That was it. Craig? Christopher?’ She opened her eyes again, head forward. ‘Christopher Henderson. A mad bastard, even by gangster standards. Real fuck-up. Had this party piece. Could hammer a nail through just about anything with his bare hands. How he got the nickname.’
‘So how did he end up working for Keenyside?’ asked Donovan.
‘Good question. When the Spaldings were put out of business, he disappeared. Really disappeared. Like into thin air. We tried to trace him, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
Donovan smiled grimly. ‘Check your records. I’ll bet Keenyside was on the arrest team for the Spaldings. I’ll bet there’s been a few misfiled reports over the years. A few favours done in return.’
Nattrass shook her head.
‘Why don’t we just arrest him now?’ asked Turnbull.
‘Because we’ve got no proof,’ replied Nattrass.
‘Question is,’ said Donovan, ‘what are you going to do to get it?’
Nearly thirty-five minutes and another round of coffees later, Nattrass and Turnbull partaking this time, they had the outline of a plan.
The Pixies had given way to American Music Club. Turnbull was ignoring it completely. They all were. The world beyond their table had ceased to exist.
The Mercy Seat Page 31
