by Tim Weaver
I didn’t reply. Didn’t want to. But I needed her — more than she needed me. She had turned away from me now, her face reflected in the glass.
‘I lost my wife.’
‘How?’
‘She got cancer.’
She nodded. ‘What was her name?’
‘Derryn.’
She nodded again, looking out of the window. ‘What was she like?’
‘She was my wife,’ I said. ‘I thought she was amazing.’
We drove for about half a mile more, then she told me to take a left. Out of the dark came huge blocks of flats, wrapped in the night.
‘What do you miss most?’
‘About Derryn?’
She nodded.
I thought about it. ‘I miss talking to her.’
* * *
The restaurant, Strawberry’s, was an old carriage set inside a series of railway arches. A blue neon sign that said HOT FOOD buzzed above a serving hatch. We got out of the car and Jade led me to one of the tables out front. There were seven of them. Each one had a heater attached, their orange glow lighting the yard in front of the carriage. There was a couple on the table furthest away from us. Apart from that it was empty.
‘Didn’t realize we were going à la carte,’ I said.
Jade ignored me and sat down. She reached into the pockets of her coat, trying to find her cigarettes, and laid the contents out on the table: keys, a wallet, an ATM statement, some cash, a photo which she placed face down. It had writing on the back: this is the reason we do it. She found her cigarettes, removed one and popped it between her lips.
‘Get the burger with everythin’ on,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘This a favourite haunt of yours?’
‘In a previous life,’ she said. ‘I used to come with my mum and dad. They loved places like this. Places with personality.’ She turned and pointed at the carriage. ‘They used to have a guy called Stevie runnin’ it back when it was called Rafferty’s. He liked my mum and dad. Always cooked somethin’ special for them.’
‘Your parents still around?’
A pause. Then she shook her head.
The heater was pumping out plenty of warmth. Jade removed her coat, lit her cigarette and looked at me. ‘So, what’s your story, Magnum?’
‘I’m not a PI, Jade.’
She smirked. ‘But you want to be one.’
‘Do I?’
‘You’re actin’ like one.’
A woman emerged from the carriage wearing a retro waitress’s uniform, a name badge that said Strawberry’s and a face that could turn a man to stone.
‘What can I get you?’ she barked.
‘Two burgers with everythin’ on,’ Jade replied. ‘I’ll have a beer. Magnum?’
I looked at the waitress. ‘A big coffee. Black.’
The waitress disappeared again. Jade and I stared at each other. Light from the heater glinted in her eyes, making her seem mischievous. Then she started to put the things she’d laid out on the table back into her pockets.
‘That your mum and dad?’ I asked her.
She followed my finger. I was pointing at the photo. She picked it up and turned it over. It was a picture of a young kid, perhaps five or six. The photograph was old, discoloured. The boy was running across a patch of grass, kicking a football about. To the left of him was a wire fence. To the right, almost out of picture, a block of flats and a sign.
Eagle Heights.
‘I know that place,’ I said.
She didn’t say anything, hardly even moved.
‘Who’s the boy?’
She glanced at the picture. ‘“This is the reason we do it”,’ she said.
‘What does that mean?’
She smiled. ‘I’d tell you if I knew. But I don’t. I don’t know what that means. But I know what the boy represents.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Making a difference.’
‘Making a difference?’
‘What’s that sayin’? Uh…’ She took a drag on her cigarette and stared off into the night, blowing a flute of smoke out into the chill of the evening. ‘The end justifies the means.’
‘Okay.’
‘That’s what this is.’
‘You’ve lost me, Jade.’
She nodded, as if she hadn’t expected me to keep up, then pulled the photo back across the table towards her. ‘You ever had to keep somethin’ secret?’
‘Sure.’
‘I don’t mean no birthday present.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘So, what secret have you had to keep?’
‘I worked in Israel, in South Africa, in Iraq.’
‘So?’
‘I saw things in those places I’ll never forget.’
‘What sorta things?’
I thought of Derryn, of keeping my work away from her. The things I saw. The bodies I stepped over.
‘What sorta things?’ she repeated.
‘Things I could never bring home to my wife.’
The waitress returned with our drinks.
‘Come on, Magnum. You’re gonna have to try harder than that.’
‘I’m not playing this game with you.’
‘It’s not a game, it’s a trade.’
‘I’m not trading with you.’
‘Why not?’
‘We didn’t come here to trade. That wasn’t the agreement.’
‘I don’t remember makin’ no agreement.’
She put the cigarette between her lips and took a drag.
‘I shouldn’t really be smokin’ these,’ she said. ‘But I guess we all have our demons.’ She pressed a thumb against her lips, knowing and playful, and then a small smile escaped. ‘You follow this little project of yours any further, you’re gonna have to face down a few demons of your own.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talkin’ about what you’re gonna find if you get to the end…’ She turned her beer bottle around. ‘I guess mostly I’m talkin’ about the fact that, if you’re not strong in this life, you fail. And I’m about to fail, Magnum — ’cause I’m tired.’
‘Of what?’
‘Runnin’. Lyin’. Startin’ again.’
‘What do you mean, starting again?’
‘I mean, you won’t find anythin’ at Angel’s now. Everyone associated with it as of now will be gone. You askin’ questions, that just makes it harder for you. You go back, it’ll be new people. It’ll have all changed.’
‘Why?’
‘Why d’you think?’
I paused. ‘The bar’s a front.’
She clicked her fingers and smiled.
‘For what?’
‘It helps us do what we really want to do. It makes money for us. It pays our way.’
‘You own it?’
‘Not me.’
‘Who?’
She picked up the statement from the table and opened it, placing it down in front of me. The bank account belonged to Angel’s. There were two pages of listings, but about halfway down was a direct debit payment: CALVARY PRO. 5000.00.
The Calvary Project.
Every month, Angel’s was paying five grand to a company the Inland Revenue didn’t know existed.
‘There’s a paper trail half a mile long,’ she said, preempting the question I was about to ask. ‘You’d be wandering in the dark, lost like a puppy dog, trying to find out anything about that company.’
The waitress arrived with our meals. Jade didn’t waste any time, biting down on the burger, juice bubbling beneath the bun.
‘So, where will everyone from the pub go?’ I asked her.
‘The others… I don’t know. I don’t make those decisions.’
‘What about you?’
She paused. ‘I’m not going back. I can’t now.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sittin’ here with you — why d’you think?’
‘So, where are you going to go?’
She shrugge
d.
I thought of the numbers Spike had got me.
‘Who makes the decisions, then? This Gerald guy?’
She started laughing, almost choking on her food. ‘Gerald?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No. Not Gerald.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Gerald doesn’t even know we exist. Gerald’s just a crook, living in some shithole in Camberwell. I just go to him for…’ She paused. ‘Identity changes.’
‘Fake ID.’
She winked. ‘You’re good, Magnum.’
She took another bite of her burger.
‘For you?’
‘For all of us.’
‘Who’s us?’
She smiled. ‘You could be a good copper. You ask the right questions. But you realize the whole reason we’re sittin’ here now isn’t because you’re good, but because we made mistakes. Droppin’ that mobile phone like that, that was a stupid, careless thing to do. Thing is, Jason didn’t expect you to turn up like that. He got jumpy.’
‘So, who’s Gary Hooper?’
‘He’s no one.’
‘The phone your guy Jason dropped is registered to Gary Hooper.’
‘My phone’s registered to Matilda Wilkins. That don’t make me her.’
‘So, who is he?’
‘I told you — he ain’t no one. He’s a ghost. You’ll be chasin’ your tail all fuckin’ day with that one. It’s just a name. Just another lie.’ I watched her push some fries around her plate. ‘I hate to disappoint you, Magnum, but what you have here —’ she gestured to herself ‘— is a foot soldier, not a general.’
‘Who’s Vee?’
‘Vee?’
‘Jason — he asked for Vee. What’s that short for? Veronica?’
She looked at me and suddenly became serious. ‘I’m gonna tell you what I know,’ she started quietly. ‘I’m gonna tell you what I know because I’m tired of runnin’. I’m tired of havin’ to start again when people like you start puttin’ their fuckin’ beaks where they don’t belong. I’m tired of lyin’ to protect somethin’ I don’t…’ She stopped. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Look, first, forget Gerald — he don’t know nothin’. Forget Vee too. That’s just a stage name. And forget the Calvary Project. That won’t lead nowhere but more made-up shit.’
‘What does it do?’
‘What do you think it does?’
‘I don’t think it does anything. You just pass money through it.’
‘It’s a means of protection.’
‘So you can launder money.’
‘Launder money?’ She smiled. ‘This ain’t the mafia.’
‘So the Calvary Project only exists in name?’
She opened a wallet and took out a credit card. ‘All our money comes and goes through it. All our cards are registered to it. It buys our food and our clothes.’
‘So none of the purchases can be traced back to you.’
‘Right.’ She turned the card over. Company Barclaycard. miss matilda wilkins was printed at the bottom. ‘Jade ain’t bought a pair of shoes in years.’
‘This Michael guy, at the church — what’s he got to do with it?’
‘I don’t know much about that.’
‘So, tell me what you do know.’
‘The church is where he recruits people.’
‘Michael?’
She nodded.
‘What do you mean, “recruits”?’
‘Helps them to start again. Sells ’em an idea.’
Selling ideas.
Suddenly, from the darkness of my memory, a face stepped out: the guy with the tattoo in Cornwall. My friend’s a salesman, he’d said. Sells ideas to people. I looked at Jade. She was picking at her food.
‘Who’s the guy with the tattoo on his arm?’
She shot me a look — a sudden, jerking movement like she’d just been punched. Her eyes widened, her face lost colour. She was trying to work out how I’d made the connection.
‘Walk away from that,’ she said quietly.
‘From what?’
‘From him.’
‘Who is he?’
She paused, ran her tongue around her mouth, then jabbed a finger at the photograph of the boy. ‘He’ll protect what that represents above all else. He will go to the ends of the earth to do it. If you can get what you need and get the fuck out without him seeing, then you should do that. Because the only other way to stop him would be to bring the whole thing down.’
‘Bring it down?’
‘The house of cards.’
‘You mean your organization?’
She nodded. ‘But I think it might be too late for that.’
‘Why?’
‘They know who you are. They warned you off once. That’s what they do. They give you a chance. But you coming to the bar this morning, going to the church like you did… They only give you one warning.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘What happens next?’ She paused, looked at me, and we both understood the silence. My heart dropped. You know what happens next, Magnum.
‘Why?’
‘Why d’you think?’
‘Alex?’
She took a sip of beer, didn’t answer.
‘Jade?’
I could hear myself getting impatient. She was still protecting the cause. Still dancing around my questions, even while she was telling me she wanted out. A part of her wanted to break free. But another part of her was so deeply attached to her life, she felt scared about letting go. And she was terrified about the consequences.
‘Why help me?’ I said.
‘Because this whole thing’s outta control.’ She looked at me. Brushed food away from her mouth. ‘We’ve been careless.’
‘Who’s we?’
She didn’t reply.
‘Jade?’
‘We. Us.’ She paused. ‘Him.’
‘Who?’
She glanced at the photograph of the boy, still out on the table.
‘The boy?’ I asked her.
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘His father.’
‘The man with the tattoo?’
She was teetering. Unsure whether to commit.
‘Jade?’
‘No, not the man with the tattoo.’
‘Who then?’
‘The boy’s father…’ She stopped, looked at me. Something glistened in her eyes. ‘I think, in some ways, he’s even worse.’
‘Who’s the boy’s father?’
‘You’ve pissed him off.’
‘Who is he, Jade?’
‘You’ve really pissed him off. But maybe it’s happening for a reason. I’m not sure I believe in him any more, in what he’s fighting for and the way he’s fighting it.’ She stopped, a sadness in her eyes, then looked up at the sky. ‘And I’m not sure He does either.’
I followed her gaze.
‘He? What is this — some sort of mission from God?’
She didn’t reply, but I could tell I’d hit on something. She picked up the statement and the photograph.
‘Jade?’
She pushed her plate aside. ‘I need to pee.’
And then she was gone, weaving between the tables. She passed the serving hatch, scooped up what looked like a napkin, and headed towards a toilet block next to the carriage. She looked back once, then walked around to the door and out of sight.
* * *
I gave it eight minutes. The thought that Jade might try to escape crossed my mind the instant she left the table. I slid out and headed to the toilet block.
It was a dumping ground at the back — drinks cans, carrier bags, a shopping trolley, needles. Beyond, the railway arches continued, gradually melting into the night. I could see one of the windows was open, and there was a crack in it, top to bottom. I looked at it more closely. In the middle of the crack, about three-quarters of the way up, something had been smeared across it, on the inside of the glass.
‘Jade?’
The door to the women’s to
ilet was open, swinging in the wind coming in off the arches. Inside, the light was on, and I could see blood spatters on one of the walls closest to the door.
I stepped inside.
Jade was slumped against one of the cubicle doors, her head tilted sideways. Her fingers were wrapped around the steak knife that had come with her burger, the blade streaked in blood. The cuts in her wrists were deep and long, and her lifeblood was still chugging out of them, on to her hands, her clothes, the floor.
I backed away, watching a fresh trail of blood carve down one of the cubicle doors, then turned and looked out towards the arches. They were big mouths of darkness that sucked the noise out of the night. And in them I saw something that made me pause: that Jade would rather kill herself than face the consequences of walking away from her organization. Rather die than stand in front of the people she worked for.
The breeze picked up again, and — faintly — I heard a noise, like paper flapping. I looked down at her body. Beneath one of her hands, half-hidden by her balled fingers, was a piece of card. I leaned over, took it from her grasp and pocketed it.
Then I got out my phone and called the police.
20
The police arrived at Strawberry’s ten minutes after I called. There were two of them: Jones and Hilton. Jones was about sixty-five, while Hilton was much younger, nervous, reeking of inexperience. It might even have been his first night on the job. He held up pretty well when Jones beckoned him to the toilet block, both of them kneeling down to look at Jade’s pale body.
They drove me to a station in Dagenham. Taking my statement didn’t last long. It was obvious Jones didn’t believe I’d killed her. Witnesses at the restaurant backed up my account of what had happened. When he asked me why we were there I told him the truth, or a version of it. I knew her, wanted to talk to her and she’d agreed as long as I drove her to her favourite restaurant.
‘You get what you wanted?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
Jones shook his head. ‘Hope she paid for the petrol.’
I got the feeling he was so close to retirement he could smell it. Any case that wanted to stick around wasn’t going to be one of his. That suited me fine. If he’d been a couple of years younger, I might have got a rougher ride. He told me they’d have to keep my BMW for a while, as well as my clothes, and that they’d want to speak to me again once the coroner had looked at the body.
