The Mourner

by Susan Wilkins

  Kaz wondered about the Labour Party bloke, who’d ended up dead under a train. Did Nicci Armstrong know about him? And what had happened to the evidence he had?

  Her boss, Blake, was determined to keep Kaz out of the loop. But Nicci herself might be amenable to an exchange of information. And then there was Julia. Perhaps Kaz still had some influence with her.

  As to the lawyer’s dire warnings to leave well alone, Kaz dismissed them. Helen had asked for his help but he didn’t have the bottle. It was all about him trying not to look bad.

  A bunch of Hollister’s mates, led by this Pudovkin, had got together to protect the pervert. Maybe there were a few bent cops in the mix too. They were villains all right and Kaz didn’t underestimate them. But now she had a line on them, she wasn’t about to run away and hide. Quite the opposite.

  The footage Helen shot was out there somewhere – on memory sticks, on a computer, locked away, hidden away. Sooner or later Kaz would find it. And she’d stick it on the Net and blow Hollister out of the water.

  It should’ve been her that Helen confided in, not a skanky lawyer, or some random bloke from the Labour Party. But when she’d tried to get in touch, Kaz had ignored her. She’d let her lover down and that fact was tearing at her insides. The very least she could do now was make that bastard pay.

  As they passed the Gatwick turn-off, a vehicle glided down the slip road to slot in behind them. Kaz glanced across as the driver turned his head towards them. Caught in the moon’s chilly spectral light his features seemed menacing. Kaz felt an involuntary shiver travel up her spine.

  She looked over her shoulder into the back seat at her sleeping brother. The night drive to Brighton and back had left her feeling detached and wary. She and Joey had arrived at what? An understanding? She’d wanted to talk to Neville Moore; he’d been as good as his word and arranged it. But that didn’t mean he could be trusted.

  Tolya’s hands rested easily on the wheel. He seemed relaxed but alert. Kaz wondered once again how exactly Joey had persuaded his Russian minders back on-board. Money was certainly part of it, but was there more?

  She was starting to doze off again when she realized the steady hum of the car’s engine had been joined by another far more intrusive clattering sound. And it was coming from above. Tolya leant forward and peered up through the top of the windscreen just as a crisp beam of light danced across the road in front of them and pulled back to graze the bonnet of the car.

  The Russian cursed under his breath. ‘Joe. We got company.’ His tone was urgent.

  Joey’s eyes opened, he was awake in a flash. ‘Behind?’

  ‘Up.’

  Kaz peered out and up. She could see very little.

  ‘Don’t look up!’ Joey growled. ‘They got cameras.’

  She turned to glare at him. ‘A fucking helicopter? What? Is it following us?’

  Joey’s grin was just visible in the car’s shadowy interior. ‘C’mon, babes, soon as we walked out the door, you think old Mike wasn’t gonna call the cops?’

  Kaz was stunned. The thought hadn’t entered her head. Mike was her friend, the one person she could trust.

  Joey chuckled, he seemed pleased. ‘Canny old bugger, in’t he? He must’ve given them the car reg.’

  ‘Mike wouldn’t . . .’ The words died on her lips. Of course he would. She’d been so focused on tracking down Neville Moore that she’d never considered what he might do. They’d eaten their fish and chips and left, Joey raising no objection to leaving Mike alone. But Mike was on her side – he’d proved as much with the stolen briefcase – so why had he done it? Maybe he thought it was the best way to help her.

  The rhythmic thwack of the blades became louder and suddenly they saw the helicopter itself as it swooped round in front of them, like some malevolent bird of prey, dark blue underbelly with a yellow crest.

  Joey put a hand over his face as he gazed up at it. ‘It’s the Old Bill all right. Looks like the Met.’

  Kaz could feel the muscles in the back of her neck go taut. Her mouth was dry. This was another one of her brother’s neat little traps and she’d stepped right into it. How the hell could she have been so gullible?

  A hand came to rest on her shoulder, she felt his warm breath close to her ear. ‘Don’t blame him, babes. In his world, it’s what you do.’

  ‘You fucking knew, Joey!’ Rage flooded her veins.

  ‘You’d’ve known too if you hadn’t got yourself all confused and forgot who you are and which side of the fence you’re on.’

  ‘Oh fuck off! Stop the car, Tol. I wanna get out.’

  Joey tried to rub her shoulder. ‘C’mon – on the motorway, in the middle of nowhere? Where you gonna run?’

  She shoved him off. ‘I don’t need you, Joey.’

  ‘Yeah you do. You know the system. You get picked up tonight, you can try telling them you was kidnapped. But they ain’t gonna listen. They’ll revoke your licence and you’ll be straight back in the nick.’

  The pit of her stomach felt hollow. He was right of course.

  Tolya’s gaze was firmly fixed on the road. The car’s engine screamed as he accelerated hard up a short incline. They swept under a high-arched bridge then roared down the hill towards the junction with the M25. The helicopter bobbed up over the bridge and dived down after them; nose tipped slightly forward, rotors chopping the night air. It seemed to be holding them in its tractor beam.

  Kaz concentrated on her breathing, calming her wrath, getting her brain back in gear. Had Joey deliberately wrong-footed her or was it just her own stupidity? Returning to prison was her nightmare. And the nightmare was about to come true.

  The car sped down the left-hand lane and Tolya held it firm round the tight bend, which merged into the M25 heading west.

  Joey scanned the column of traffic they were joining. ‘Still moving along okay. Means they ain’t got intercepts on the ground yet, so I reckon we could make it to the services.’

  Tolya raised a gloved hand to point up at the gantry they were speeding under. ‘Loads of cameras. Maybe turn off before?’

  ‘Nah, mate, not enough cover. The chopper’ll track us wherever. Get stuck on some side road, they’ll just roll out a stinger.’

  Joey was sitting bolt upright in the back seat. The lassitude of recent days had lifted. He seemed energized; for him the chase was exhilarating.

  ‘You fucker! You’re enjoying this.’ Kaz was feeling decidedly sick.

  ‘Bit of adrenaline, always a buzz,’ he giggled.

  ‘We’re both gonna end up back in jail.’

  ‘Don’t be so pessimistic. They ain’t got us yet.’ He leant forward between the two front seats. ‘Y’know, I’m curious, babes. What upsets you more? Fear of getting nicked or the fact that someone you trusted has let you down.’

  The helicopter was directly above them, blades thrashing, pinning them to the road.

  Kaz craned her neck to look at him. ‘You’d risk going back to jail, just to teach me a fucking lesson? You’re mental.’

  She was sweating, every nerve in her body was tense. But Joey was perfectly calm.

  He seemed to be smiling. ‘We trust people, but ’til push comes to shove, you don’t know their agenda.’

  ‘Mike hasn’t let me down. He just thinks I’ll be safer with you behind bars.’

  ‘Have I ever hurt you?’ Light from the oncoming traffic flooded Joey’s pupils, turning them milky white like an albino. ‘Go on, can you think of a single instance?’

  She stared at the road ahead. ‘No.’

  ‘No. I ain’t saying that you grassing didn’t piss me off. It did. Royally. I thought about whacking you. Can’t say I didn’t. But in the end, where’d that get me?’

  ‘Revenge ain’t sensible.’

  ‘Leaves me with Mum and Natalie. Though who knows where the fuck she is – holed up somewhere smoking crack, probably.’

  She swung round to face him again. ‘If you don’t want revenge, then why d’you come lookin
g for me? What the fuck do you want, Joey?’

  ‘I want my sister back.’ His face was in deep shadow now, she couldn’t see the eyes. ‘You and me, Kaz, in the end all we got is each other.’

  The dark road stretched ahead of them, just a smattering of vehicles. They were travelling in the outside lane, engine at full throttle, being pursued by the police. Kaz hunkered down in her seat. She felt powerless. Maybe freedom, the notion she could turn her life around, had always been an illusion.

  Joey was a consummate liar, but something in the timbre of his voice rang true. She thought about the months she’d spent in Glasgow, living her new life with a false identity, a faked history, a handful of so-called friends she could never confide in. If she was honest with herself, it had been desolate, as desolate probably as her brother’s life in jail. Perhaps he was right. With Helen dead the only connection that came close to touching her was her little brother.

  They drove on in silence, the helicopter stalking them. Sooner or later, Kaz thought, there’ll be a roadblock and that will be it. The inevitability of it all somehow calmed her, her mind became blank.

  She didn’t even notice the road signs and it wasn’t until Tolya veered over into the slow lane that she realized they’d reached Cobham services.

  Joey’s palm brushed her shoulder. ‘Listen, babe, you wanna bail, take your chances, it’s up to you. It’s me they’ll be after.’

  ‘What the fuck you gonna do?’ She imagined some dramatic shoot-out with armed police, her brother choosing suicide by cop instead of a life sentence in jail.

  He shrugged. ‘Boost another car, whad’you think?’

  The Ford Focus zigzagged across the car park and pulled up sharply next to a large white Transit.

  Tolya pointed across at the next bank of parked cars – a weary, middle-aged bloke was climbing out of a newish 5 Series Beemer. ‘Him?’

  Joey chuckled. ‘You and your fucking Beemers.’

  They got out of the car, Kaz followed suit. Turning up the collar of her jacket to hide her face, she glanced skywards – the helicopter was circling.

  The bloke eased the belt round his paunch, pulled on his suit jacket, clicked the car lock and wandered towards the main building. Tolya and Joey, hands slotted in pockets, sauntered after him.

  Inside the vast hangar most of the food franchises were closed due to the lateness of the hour. Only McDonald’s and KFC remained open, each with a few customers.

  The bloke stopped for a moment to consider the McDonald’s menu, took off his glasses, rubbed his weary eyes and continued in the direction of the toilets.

  Joey flashed his sister a grin. ‘Looks like we’re in business. Wait here.’

  Kaz didn’t know what to do. She watched her brother and Tolya disappear into the Gents. Then a flashing blue light caught her eye. She moved forward into the closed Starbucks franchise to peer through the plate-glass wall at the car park beyond.

  A police car had pulled up next to the Focus. Two officers in Kevlar vests jumped out and began shining a torch into the vehicle.

  Kaz turned on her heel and hurried back towards the toilets. She met Tolya coming out. He was wearing a suit jacket – sleeves way too short, but covering his tattoos – and heavy-framed glasses.

  He dangled a set of car keys from his index finger and smiled. ‘You coming?’

  ‘They’re out front.’

  ‘Then we make like a nice couple.’ He held out his hand.

  She hesitated, but only for a second. His confidence was reassuring. She placed her palm in his. He scooped up a discarded carton of fries from a table. ‘Hungry?’

  She shot him an anxious look. ‘Where’s Joey?’

  ‘We pick him up.’

  As they approached the double doors, the two cops were coming straight at them. Tolya simply held the door open for them. They gave him a quick, appraising glance. He readjusted his spectacles and smiled. Their eyes shifted to Kaz. She ignored them and thrust her hand into the carton of fries Tolya was holding. She stuffed her mouth with cold chips, but the cops had already moved on into the building.

  They set off across the car park towards the Beemer. Tolya set the pace, which was hardly more than a stroll. A second unmarked police vehicle had pulled up behind the Ford Focus. Three officers were swarming round it.

  Tolya clicked the key fob in his hand, dumped the fries in a bin and got into the driver’s seat of the Beemer. Kaz climbed into the passenger seat next to him. As he slowly backed the car out of its parking space, the three cops trotted across the tarmac behind them, heading for the main building. All in vests, one was cradling an MP7 submachine gun.

  Kaz glanced across at Tolya. ‘Shit! What’s Joey gonna do?’

  ‘Don’t worry. He be fine.’

  The Beemer swung sedately out of the car park and along the access road. At the mini roundabout it turned left into the petrol station. When they reached the forecourt it drew up at the air and water pump. Tolya got out, walked round the bonnet and peered down at the front tyre.

  Kaz remained in her seat, anxiously craning her neck to look back at the car park and the main service area. She could see very little. Her thoughts were in a whirl. Was Joey trapped in there, cornered by the cops? Had he sacrificed himself so they could escape? That wasn’t very Joey.

  There were only a couple of vehicles filling up at the pumps under the bright orange glow that drenched the whole forecourt. But because she was looking the other way, Kaz didn’t see him slip out of the shadows behind the service station shop. Tolya opened the rear door and Joey dived across the back seat and lay down flat.

  The Russian returned quickly to the driving seat, pressed the ignition and the turbo-charged engine purred to life. Rolling over onto his back, Joey gazed up at his sister and laughed. ‘Wow! What a blast! Just like the old days, innit? You and me, babes, legging it from the law.’

  Kaz didn’t trust herself to reply. She was relieved and angry in equal parts.

  The Beemer cruised down the slip road onto the motorway, Tolya put his foot down and it surged forward, heading westwards into the darkness and safety beyond.

  79

  Rory McLaren had spent most of his teenage years wondering how to talk to girls. Then a pal of his older brother, who at twenty seemed impossibly wise and mature, advised him to ask questions. Ask them loads of questions and listen patiently to the answers. It was a technique that had carried Rory through two marriages and a string of affairs. He rarely answered questions himself, unless of a purely practical nature. Feelings remained a private matter, he couldn’t stand blokes who whined.

  The two wives eventually threw in the towel; his grown-up daughters, whom he rarely saw, treated him more like a distant uncle. It wasn’t in his nature to analyse what had gone wrong. When his parents had dumped him at the prep school gate, aged eight, his father had explained that success in life depended on getting on with the job in hand. Rory followed his father into the army and the job did seem pretty straightforward – until Iraq.

  Fighting insurgents in the vast southern deserts, Rory came to the conclusion that most of what he’d been brought up to believe in was rubbish, including his country’s foreign policy. Still, the army was what he knew and he went on to serve a number of gruelling tours in Helmand, finally leaving with the rank of major.

  He had no idea whether Nicci Armstrong liked him; he rather suspected she didn’t like anyone that much. Blake had mentioned the dead child, so he’d steered clear of the twenty-questions technique with her. The ramifications of grief were something he knew about. He’d stood beside enough flag-draped coffins and watched premature widows struggling to bring meaning to their loss. His personal conclusion was that there was no meaning – to any of it. This nihilism had crept up on him over the years and he’d found it oddly liberating.

  Gazing at Nicci across the pillow he wondered if he should just get up and leave. She’d probably prefer it. Her sleep was restless, she muttered and ground her teeth. But when
her features were in repose, minus the usual scowl, she was a beautiful woman. Did she know this? He doubted it.

  He’d never seen her in make-up and her eyes were often bloodshot and pouchy with fatigue. But she had what his mother would’ve called bone structure. In looks she reminded him of his first wife – symmetrical face, Greek nose, curvy lips. He liked the fact she seemed to be without vanity.

  Slipping out of bed and into his boxers, he wandered into the open-plan sitting room and kitchen. The sink was piled with dirty dishes, the worktop littered with the detritus of several different takeaways. He found a pair of rubber gloves and some washing-up liquid and set to work. Having lived in some wild and hostile places, he understood the comfort and reassurance of orderly kit and a clean billet. Also he enjoyed the cleansing and tidying process. His younger brother, a spoilt banker, had once visited his flat and accused him of living like a damned faggot.

  Having completed the washing-up and bleached the sink, Rory was carrying a black PVC sack of rubbish down the hall, when there was a rap at the door. Peering through the spy-hole all he could discern was a tall figure in a dark suit. He opened the door.

  The caller did a double-take. A half-naked man in boxer shorts and rubber gloves was not what he’d been expecting. His gaze shot to the door to check the flat number.

  Reaching into his inside pocket he brought out a warrant card. ‘Erm . . . is Nicci at home? I’m DS Delgado.’

  A sleepy Nicci emerged from the bedroom clutching a towelling bathrobe round her.

  She glanced at the two large men confronting each other over the threshold and beckoned. ‘Come in, Jack.’

  Stepping back to admit the cop, Rory stripped off the gloves. ‘I’ll . . . get dressed.’

  Delgado hunched his shoulders and followed Nicci down the hall into the main room. If she was feeling any embarrassment she gave no indication of it.

  He gave her a sheepish look. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit early.’

  Nicci crinkled her nose, distracted by the pristine kitchen and the overwhelming smell of bleach. Rory had disappeared into the bedroom.