by David Thorne
‘Do I know you?’ I say but he ignores me and walks out of the pub, followed by the other men, people parting to let them through. My father and I stand and watch them leave.
When they are gone he turns to me, says, ‘Didn’t like the way they were looking at Maria.’
We stay for another drink, although my father does not say anything more to me, as if embarrassed by his actions, his backing me up. Maria saw what happened and is looking at me too closely and too often. As we leave, a policewoman comes into the bar, a sight as unlikely as my father in an art gallery. I take Maria’s arm and hustle her outside, though not before the policewoman begins to unbutton her shirt and the look on my father’s face is as hungry and content as a five-year-old blowing out the candles on a cake with his name on.
It has taken thirty-nine years, my entire life, to share any fellow feeling with my father. Given the violence of my upbringing, perhaps it should come as no surprise that the first time I experience it, we are involved in some kind of altercation. But I cannot deny that in those few seconds, side by side facing down those men, I felt a bond of some kind between us.
Maria is next to me in the car. ‘He’ll be out tomorrow,’ she says.
For a moment I do not know who she is talking about, and then I realise with guilt that she means Gabe.
‘I hope,’ I say. The truth is that his release from police custody should be a formality, there should be no problem with him getting bail. But the police have their own agenda and I cannot be sure; cannot help but worry that Gabe is being dealt a stacked deck.
‘What did they want?’ she says. ‘Those men?’
‘To ruin the mood,’ I say. ‘Forget them.’
‘They knew you?’
‘Never met them before.’
Maria nods but does not look at me, gazes out of the window of the car as we join the ring road. ‘You couldn’t leave it.’
‘They would have made trouble,’ I say. ‘It would have been worse.’
‘Of course.’
We drive in silence for some minutes, past boarded-up houses waiting to be destroyed to make room for more lanes, perforated metal sheets screwed over their windows, families long gone.
‘Is there anything I need to know?’ she says.
Last year Maria was kidnapped by men who wanted something from me that I was not prepared to give. She was found naked with broken lines inked over her body, the kind you find drawn by cosmetic surgeons prior to operating, to cutting somebody open. It was a warning to me, a crude act of coercion. And although she was not permanently scarred, I was sure that I would lose her, that she would walk away from me and the violence which follows me like an unwanted shadow.
When she was released from hospital, she asked me to make her a promise, to swear that I would renounce that side of my life, turn my back on it; turn the other cheek, if necessary. Made it clear that this was something I needed to do if I wanted to keep her.
Maria is the best thing to have ever happened to me, a miracle I could never have imagined, would never have dared to. She is kind, compassionate, gentle; she teaches six-year-olds at a local primary school and believes in the fundamental goodness of people. I will do anything to protect her. Do anything to keep her.
‘No,’ I say. I watch the road and we drive back to my house, and along the way she does not say anything more. I wonder whether or not she believes me.
4
GABE IS CALLED before the magistrates’ court at eleven o’clock the next morning. He stands in the dock as straight as if he is being inspected on a parade ground as the charges against him are read out, and does not react despite knowing that they are entirely fabricated. There are three magistrates sitting at a long table: a thin grey-haired man with glasses in the middle, a younger woman to his left, an older woman to his right. The grey-haired man raises his eyebrows to me, invites me to speak.
‘I am applying for bail on behalf of my client,’ I say.
‘On the grounds…?’ the man says. He sounds bored and speaks with an upper-class accent ripe with moral superiority. He draws something on a piece of paper in front of him.
‘My client has a clean criminal record, along with a distinguished service record as a captain in the Cavalry,’ I say. ‘There is no reason to suspect that he will interfere with witnesses, or that he is a risk to the public. I can see no reason why bail should be refused.’
The man looks down at his paper. ‘Attempted murder?’
‘We contest that charge.’
‘Indeed,’ he says drily, as if I am to be humoured. He turns to the women next to him; the older, then the younger. I look across at Gabe. If being kept in police custody has caused him to lose sleep, then it does not show; he looks fresh, rested. I know that in the army he spent weeks sleeping rough, in jungles, deserts, behind enemy lines. A warm police cell is no hardship to him.
‘This was a particularly violent attack.’
‘My client is entirely innocent,’ I say. ‘He has proven himself on the battlefield. He deserves our respect, nothing more.’
The man nods at this; perhaps he has children, grandchildren in the services. He is upper class enough to have them in the Cavalry. He sighs, takes off his glasses and rests them on the table.
‘You have his passport?’
‘I do.’
He nods to a clerk, who walks over to me. I give him Gabe’s passport, which I picked up from his home this morning. I catch Gabe’s eye, give him a nod. The man has asked for his passport; they are letting him go.
Gabe is required to attend court in three weeks’ time but until that point he is free. Three weeks to get to the truth, to take on Doolan and Akram and discredit their case, find out what their agenda is, who is behind this set-up. I have driven to the court and we get into my car. As I blip it unlocked I cannot help but think of Luke Gove’s taunts, asking me to park it around the back; of Saskia Gove, her dark laughing eyes and my feeling of humiliation in front of her.
‘You all right?’ I say to Gabe across the roof.
‘Fine,’ he says and gets in, ducks out of view so that I cannot read his face. I open the door, climb in, start the car.
‘They treat you okay?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
Gabe is the most self-contained and capable man I have ever met. His years in the army have milled away anything that might have been yielding, leaving only a core of brass. Two nights in police custody were, I suspect, less troubling to him than they were demeaning. He was a soldier. He feels himself above them. I do not say anything else, watch the road. Gabe racks his seat back, stretches out his injured leg. I am willing to bet that he has not taken his prosthetic limb off all the time he was locked up; no way he was going to show any weakness. I feel a rush of affection for him, for his understated strength. I try again.
‘Listen, Gabe, I’ll get this sorted.’
‘Yeah? Got a plan?’
He looks across at me, and the gaze from his pale eyes is so direct that I cannot match it. I am grateful that I have to look back at the road.
‘We’ve got three weeks. No way this is going to court.’
Gabe leans forward, massages his leg. ‘We get a coffee?’
But before we can find anywhere to stop, I see lights behind me and pull over, an unmarked BMW swinging in behind us, its grille big in my mirror. Doolan climbs out; he is wearing sunglasses which, with his short hair and meaty face, make him look like a hick cop from some American backwater. Akram slides up and out of his seat, rests his arms on the top of his open door and watches us over it with sly amusement. I step out of my car, push a palm towards Gabe to tell him to stay where he is.
‘Help you?’ I say, straightening up and putting an elbow on the roof. ‘There a problem?’
‘Brake light,’ says Doolan. ‘You want to get it seen to.’
We are on the side of an A road. Cars, lorries pass us by and we have to shout to hear one another. It is hot and there is a smell of warm fuel in
their wake, dust in the air which I can feel on my eyeballs and in my throat.
‘Seemed okay this morning.’
Akram eases himself around his open door. He is holding a police stick. He bends down and with two hands jabs it into my brake light as if he is spearing a wounded animal. I watch him and do not react. Luke Gove will have more to sneer at now.
Doolan walks closer and I can see sweat rolling down past his ears; his limp skin is wide-pored and unhealthy-looking, like rolled dough in a too-warm kitchen.
‘What do you want?’ I say.
‘Just a courtesy visit,’ he says. ‘So we’re all on the same page.’
I nod again. ‘Go on.’
‘We’ve got your friend by the balls,’ says Doolan. ‘He’s looking at fifteen years.’
‘You think.’
‘This Rafiq Jahani, who your friend stabbed—’
‘According to you.’
Doolan puts his hands out, palms up. ‘Nobody else matters. We’re the police. You get it, right?’
I do not respond. An eighteen-wheeler passes us and its draught lifts dried leaves, plastic rubbish, tugs at our clothes and hair. Doolan pauses to let the air settle.
‘He woke up this morning. Looked through a selection of photographs. Pointed his dirty little Kurdish finger right at the face of one Mr Gabriel McBride, no hesitation.’ Doolan holds a hand up, counts on his fingers. ‘On camera. Murder weapon. Testimony of the victim. What did I say? Fifteen years? Might be more.’
But I have had enough; it is too hot and Gabe deserves peace, time alone, a coffee. ‘What exactly is the point of this?’ I say to Doolan.
‘Just to let you know,’ he says. ‘We’ve got you. What happens next? I strongly advise you to do what you’re told.’
I frown, look more closely at Doolan, whose eyes I cannot read through his sunglasses. ‘What happens next?’
‘All I’m saying,’ says Doolan. He turns and walks away.
‘Doolan,’ I call after him. ‘What do you mean? What happens next?’
But he only lifts a hand in the air, does not turn, gets back into his car. Akram walks backwards to the vehicle and he is smiling, pushing his police stick through his curled fingers as if it is a phallus he is trying to stimulate. I do not get back into my car until they pull away and I can no longer see them.
At the same time that Rafiq Jahani was showing signs of life, William Gove was taking his final terrified breaths in a metal bed on the first floor of his magnificent home. He died at around eleven-thirty in the morning; there is a message left on my office phone by Saskia Gove asking me to call her, although she does not say why, and when I do not, she calls back, catches me at my desk after dropping off Gabe.
‘Daniel?’
‘Ms Gove.’
‘Saskia, please. Jesus. Anyway, thought you should know that my father is dead.’ She sounds tired and her voice has none of the vivacity I remember.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Really? And why is that?’
I do not react. ‘I’ll start with his affairs.’
‘Do that. Quickly as you can.’ I can hear her brother’s peremptory tone in her voice; she too is clearly used to dealing with the staff.
‘Anything more?’ I say.
‘Not big on the small talk, are you?’ she says. I have no idea what this woman wants from me.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say and wait for a response, but there is none, and I put the phone down with her still on the line. As soon as I hang up I feel guilt for cutting off somebody recently bereaved. Immediately my phone begins to ring again. I am sure that it will be her and I do not answer, although I cannot explain why.
Instead I bring William Gove’s papers to my desk and look through them. Before he died his request seemed simply bizarre but, now that he is dead and I have to deal with it, it seems worse: the deranged demand of an old man who had long since lost his mind. What have I let myself in for?
His estate is not an issue; it is to be divided equally between his three children. I do not know how much it is worth, but it must be in the millions and they will surely be comfortable for the rest of their lives. But his liquid assets amount to £2.7 million, and he has chosen to split the money equally between ten people who he has chosen at random from the telephone directory. During my training I read many unusual case studies in probate but I have never encountered something like this. I think back to his fear, his near-panic at what awaited him in the afterlife. This was his attempt to make redress, his grand act of charity to secure his passage to paradise, where he believed his dead wife awaited him. Put like that, it sounds more than crazy.
My immediate problem is that I have to find these people and let them know that each of them is the lucky recipient of £270,000. My second problem is that I have to tell his children that the money they thought they were getting in their father’s will is going to a selection of total strangers. It is not a conversation I am looking forward to. Luke Gove is an ungracious bully, Saskia seems subtly unhinged, and I have not yet met the youngest. Too late I wish that I had never agreed to take the job on, had walked away. Now, I cannot.
Ultimately, though, it is just work; all I need to do is follow the rules, act in accordance with probate law and get it resolved as quickly as I can. I have more pressing problems; I need to find out why Gabe is being set up by two policemen who are as corrupt as any I have met. I have three weeks to get to the truth, three weeks before he is up in court. On the evidence that the police currently have there is no way he is going anywhere but down, locked up on remand before his trial which, right now, appears a formality. Gabe, a man I believe to be a hero, is looking at a long jail sentence.
I live in a large Victorian house which is built of red brick and still has its original windows and front door. The hall is tiled in black and white mosaic which must have taken weeks to lay out, and I still marvel at it whenever I walk in. The house is too big for me, but Maria has all but moved in, and every day I find more evidence that it is no longer just my own: cosmetics, a new mirror, food I do not recognise. All these things seem like good omens, small but powerful proofs that she believes in us, in what we have.
When I get home she is sullenly drinking wine at the kitchen table because she has attempted a dish which she has burned; she will not tell me what it was intended to be and I cannot tell by looking at it. I put my hands on her shoulders and she stiffens, but after some moments she relaxes and I think of honey on a spoon, and for the first time this day I feel a bright and warm surge of happiness.
‘We’ll go out,’ I say.
‘Where?’
‘Wherever.’
She turns and looks up at me and I wonder how much she has drunk. ‘Because what, wherever we go, it’ll be better than what I cooked?’
‘Burned.’
She nods slowly. ‘True.’ She stands up and pushes a finger into my chest and says, ‘You’re paying.’
She reaches down and finishes her wine and as an afterthought gives me a kiss. I follow her to the front door and out into the cool night and she leans heavily into me as we walk. Her hair smells good and for a short moment Doolan and Akram feel as far away as the stars above us.
5
WHEN I WAS working in the City I once handled a case involving an office building which had been built with one edge exceeding its boundary by no more than three inches. The disputed land, a thirty-metre strip so thin it needed a laser to measure, was worth £20,000. The owners of the land wanted seven million, or the building would have to come down. After six months of discussions we got them down to two million, and when my client signed the papers he was still so angry that the nib of his pen snapped and ink spilt like blood over the documents and the boardroom table.
This morning I am visiting a man who would like to sell a plot of land but is unsure about the boundary lines. I am willing to bet that the land is not worth seven million, or two, or even £20,000, but the truth is that I do not have enough business
coming through my door to be able to turn it down.
He has given me directions and I drive out of town, watching its ugly concrete and tarmac grip yield to trees, fields, high hedges framing quiet lanes. The man, who told me his name was Joe, lives along a rutted track with grass growing in the middle and I ease down it, my car rocking on its shocks. I get to a field which has at some point had tons of sharp stones poured over it, grass growing through. In it is a collection of outbuildings, a long line of sheds; the wrecks of cars are littered everywhere, as if relics from some long-ago apocalypse. I park and look around. I cannot see anybody and it is quiet; no radio, no dog barking. All I can hear is birdsong. I look at my watch and see that I am early.
‘Joe?’ My voice disturbs a pigeon which noisily fights its way out of a tree and into the air. I walk around the sheds and bang on one of the doors, pull it open. Inside it is dark and there is a car on a ramp. The walls are lined with shelves on which are plastic boxes full of parts: spark plugs and bulbs and washers and springs. The car is so stripped down that I cannot tell the model and it does not look as if it is worth working on. I hear a noise and I walk back outside and see a man in dirty blue overalls walking away from me to a Portakabin on the other side of the field. I am about to call after him, but before I can I hear the sound of a car arriving. I do not know why but I have a sense of foreboding. I consider going back to my car but instead I stand, wait. The car stops behind the sheds and I hear the sound of doors opening, closing. Then from around the sheds I see the blond man I met at my father’s birthday, smiling as if he has just heard a joke, and after him is Vincent Halliday.
He has not changed since I last saw him, over two years ago. He is a man who seems to take the very air surrounding him as an affront, as if it is whispering taunts into his ears as he walks. He carries so much energy trapped within him that just to be in his company is uncomfortable; he is like a firework waiting to go off, a detonation that could happen at any moment.
