Promises of Blood

by David Thorne

  ‘Shut up, Daniel, and listen. I need your help.’

  Her voice is barely in control, tears only just held in check. I look out of my office window at the street outside where a young woman is sitting at the bus stop, rocking a pram while she speaks on her mobile, a cigarette in her hand jabbing at the air for emphasis as she screams at whoever is on the other end.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Duncan. I need help. A lawyer.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Please, Daniel.’ Saskia sobs, takes a moment to collect herself. ‘Please, come quickly.’

  Duncan Gove is holding a shotgun in front of him and I can see the knuckles of his hands tight and white on the stock and the barrel. He is trembling with confusion and rage and there are tears on his cheeks. He looks like he has been crying for some time. He is standing on a strip of grassland on higher ground; from where we are I can look down at the arterial road heading towards London, hear the distant drone of traffic over the still warmth of the morning.

  Saskia has a hand on her brother’s arm and they are facing two men who are standing next to a white Land Rover. One of them has called the police, who are on their way. They are from an energy company, its logo on the side of their Land Rover, and look like middle managers in outdoor boots. They have a compulsory purchase order, allowing them to lay power lines through this tract of land, which lies on the edge of the Gove property. They explain to me that a wind farm has been built offshore and that they need to lay new lines to carry the power to the transformer inland. They tell me that William Gove was aware of this. That they are sorry he has died, but that there is nothing to be done; it is legal.

  I read the purchase order and I cannot disagree; it is entirely legal, rubber-stamped and ironclad and incontestable. I turn to Duncan and Saskia, shake my head.

  ‘They’re right.’

  ‘They can’t do this,’ says Saskia. ‘This is our land.’

  ‘Not any more,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ says Duncan Gove. It sounds more like a moan. He is wearing a checked shirt which is untucked, a big, clumsy man with a bewildered and flushed face. He looks like a farmer’s son from way out in the provinces, a world away from Luke and Saskia’s cruel sophistication. He lifts the shotgun and cocks it. The two men put out their hands, back away.

  ‘Duncan,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing you can do. This isn’t going to change anything.’

  I do not know if he hears me. He is crying silently. Saskia has taken a step away from him. Clearly she does not entirely trust him.

  The Land Rover is parked side-on to us and one of the men has rounded the bonnet, his back tight to it as if he is on a rock ledge, a ravine below him. Both men open their doors and get in, close the doors, lock them. The driver fumbles with his keys, too terrified to find the ignition. The other man is screaming at him; we can hear him through the closed windows of the Land Rover. The driver finds the right key, starts the engine.

  ‘Let them go,’ says Saskia.

  Duncan Gove lifts the shotgun to his shoulder and fires, blowing out the front tyre of the Land Rover. It is already moving and the driver guns the engine but before it gets far Duncan Gove shoots out the rear tyre. He breaks the shotgun and the hot shells eject. Smoke wisps from the barrels. The Land Rover is still moving, but slowly. Duncan Gove reloads methodically.

  ‘Duncan,’ screams Saskia. I can hear sirens in the distance. The Land Rover is churning away from us, wheel rims slipping, black rubber shredding off. Duncan Gove lifts the shotgun and fires again, twice, misses the other rear tyre, clips the paintwork so that silver metal shows bright through the white paint. He breaks the shotgun again but before he can reload Saskia slaps him in the face.

  ‘Stop it. Fucking stop it, Duncan.’

  ‘They can’t dig,’ Duncan says. ‘Not here.’ His voice is thick and slow, like an overgrown petulant child. He is still crying. Saskia takes the shotgun from him and he sits down on the grass. Overhead I hear a helicopter. It gets nearer and very low.

  ‘Great,’ says Saskia. ‘Thought he was in Jersey.’

  ‘Luke?’ I say.

  Saskia nods. ‘In his new toy. Marvellous.’

  We stand and wait for her brother and the police to arrive, listening to Duncan’s sobs subside. I accept that no families are perfect. But when it comes to dysfunction, I cannot help but think that the Goves take first prize.

  The power company’s middle managers want charges pressed, want Duncan Gove locked up, immediately and preferably for ever; the driver of the Land Rover was still trembling when he spoke to the police, his voice breaking with emotion. The police take Duncan away and Saskia says that she will follow him, asks me if I can come with her, help.

  ‘No,’ says Luke Gove. ‘Not him.’ I am standing next to him but he speaks as if I am not there.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Man’s acting against us. Giving our money away. You think he’s going to help?’

  He is right: there is a conflict of interest. ‘I couldn’t represent your brother,’ I say. ‘Not right now.’ Nor would I want to.

  ‘I’ll go. You stay here.’ Luke Gove turns to go, hesitates, turns back. ‘And you,’ he says to me, ‘stay away. Understand?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Saskia, watching her brother walk away. She looks tired, drained, her skin white and her eyes dark. We are standing in a huge concrete square, surrounded by buildings. This is the first time I have got an idea of the scale of the Goves’ operation. The buildings are vast, the size of aircraft hangars, the concrete square the size of a football pitch. There are warehouses, a bottling plant, a large hostel where the migrant workers who pick the fruit sleep, big enough to house a hundred, more. A man driving a forklift truck passes us, the blades loaded with fruit pallets.

  ‘What’s the story with your brother?’ I say.

  ‘Which one?’ she says.

  ‘Duncan.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, waving a hand as if the question is too big to be answered adequately. ‘Emotional issues. Developmental issues. Could say the same about Luke.’ She laughs but she sounds tired.

  ‘They’ll take away his shotgun. His gun licence.’

  ‘Just hope he gets back soon. Place can’t run without him.’

  I think he’s looking at eighteen months, but do not tell her. ‘Your father didn’t say anything? About the compulsory purchase?’

  ‘He didn’t talk to us much. Towards the end. Christ knows what was going on in his head. Here. Come with me.’

  I do not want to spend any more time in the company of the Goves, but Saskia walks away before I have time to answer and I follow her. She passes between two buildings and on to a trail which threads between fences, up an incline towards a small wood. On each side of the trail are huge fields planted with rows and rows of bushes, people working in them.

  ‘Apricots,’ she says. ‘Never could stand them.’

  ‘You never worked on the estate?’

  ‘As a kid. Had no choice. But I got out, soon as I could. Volunteered in Africa, spent four years working for Médecins Sans Frontières.’

  We are walking side by side and I look across at her. She laughs.

  ‘Not the type? What a couple we make. I don’t look like a nurse, you don’t look like a lawyer. Who’d have thought?’

  ‘That’s why you volunteer? The homeless shelter?’

  ‘Do something good. Make up for all that bad in my life.’

  I think of her father, his desperate attempt to buy redemption. Wonder what it is that Saskia Gove has to atone for. She sighs, stops.

  ‘You probably think I’m a fucking lunatic. I’m sorry about the note. Had too much to drink, got on my high horse.’

  I do not reply and she smiles, takes both my hands in hers. There is nobody near and the day is very calm and warm.

  ‘Forgive me?’

  I am aware of the effect that Saskia Gove has on me and yet I do not seem able to fight it. I nod, try to ignore the fee
l of her fingers on my skin. I should take my hands away. But she is smiling at me and I do not want that to stop, to offend her by letting go. Her moods are so volatile, fragile as an eggshell.

  ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Ready?’

  She lets go of my hands and opens a gate and we walk twenty metres through the wood into a large meadow. At the far side is a stone building, Greek pillars holding up a domed stone roof.

  I know what it is but I do not say anything, do not want Saskia Gove to know that I have spoken to Father Donald.

  ‘My father built that for my mother. After she died. He went crazy, like…’ She points a finger to her temple, pulls a deranged face. ‘Seriously fucking loco. Spent all his time here, started drinking, lost the plot.’

  I think she has seen something because she seems distracted, no longer looks at me. I follow her gaze but I cannot see anything and when I turn back she is slowly collapsing and I am only just in time to catch her before she hits the ground.

  By the time I have carried Saskia back to the estate buildings she has regained consciousness but her mood has changed to such a degree it is as if a different person is magically inhabiting the same body. She tells me to put her down, tells me that I should never have called an ambulance. Her voice is cold and superior, the imperious tone of a matriarch giving orders to the help. I think of her hands on mine and wonder at my gullibility, my adolescent thrall under her gaze. I had thought myself better.

  I head back to the house where I parked my car. I pass one of the larger buildings, as big as three tennis courts, brick up to my shoulders and corrugated metal above. A door opens and a man comes out, a man I recognise. His father is a local criminal who was once friends with my father and who served time for forging banknotes. The son, who is closing and padlocking the door behind him, went the same way and has been in and out of prison his whole life. He has his back to me and I walk past without him seeing me. But as I reach my car I have to wonder, what is a man like that doing in a place like this?

  16

  BACK AT MY office I am trying to get my day back on track after it was hijacked by Saskia Gove and her disturbed brother, cursing myself for having gone out there in the first place, for having been so easily manipulated. William Gove is, or was, my client, but I want nothing more to do with the rest of them, never want to see them again.

  I have only just put on coffee and sat behind my desk when my buzzer sounds. I look out of my window on to the street and see Kane outside my door. I am tired and frustrated and, if I am honest with myself, plagued with guilt at allowing myself to be charmed by Saskia Gove. Kane has not picked the best time for a visit.

  I walk to my door and open it. Kane is laughing quietly to himself about something, I cannot guess what. I stand back and he steps inside the entrance. He got the better of me last time we met but it is not something I will allow to happen again. I am holding a jug of hot coffee in my hand which he has not seen. I throw it in his face and he puts both hands up to his eyes. I throw a right between his arms and feel one of his teeth give under my index knuckle. His legs are gone and I put my arm around him and help him to the floor. He is awkward and I manhandle him against the wall like a heavy piece of furniture. A passer-by looks in, a young woman, and hurries on. I close my door.

  ‘That’s for what you did to my father.’

  He must be in pain but he smiles to himself anyway, his eyes closed. I walk to my sink and fill the coffee jug with cold water and pour it over his head. He does not seem to notice. The water mixes with the coffee and the blood streaming from his lip which has burst, turning the front of his white T-shirt pink and beige.

  ‘You going to kill me?’ He is sitting with his legs in front of him, across my entrance. His chin nods on his T-shirt but he is still smiling, always smiling. I wonder about his state of mind.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘No. I’m not going to kill you.’

  He makes a sound like a buzzer on a game show when you have got the answer wrong.

  ‘Fucking want to.’

  ‘Please,’ I say.

  He puts his hands either side of him, pushes. His legs are still unsteady and he has to lean against the wall behind him, slide himself up.

  ‘Got a message.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Kane digs in his mouth with his fingers. When he takes them out, they are covered in blood.

  ‘Two days. Halliday wants those deeds.’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’

  He laughs at this, spits blood on to the floor. I consider hitting him again, just for that. ‘That’s the message.’

  ‘These things take time.’

  He nods to himself. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. Not a clever lawyer.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re a sadistic coward who enjoys torturing old men.’

  He laughs again. ‘Young women too. How’s CJ doing?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  But he does not answer, turns to leave, a hand on the wall to steady himself. It leaves a smear of blood. He pulls open the door, almost loses his balance. Steps through and stops. He turns back to me and smiles broadly. There is blood between his teeth, pooling in his bottom lip.

  ‘Should have killed me, man.’ He leaves and the door swings closed behind him. I look around the entrance to my office, wait for my pulse to slow. All this blood will take some shifting.

  On my way home I am troubled by what I did to Kane, and by what I saw at the Goves’ place. Duncan Gove may be a strange and possibly disturbed man, but his reaction seemed excessive. Why was he so desperate that the land he was standing on should not be dug up? And what was a career criminal doing locking up one of the Goves’ outbuildings? It is not my business and I should not get involved. But Rochelle Farrell’s daughter and CJ’s sister went missing and I might know why. It is knowledge I did not ask for and do not want, but still, I cannot ignore it.

  When I get home Maria is waiting for me. She kisses me and beckons me into the kitchen without speaking, pushes the door to behind us.

  ‘Did you take money from my bag?’

  ‘No.’

  She sighs sadly. ‘I think CJ took it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘No. But… Yes, I’m sure. If it wasn’t you.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  Maria shrugs. ‘It’s only money.’

  ‘I’ll speak to her.’

  ‘Go easy.’

  ‘I don’t think CJ does easy.’

  I call up to her, ask her if she could please come down, wait for an answer which does not come. We have to wait for some minutes before she walks into the kitchen, slowly and sullenly.

  ‘Yeah?’

  I do my best to keep my voice neutral. ‘Do you need money, CJ?’

  ‘No.’ She says it with disgust, as if my question is both ridiculous and indecent. ‘I can get my own money.’ Her body language is wrong, arms folded, body half turned away. She will not meet my eye.

  ‘We’re here for you. If you need help.’

  She nods but does not answer, fixes her gaze on the clock on the wall opposite. ‘This going to take long?’

  ‘Did you take money from Maria?’

  ‘No. Fuck. No.’

  That’s too many nos, I think. ‘Sure about that?’

  CJ lifts her arms. ‘Want to search me? Would you like that?’

  I do not react to her childish provocation. ‘I want, we want, to help you.’

  ‘Don’t need it.’ Her manner is pure indifference. ‘Fucking out of here. All right?’

  I believe that CJ has led a life littered with broken promises and petty betrayals; that she has had to learn self-reliance from far too early an age. I was no different when I was her age. But I owe where I am today to the kindness of strangers, to Gabe’s parents, to people who looked out for me at my tennis club. I will not give up on CJ that easily.

  ‘You don�
�t need to leave. Even if you took the money. It’ll take more than that for us to turn our backs on you.’

  CJ laughs, lips a cruel sneer. ‘Mr and Mrs Fucking Perfect, ain’t you? Make me fucking sick, you want the truth.’

  ‘CJ…’ begins Maria, hurt in her voice.

  ‘Yeah, I took the money. Gone now though, ain’t it? Me and all.’

  She turns and walks up the stairs and Maria and I listen to her gathering together her belongings. Maria looks at me as if to ask me what we can do, but I have no answer. The damage done to CJ in her past goes deeper than we can fathom; our attempts at kindness pitifully inadequate. I have no idea what to do.

  My father brought me up to distrust the police, to treat them with the wariness you would show a large and unpredictable dog. My work as a lawyer has brought me into contact with policemen who I believe are more morally corrupt than most criminals. But there is one man on the police force that I know and trust and, although it is late, I put a call through to him.

  ‘Whatever’s going on,’ he says without greeting me, ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘They teach you that approach at police college?’

  ‘This is about your friend Gabriel.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’

  ‘Because I can’t help. Hear me. I cannot help you.’

  ‘You know about it?’

  ‘I know about Doolan and Akram,’ he says. ‘Nothing I can do. Even if I wanted to.’ The way he says it, it is clear helping Gabriel is never going to be top of his list.

  ‘This isn’t about him,’ I say. ‘Something else. Case I’m working on.’

  ‘Yes?’ I have heard more enthusiasm in a dentist’s waiting room.

  ‘I believe it is connected to the disappearance of two young women, fourteen years ago.’

  Hicklin is silent on the other end for a moment. ‘Really.’

  But I am losing patience now; this is not my job and I need help, not cynicism. ‘Ditch the attitude, Sergeant,’ I say. ‘This isn’t about me. It’s about two women who may have been killed. And last time I met you, you were a policeman.’

  ‘Last time I saw you, you were about to shoot up half of Essex.’ He pauses, sighs. ‘Okay. I’ll see you. But it had better be good.’ He gives me a time, tells me not to be late, hangs up.