He turned the engine off, silencing Tony Yayo in mid-proclamation that the shells hurt him but he would take them like a man, and got out of the car. Keeping his eyes fixed resolutely on the front door. Ignoring the two Ferraris in the drive, the Bentley and the Jeep Cherokee. Knowing Kovacs’ other cars were garaged at a different location. Tamping down the rising jealousy, feeling that familiar hunger scraping inside him, gnawing away at him, forcing him on. One day, he thought. One day.
Before he could reach the door, it was opened for him by Christopher. Decca swallowed hard, tried not to let his unease show.
‘Awright?’ he said.
Christopher nodded. Gestured down the hall. Decca stepped inside; the doors closed behind him.
The hall looked as it was expected to look after so much cash had been lavished on it. Decca walked down the thick carpet, sculpting his damp hair back into place, checking it in mirrors, looking at the walls, wondering, not for the first time, whether the paintings, furniture and ornaments were all genuine antiques. He reckoned they were. That jealousy, that hunger for success was eating away inside him again. He wished, not for the first time, that all this was his. Not that he particularly liked any of it; he thought it looked awful, but it had class. It had style. It was the way you were expected to live when you had the money.
And as soon as he had the money, he would be doing it.
‘He in the study?’ asked Decca.
‘Vivarium,’ said Christopher, barely moving his lips.
Decca swallowed. He would be. The room he hated most.
He followed Christopher through to the rear of the house, past door after door, past the indoor swimming pool and fitness complex, up to a closed set of double doors. Christopher leaned forward, opened them. Ushered Decca in. Decca took a deep breath, stepped inside.
The room was huge and oblong. Windowless. And hot. Trees, rocks and foliage, real and fake, dotted the room. It was like an indoor rainforest. From the ceiling, blindingly bright lights threw down artificial sunlight. And around thick branches and under rocks were the things Decca hated. Snakes. Pythons. Boas. And in an indoor pool at the far end of the room, sculpted to look like a naturally occurring small lake, an anaconda. The big ones, the crushers. And along the far wall, glassed off from the rest of the room, the others. The mambas. The cobras. Cottonmouths. Corals. Diamondbacks. The venomous ones. The deadly ones.
And in the centre was Kovacs.
‘Derek. You are just in time. Come in.’
Kovacs was standing before a large metal basin that he had placed on a table. He was looking down into it, dressed in suit trousers and rolled-up shirtsleeves. There was a smile playing at the sides of his mouth.
‘Come closer.’
Decca reluctantly did as he was told. He slowly approached the table, feeling cold reptilian eyes chart his progress, eyes that, he thought, held primeval secrets, primeval evil. He tried not to let his unease show. He wondered what the lunatics would have made of the snakes. He reached the basin, tried hard not to look inside.
Kovacs was looking, enrapt. There was almost love in his eyes. ‘This is a python.’ he said, ‘A small one.’ His voice sounded regretful. It didn’t look small to Decca. ‘Dinnertime.’
Kovacs turned, reached behind him and brought forward a little cage. Decca heard the scampering of tiny, fearful feet from within. Kovacs reached in, brought out a brown rat. Holding it by the tail, he dropped it into the bucket. The rat tried to get out, run its way up the side of the ceramic, its claws sounding like miniature fingernails down blackboards. The snake seemed to ignore it at first, allowing the rat to tire. Then, without warning, it pounced. Jaws distended clamped on to the rat’s head. It wriggled, tried desperately to pull away. It was only prolonging the agony. There was no escape now.
Decca closed his eyes. He had never heard a rat scream before.
‘It will eat its prey head first,’ said Kovacs. ‘That way the legs will fold into its body. My snake will not be scratched or hurt. There will be nothing to stick in its throat. It will swallow its prey whole.’
Kovacs watched as the snake slowly gulped down the rat, the rat eventually giving up the fight.
‘Look at that. Just muscle. No compassion. No conscience. No loyalty. Just the triumph of the will.’
When there was nothing more to watch, he looked up. Straight at Decca.
‘The girl is gone?’ he said.
Decca nodded.
‘Completely? You did as I told you?’
Decca nodded.
‘Where?’
Decca shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Just threw her out. Replaced her at the café. End of.’
Kovacs stared at him. ‘Good.’ Kovacs’ eyes were unblinking. He gave Decca the same scrutiny one of his reptile pets would. ‘Good.’ He looked around, took in the artfully recreated jungle. ‘Lenny had trouble the other night,’ he said, addressing a yellow snake wrapped around an upper branch.
‘Yeah,’ said Decca, ‘yeah, I heard.’
‘He was taken to hospital. His arm has been broken in two places.’
‘He didn’t say anything,’ said Decca. ‘Told them he’d been mugged.’
‘I don’t expect him to say anything.’
‘Some punter getting overattached, wasn’t it? Running away with one of the girls.’ Decca shrugged. Attempted a smile. ‘Not to worry. Plenty more where she came from.’
‘It might be worth worrying about.’
Decca frowned. ‘How come?’
‘Because I don’t believe it was random. She was taken for a reason.’
‘What reason?’
Kovacs looked at the python. The rat was now a distended lump in its body. It was unmoving, allowing its internal acids to go to work. ‘That’s what I want you to find out,’ he said.
‘What … what d’you want done about it?’
‘I want her found. I want her brought back to me.’ He pointed to a document wallet on the table. ‘There is a photo of her. And where she was last staying. There is also a description of the people who took her and the car they took her in. A man and a woman. I want to know why they did. The girl I want alive. The ones who took her … use your judgement.’
Decca edged forward, stretched out his fingers, expecting the snake to jump out of the bowl at any minute and attack him.
Kovacs looked amused. ‘It is a constrictor and it has just been fed. It is harmless.’
Decca gingerly lifted the folder from the table, jumped back as quickly as he could.
‘I just don’t like them,’ he said. ‘They’ve always given me the creeps.’
Kovacs smiled as if at a private joke. ‘Nature is cruel. And that is its beauty.’
‘Yeah. Whatever.’ He looked at the folder.
‘Take Christopher,’ Kovacs said. ‘He can help you. You can use your knowledge of the area. He can do the things—’ Kovacs paused, looked down at the basin ‘—that you find distasteful.’
‘Distasteful?’ Decca had tried to keep his face blank and not speak but he couldn’t help himself.
‘You are good at hitting women, Derek, keeping them in line. And dealing with the men you put in place to manage the houses. But those women are weak and those men are cowards.’
Decca kept his face blank, nodded. He understood what was being said.
‘You are being entrusted with a great opportunity here, Derek. Use it wisely.’
‘Yes, Mr Kovacs.’
‘He will be waiting for you at the front door. I suggest you waste no more time.’
Decca, realizing he had been dismissed, thanked his boss, told him he wouldn’t regret it and turned to leave. The doors seemed miles away, the snakes watching him on all sides. He walked slowly towards them.
Once out of the vivarium he breathed a huge sigh of relief. Then another. After the third, he thought it time to go.
He walked down the hallway, looking again at the paintings and antiques. It was the way you were expected to live when you had money.
As he walked, he smiled. He would do his best with this job. He would prove to Mr Kovacs that he was a good worker, that he was ripe for promotion. It would be a shame if anything happened to the girl or the two people who had taken her. But that wasn’t his priority.
He had a boss to impress. He had money to make. A lifestyle to aim for.
He felt that hunger for success eating away inside him again.
Felt the spirit of Clint walking beside him.
No one, nothing, was going to stand in his way this time.
16
Donovan sat in the back of the Vauxhall Vectra, saying nothing, staring out of the window. The rain hadn’t eased off. If anything, it was coming down harder. The only other sounds were breathing. His and Katya’s. And, from the front, Nattrass and Turnbull’s. Both twisted around, both staring at Donovan.
‘So you goin’ to tell us?’ Turnbull asked again.
Donovan just looked at him. Said nothing.
‘Well, well. Joe Donovan. My favourite gobshite do-gooder.’ The words Turnbull had used when Nattrass and Turnbull had appeared at the door of the brothel. Donovan, knowing full well the history between himself and Turnbull, had mentally prided himself on not rising to the words, and instead hustled them both outside. He wanted Noddy well out of earshot of anything likely to be said. The detectives hadn’t been too happy about him doing that. But then they weren’t too happy about seeing him full stop.
After Turnbull’s less-than-friendly greeting, Nattrass had stepped in. Businesslike, professional as usual. She had asked Donovan and Katya to walk with them to the car, get inside. Katya was clearly terrified. The fact that they weren’t who she had thought they would be, but police instead, didn’t make it any easier for her. She kept her hat pulled down, said nothing. Donovan, trying to deflect attention away from her, attempted levity. Failed.
‘Good to see you again, Diane,’ he had said with as big a smile as he could muster. ‘How you keeping?’
‘Just get in the car, please, Joe. It’s pissing down.’
They got in the car.
Donovan noticed that Turnbull had been trying to look under Katya’s cap all the way across the road. He knew whom Turnbull expected to find there. He knew he had to say something to stop him asking too many questions about her.
‘This is a new associate of ours,’ Donovan said, indicating Katya. ‘Her name’s Kate. She’s working for me at the moment.’
Katya, picking up the hint, gave a little nod, supported by a small smile.
‘Not Peta,’ said Donovan. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
Turnbull said nothing. Just looked like he wanted to hit Donovan.
In the car, riled now, he still wasn’t letting up.
‘Again,’ said Turnbull. ‘You want to tell us what you and your ladyfriend were doing visiting a known brothel?’
Donovan smiled. ‘Ladyfriend? I don’t think I’ve heard that phrase since England won the World Cup.’
‘Funny fucker.’ Turnbull’s face showed he found him anything but.
Nattrass flashed him a warning look.
‘I am,’ said Donovan. ‘Wait until you see my Tommy Cooper impression.’
Turnbull looked like overheating. Donovan expected to see steam rising from him. ‘Just tell me what you were doing there.’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ said Donovan. ‘Why are two of Northumbria’s finest going about harassing innocent members of the public for what they get up to in their own time?’
‘Boys,’ said Nattrass, a note of weary anger in her voice, ‘I’m about to choke on the testosterone.’
The two men quietened down. Turnbull kept staring daggers at Donovan. Donovan winked at him. Nattrass sighed.
‘Please,’ she said. Then turned to Donovan. ‘Let’s not go through all that again. It’s too tedious. We’re investigating a murder. It’s been classified high grade. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.’
‘I have. I saw you on TV. You come across much better than Bob Fenton.’
Nattrass hid a smile. ‘Don’t try to flatter me, I’m working.’ Then back to business. ‘And the establishment you have just emerged from has come up in the course of our enquiries. And it’s too much of a coincidence to find you there. So what’s going on?’
Donovan smiled to himself. Good cop, bad cop. Perhaps they had started it as an act but, like wearing a mask for so long, it takes on the contours of your features until you become it and it you; it was hard to tell when the act stopped and they played it for real.
‘What a double act,’ he said. ‘Better than Eric and Ernie in their prime.’ He looked at Turnbull. ‘Go on, show us your short, fat, hairy legs.’
Turnbull tried to get over the back of the seat and grab him. Nattrass stopped him. Turned to Donovan.
‘Don’t piss us about, Joe. We’ve got a job to do.’
‘I know,’ Donovan said. ‘But it’s fun. I’m working on the same case as you. For Janine Stewart.’
Distaste and disbelief fought for dominance on Turnbull’s face. ‘You? As what?’
‘An investigator.’
Turnbull snorted. ‘An investigator? You couldn’t find your arse with both hands.’
Donovan smiled. ‘Everything I know I learned from you. You’re my hero.’
Nattrass sighed. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she said. ‘Can’t you two behave like adults?’
Donovan and Turnbull fell silent once more.
‘Thank you,’ said Nattrass. ‘Now. Again. Why are you investigating this case?’
‘Janine Stewart wants Michael Nell’s alibi double-checked. Just to make sure there are no discrepancies.’
‘Discrepancies?’ said Nattrass.
‘Yeah. You know what I mean. Michael Nell’s not just an arrogant twat, but a rich arrogant twat. Janine Stewart thinks there might be a temptation to find him more guilty than he otherwise would have been.’
‘What?’ Nattrass’ eyes flared.
‘Only in an overzealous way to see justice done, of course.’
‘We would investigate this case like any other,’ said Nattrass. ‘Why should she want you to do it too?’
‘Like you said. It’s been classified high grade. And since Nell senior’s a rich man, some deaths are more important than others.’
Nattrass kept staring at him. Controlling her anger. ‘So why do you care?’
Donovan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care. You know me. I just do what I’m told and pocket the cheque.’
‘Right.’ Nattrass gave him a look that said she believed he did anything but.
‘So what did you find out?’ asked Turnbull.
Donovan smiled again. ‘Can’t tell you. Client confidentiality and all that.’
Turnbull sighed. ‘Mouthy bastard. I’m gonna smack you one of these days.’
Donovan just looked at him.
‘Come on, boys,’ said Nattrass. ‘There’s no conflict of interest. We’re all on the same side here. Despite what Janine Stewart might think. We want to either do him or exclude him.’
‘Then I think you might be excluding him,’ said Donovan. ‘The woman he photographed says he was with her on the night Ashley disappeared.’
‘Can she prove this?’ asked Nattrass.
Donovan shrugged. ‘Says she can. Says she’ll put it in writing for me.’
‘So you take the word of some whore at face value?’ Turnbull sneered. ‘You’ll never make a proper investigator. You’ll never make a copper.’
Donovan cast a glance to Katya. He saw her flinch when Turnbull said whore. Saw how upset she looked. This made him even more angry. ‘And why would I want to? If they’re all cunts like you.’
‘Right, that’s it,’ said Nattrass. ‘Out of the car. Go on, piss off. That’s enough for one night.’
Donovan opened the car door, made to get out. Nattrass spoke again.
‘If I need to talk to you again, I know where to find you. And if I do, you’d better pray that I’m in a bet
ter mood.’
Donovan said nothing, got out. Katya followed.
They walked back to the parked Mondeo, got in. Donovan no longer knew whether the rain had eased or increased. He no longer cared.
Jamal was waiting for them. ‘I tried to tell you who it was, man, but you cut me off.’
‘Sorry,’ said Donovan. ‘Thought it best to just run. But thank you for your concern.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Donovan turned to Katya, who was taking off her cap, letting her hair loose. ‘You OK?’
She nodded. ‘OK. But not an experience I want to go through again.’
‘Don’t blame you. Let’s go home.’
There was no argument with that. He started the car.
Unaware that the front curtain of the house he had just visited had been pulled aside, unaware that two faces were watching him go. Making notes.
And phone calls.
17
Those who don’t learn from the past, the Historian had once read somewhere, are condemned to repeat it. And that was all he could see. Around him. All he could ever see. The past repeating itself.
The dead souls. He would glimpse them in alleyways, doorways. On buses, the Metro. Sitting in pubs or in a cinema. They guided him, spoke to him, gave him hope. Showed him the secret history of the city, where the past was hiding in the present. Gave him his special route, his places to visit.
Some places were more important than others. They spoke to him more clearly. Like this one.
Friday night. The old Keep.
He sat on a bench amid the ruined old walls of the city, the stone crumbling, making its own patterns, looking down at the Tyne. Just to his left was Long Stairs, a winding, twisting route down to the quayside. One of a number of a series of Georgian steps linking the higher and lower aspects of the city. The stairs were winding, in poor repair and badly lit; they provided ample camouflage for would-be muggers and rapists. They were often vomit dotted and provided good places for surreptitious late-night sex. Signs announced that hidden CCTV cameras had been added. Whether they were effective or not, the Historian didn’t know. He was neither a mugger nor a rapist. He would never vomit or have sex in public. He was something different. Something special.
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