by Thomas Emson
“No, he’s on the dole, but he just does it.”
“Sweet,” said Faultless.
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“Fine.”
“He fancies me.”
Faultless nearly said, Why shouldn’t he? but instead said, “Does he hassle you?”
“No. He’s okay. Weird, like I say. I think he’s probably lonely. He invites me round, sometimes.” She shuddered. “He likes horror films, I think. He says, ‘Do you want to come and watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre IV,’ or whatever, and he’s saying it in all innocence—like it’s a great date movie.”
“It might be. If you like that kind of thing.”
“I don’t.”
“So what d’you say to him?”
“That I’m washing my hair. He must think I spend a fortune on shampoo.”
“Does he take rejection well, this Hallam?”
“He smiles, nods, says, ‘Okay, Tash, just wondering.’ He’s fine. Harmless. Worst he probably does is have a wank thinking about me. Ugh. Anyway. Feel sick, now. Bet this is going to help your book.”
“Just makes it more complicated.”
She looked at him hard, as if she were trying to read his mind. He kept it blank—just in case.
She took her eyes away from him and said, “I need to talk to some of the other mums, see what’s up with school tomorrow. I can’t see them opening.”
She picked up her phone off the worktop and dialed.
Someone rapped on the door.
Tash said, “Can you get that, Charlie? D’you mind—Oh, hi, it’s Tash Hanbury, Jasmine’s mum . . . ”
Faultless got up and went through the living room to the front door and opened it.
A short, round man in his mid-thirties stared back at Faultless. The man wore a yellow bib with a logo on the right breast pocket. His thin, ginger hair lay flat and wet on his scalp. He had an inch-long scar just under his left eye.
Something flashed into Faultless’s mind but was quickly gone.
He looked at the man and said, “Yeah?”
The man made goldfish movements with his mouth. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost—or perhaps something worse.
Faultless said, “You Hallam Buck?”
The man continued to open and close his mouth, making no sound.
“Tash is on the phone,” said Faultless, and then added, “I’m Charlie Faultless.”
It was as if the man had just been shot in the chest.
He reared back, stumbling towards the safety barrier. It was four-and-a-half feet high, but he crashed into it as such pace, he started to topple over.
Faultless lunged out of the doorway to grab the falling man.
Chapter 32
MURDER IN MIND
Detective Chief Superintendent Donald Christopher Wilks, aged fifty-two, with one eye on the yacht moored in Ramsgate harbor and the other on nailing someone, anyone, for the murder of the four Barrowmore scumbags.
Born in the East End, hated in the East End, Wilks was despised by his own people.
And he despised them right back.
But Don Wilks despised pretty much everyone.
His heart was black with hate, his soul tarnished by bitterness, and his blood hot with rage.
Tough shit, he thought, watching the residents of Barrowmore crawl out of their lairs.
He saw a girl wearing the uniform of a high street computer retailer trudge along the road. Off to do her Sunday shift. Unemployment stood at more than 40 percent on Barrowmore, so she should have counted herself lucky she had a job, in Wilks’s opinion.
The estate crawled with cops. Wilks nodded to a couple of uniforms just arrived at the tower blocks. They were on door-to-door duty.
Yeah, good luck with that, thought Wilks.
Up in the high rises, youths who, according to Wilks, should either be in internment camps or doing national service, were shouting obscenities at the police as they gathered for the first full day’s investigation.
Wilks walked on, heading along the road running to the left of the tower blocks. It was lined with low-rise housing. Red brick boxes. White paneled frontages. High walls festooned with graffiti or hanging baskets.
Dogs barked. Children screamed. Sirens wailed. Horns blared.
Fucking Barrowmore.
Wilks gritted his teeth. Being here brought murder to his mind.
Nuke the bloody lot of them, he was thinking.
But wait till we leave.
Wilks and his team were based in Barrowmore for the duration of the murder investigation. The major incident room, set up at the scene of any serious crime, was at the local community hall. Offices in the rear of the building had been commandeered by detectives. The hall itself was a jungle of computer stations, fax machines, telephones, and television screens, operated by the civilian workforce. Here, they sifted through the evidence as it came in. However, it was only a trickle at the moment. Barrowmore wasn’t too keen on helping the cops.
Wilks walked along the row of houses. A swaggering youth came towards him, dragged along by a panting, black-and-white Staffordshire bull terrier on a chain.
Wilks hated dogs. Dirty animals. It was one thing the Muslims had right. That and chopping people’s hands off.
The youth strutted. The dog strained. Wilks glared. When he was ten yards away, he said to the youth, “Get that fucking dog off my pavement before I have you taken down the nick for being armed and dangerous.”
The youth squared his shoulders. “What’d you fucking say, mate? You want to fucking go?”
Wilks whipped out his badge and flashed it at the youth. The dog panted. Spit oozed from its jaws. It was built like a beer barrel.
Wilks said, “Let’s fucking go, son, lets fucking go.”
The youth balked. He mumbled something. He stepped off the pavement, dragging his dog with him. The Staffie wagged his tail at Wilks.
Wilks grumbled as he strode on. But after a few yards, he stopped. He blinked. His vision blurred. A headache pulsed in his temples. He grunted and bared his teeth against the pain. Images flashed in his mind. He shut his eyes and tried to relax, breathing deeply.
I’m all right, he said to himself, and opened his eyes again. I’m all right. The price I have to pay for my burdens.
He walked. Two minutes later he found the house and pushed open the gate, smiling at the sign that said, “Beware Of The Snake.”
Chapter 33
DOES HE KNOW?
Hallam’s skin crawled. He was hot and sweaty, and his nerves were wire-tight. Trying to make conversation, he said, “Are you Tash’s boyfriend now?”
“No, Hallam,” said Charlie Faultless. “Are you?”
Hallam blushed. “Yes” nearly came out of his mouth without him thinking, but he managed to disguise the word by mumbling.
“You fancy her, mate?” said Faultless.
Hallam felt really uncomfortable. He squirmed. He flushed. He stalled. Faultless was obviously making fun of him.
Does he know? thought Hallam. Does he know?
He considered running away, but if he did that, maybe Faultless would guess.
“I don’t blame you, Hallam,” the other man said. “She is attractive. I used to go out with her sister. You remember her sister?”
Hallam looked into his coffee. Faultless had brought him to Ray’s greasy spoon café. Earlier, when they were coming down in the lift, Hallam thought he would piss himself. Faultless stared at him all the way down. Stared and said nothing.
He knows . . . he knows . . . Hallam was thinking.
But Faultless didn’t do anything if he did know. He brought him here, smiled, bought him a coffee.
They sat at a red Formica table. The place was packed and teeming with gossip. Steam rose. Bacon sizzled. You
could hear the Sunday crowd talking about the murders and slagging off the Old Bill.
Hallam wanted to stand up and say, “It was me who found them,” but he resisted.
Now he answered Faultless. “Yes . . . yes, I remember.”
“You remember me?”
Fear turned his spine into an icy rope. He looked Faultless in the eyes—one brown, one blue, both cold. He tried to say something, but no words came out. His heart thundered.
“Don’t worry,” said Faultless. “I’ve changed, mate. I know I was a bit of a bad lad in my youth, but I’m all right, now. Honest.”
“Oh . . . oh, yes, course,” said Hallam, pouncing on Faultless’s misunderstanding. He obviously thought Hallam was scared of his reputation, which he was. But he was also scared of something else.
He was scared of vengeance.
He doesn’t know, thought Hallam. It’s okay, he doesn’t know.
He blew air out of his cheeks and took a sip of his coffee. It was hot and comforting. Faultless hadn’t touched his drink yet.
“You remember the New Ripper?” said Faultless.
Hallam held his breath.
Faultless went on. “He killed my mum fifteen years ago.”
Hallam nodded.
“I’ve come back to write a book about it.”
Hallam opened his mouth but said nothing.
“And yesterday’s killings, they looked pretty violent, not so different to back then.”
Hallam blinked.
“You found the bodies, Hallam; you’re the famous one . . . ”
Hallam blushed.
“ . . . so I thought maybe you could tell me what you saw?”
Hallam swelled with pride.
“You want to tell me, mate?”
Hallam told.
And when he’d finished half-an-hour later, Faultless said, “Good stuff.”
Hallam said, “Will you tell Tash I helped you?”
Faultless, rising from his seat, smiled. “You want me to?”
Hallam looked away.
Faultless said, “I’ll say you were really helpful.”
Hallam licked his lips.
Chapter 34
TWO OLD BULLS
Roy Hanbury folded his big arms and leaned against the doorframe. “It’ s always me first, ain’t it, Wilks.”
“You’re a good place to start, Roy.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re the main bastard round these parts.”
“Ain’t no bastard no more, Wilks.”
“Once a bastard, always a bastard—and I should know.”
Wilks had Dick Van Dyke silver hair, John Sergeant jowls, Dolph Lundgren height, and Nick Griffin hate.
Like Hanbury once had, but not any more. “My hearts pure, now,” he said. “Filled with the holy spirit.”
“Don’t think you can be forgiven for your ways, Roy.”
“Everyone can be forgiven—even you.”
“No one’s in a position to forgive me—I am my own judge.”
“God’s your judge, Wilks.”
“Fuck God.”
“You better start believing in him.”
“I do, Roy.”
“Good—then you better start worshipping him.”
“I only worship me.”
“You’ll be no good in the end times.”
“I’ll survive. I’m like a cockroach. Get through anything—disciplinary panels, nuclear war, and Day of Judgment.”
Hanbury clenched his jaw.
Wilks clocked it. “Am I pissing you off, Roy?”
“You always pissed me off, Wilks.”
“Where’s that pure heart of yours?”
Hanbury grunted.
Wilks said, “How about showing me some Christian charity and making me a cup of tea, warm the cockles of my cold, black heart on this grim old day?”
“Fuck off.”
“I can have you hauled in for obstruction.”
“For not making you a cup of tea?”
“Come on, Roy.” His face darkened, the fake mateyness rapidly fading. “Bygones and all that.”
“You come back when you’ve nailed my daughter’s killer.”
Wilks narrowed his eyes.
Hanbury said, “You royally fucked up, Wilks. There are people round here who ain’t had closure. We’re still suffering.”
Wilks looked away for a moment. His jowls shook. Then his cruel, green eyes were back on Hanbury.
He said, “Don’t fuck about with me, Roy. You ain’t got the balls anymore, son.”
Hanbury leaned forward, and Wilks reared back.
Hanbury said, “You’d be surprised at the balls I carry round with me, DCS Wilks.”
Wilks smiled. “All right. All right. That’s good. Two old bulls going head to head here. No harm done, eh? We didn’t see eye to eye back then, Roy, that’s true. Many reasons. But you’re on the straight and narrow, now. Me, I’m a couple of years away from my yacht, cruising around the Med, tanned tarts spread-eagled on deck, in—or out of—their bikinis. Let’s not ruck when there’s no need to ruck. Let’s try to be civil, eh?”
Hanbury said nothing.
Wilks’s smile went. “All I’m asking, Roy, is have you heard anything?”
“I heard nothing, Wilks.”
“That lad Jason Joseph Thomas. Called him Slow Joe round here. The kid who got his head bashed in. I know something about him.”
“Bet it’s made up, Wilks.”
“I don’t know. Made up or not, he was seen hanging around here, just outside your place, early yesterday morning. What do you say to that?”
“I say you see a lot.”
“I do, Roy. I am the all-seeing eye.”
Hanbury shrugged. “I never saw him. If he was out here, so what? They hang about all over the estate.
Wilks looked him in the eye. “Kids have been killed, you know.”
“I fucking know that. Don’t give me that bollocks. You ain’t got a heart of gold. You ain’t on a crusade for justice. Fifteen years ago you wasn’t, and you ain’t had an epiphany in the meantime.”
“Why not? You have. Or is it just show? You still the bastard you once were, Roy? Not planning to sort this out yourself are you?”
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”
“I bet he does, the bloodthirsty cunt.”
“Take my name in vain, Wilks, but not the Lords.”
Wilks sneered. “Another thing the rumor mill churned out,” he said, “is that a bloke was hanging around your Tash’s place this morning.”
Hanbury said nothing.
“She got a boyfriend? New fella? No one seemed to know his name.”
Hanbury stayed silent.
“Thing is,” said Wilks, “we just need to eliminate him from our inquiries, see. Every ‘i’, every ‘t’ that kind of thing.”
“Can’t help you,” said Hanbury. “Now, I need to feed my snake.”
He shut the door in Wilks’s face.
Chapter 35
HE’S HERE
“The roof, the roof,” said Jack, stumbling out of the lift on the fifteenth floor of Bradford House. “I need to get to the roof.”
He panted. He reeled. His cape flapped, and Spencer saw faces in its folds—faces twisting into the shapes of screams.
He stepped back, his throat dry.
Behind him, the elevator clanked and went down. Jack leaned against the lift.
Spencer watched him, scared.
It had been more than a day since the murders. During that time, Spencer had been in a daze. He’d given Jack a tour of the estate. But it was Jack who knew his way around. And he’d shown Spencer hiding places, alleyways, and dark corners he never knew existed. Pla
ces history had forgotten.
“You have to look hard,” Jack had told him, “but if you do, you will always find a way through from your world to these lost places, these hidden locations.”
In all of these places, Spencer had seen terrible things, and he tried his best not to remember them . . .
A fucking goat. Fucking bones. Fucking corpses on hooks. Fucking ghosts. Fucking . . . Hell.
But they had stained his memory. They had corrupted him. They were foul, and they were in his heart.
Night and day, Spencer and his new friend had trawled this alternative Barrowmore, Jack saying he was reacquainting himself with his territory.
And now, he wanted to survey his domain.
“What’s the matter?” said Spencer.
“The roof, I need the roof,” said Jack.
“I don’t think I can—”
Jack moved like lightning. A black flash. He scooped Spencer up and dangled him over the edge of the fifteenth floor.
The world wheeled. A scream clogged in his throat. Wind whipped his hair.
He swung like a pendulum, a hundred-and-fifty feet above the earth.
Jack held him by his ankle.
As he stopped swaying, Spencer found his voice. He used it to shriek.
Jack leaned over the side. Spit oozed from his jaws.
It spattered over Spencer, and he said, “I’m going to be sick.”
“Puke then,” Jack said.
“Please, let me up.”
“Do as I say, Spencer.”
“Please . . . ”
Jack hoisted him up. Spencer fell on his arse on the walkway. He felt dizzy.
“You’re crazy,” he whined.
“I’m psycho, Spencer.”
“Are you dead?”
“I never die.”
“Are you an angel?”
Jack shrugged.
“Where’d you come from, man?”
“From hell. Now hurry. Show me how to get to the roof.”
Spencer showed him a metal door at the far end of the walkway.
“It’s how the council blokes get up there. It’s locked—”
Jack grabbed the padlock with his hand and crushed it. It twisted and snapped.
“Now it isn’t,” he said.
