by Shaun Baines
"And yet, here you are." Daniel watched a piece of driftwood trapped in the eddies of the Tyne. It should have been swept out to sea, but it was caught in a watery loop, enmeshed in brown foam. "Actually, you're right, DCI Spencer. Forgive me for being so demanding of your time."
Daniel turned to go, but Spencer grabbed him by the arm.
"Don't be a dick about this," he said.
Looking down at Spencer's hand, Daniel's arm was immediately released and Spencer took a step back.
"When you asked for a meet," Spencer said, "I suggested here because I don't want people to know I'm with a Dayton."
"What people?" Daniel asked. "Your honest, hard-working colleagues?"
"No. People."
Daniel nipped the inside of his cheek with his incisors. As his teeth met, they sounded like a knock at the door. "You mean the Maguires? You owe them money?"
"They have a back room at The Leg of Mutton. I'm in deep."
"And if they found out you were meeting with me…" Daniel let the sentence hang, looking into a river that hid so many mistakes.
"Exactly," Spencer said.
"I've never been second fiddle before." Daniel spat out a sliver of flesh and wiped his mouth. "I don't like it."
A street violinist started on the Danse Macabre by Saint-Saëns, though Daniel preferred the version by Jonathan Creek. The musician was dressed as a skeleton and the shoppers gave him a wide berth. He stood alone with a violin case empty of coins.
Spencer seized his ponytail in a fist. A bead of oil dripped from his clutch, staining the lapel of his suit. "You understand what I'm saying to you?"
Ignoring the musician, Daniel watched a young mother with a pram shoplifting from a stall selling soda bread. He nodded at Spencer and the lines around the policeman's eyes disappeared.
"Okay, I'll tell you. First of all," Spencer said, "you're shit out of luck. No-one knows anything about Angel Maguire. She's the quiet daughter of Eleanor Maguire, but it was her sister Hope who looked to take over in the future."
"Where's Hope?"
"I've been asking myself the same thing," Spencer said with a shrug. "She's around. Maybe. It's not like we follow them twenty-four-seven, but if Hope is still working the streets, then it's her younger sister making the moves."
"What do you mean?"
"Six months ago, there were rumours of a drug called Blizzard. It's taken like cocaine, but it's crazy addictive. We found a few samples on the local druggies. They were passing it around like free squirts of perfume at the chemist. One hit and you're hooked."
Daniel remembered what Fred had mentioned as he quivered in the toilet bowl. "Not so fragrant?"
"I don't work Special Ops, but they were bricking themselves. All they had was a Maguire involvement."
Daniel scratched at the stubble on his chin. "Blizzard is big money then?"
"Enough to put you back on top."
Daniel watched the young mother weaving her way through the crowd, loaves of soda bread tucked beneath her baby's chubby legs. Everyone had an angle, thought Daniel. Everyone made a living somehow.
"What else?" he asked.
"That's it," Spencer said, "unless you feel like confessing to something."
Daniel held onto the railing, the black paint splintering under his grip.
"Where can I find Angel Maguire?" he asked.
"You've seen the file. She barely exists. Your guess is as good as mine." Spencer spotted the oil stain on his lapel. Licking the pad of his thumb, he attempted to wipe it clear and succeeded in making it worse. "There's been a lot of stuff going on recently. Lots of cars going missing, ending up at wrecker's yards. Your friend owns one of those, doesn't he?"
"Nothing happens there," Daniel said. "Leave Bronson out of this. It's between you and me."
"Then we understand each other?"
Daniel's hand darted out, grabbing the policeman by the ponytail. He dragged Spencer in close, breathing through his mouth to avoid the suffocating smell of his aftershave. "Why should I help you? You've told me nothing."
"I've told you everything we know," Spencer said, jiggling on the spot, "and you're helping yourself, too. The Daytons are clinging to life and this Blizzard is a storm you don't need. It's a game changer."
Daniel didn't need to read Spencer's body language to know Spencer was telling the truth. He released him, wiping his hand over the policeman's clothing. "And when I kill Angel, your debts are forgotten?"
Inspecting the oil streaks of his jacket, Spencer shrank under the material. "Survival of the lowest."
Spencer's debts weren't the only ones that were overdue. If the information Daniel had gathered was correct, then Angel was racking up a few of her own.
"You'll get what you deserve," Daniel said. "I can't say fairer than that."
Daniel left the policeman gawping and collected his daughter from the carousel. She was arguing with the attendant, complaining her pink giraffe was uncomfortable and she deserved a ride in a hollowed-out hippo. Daniel paid more money and they disappeared under the critical stares of the parents in the queue. They slipped into a stream of people heading toward the Tyne Bridge. He checked his phone, sighing at the blank screen. Bronson hadn't called and Daniel jammed it back into his pocket.
Up ahead, he saw the young mother propped up in an alcove. Her eyes were glazed, her skin was filmed in sweat and a needle hung out of her arm. The baby slept peacefully in its pram, glad to be free of the items its mother had stolen. The bread and whatever else had been swapped for a ticket to paradise. Because everything had to be earned.
"What's wrong with her?" Eisha asked, but Daniel didn't have an answer his daughter would understand.
Chapter Eleven
Cedars Mount was a detached Edwardian house in Darras Hall, Ponteland. Tall chimneys pointed like cannons into the sky. The garden was small and unmanaged. A pond with a broken fountain was filled with murky water capped with a layer of algae.
The dining room contained an eight-seater table dressed in a white tablecloth. Beeswax candles burned in silver holders, scenting the air with honeyed smoke. Glasses were filled with ruby wine next to rows of cutlery stationed like soldiers. On the green papered walls were mounted china plates and oil paintings of hunting dogs, taken from an antiques dealer who owed them money.
Eleanor Maguire sat in a high-backed chair at the head of the table. She reached for her fish knife, polishing it with the corner of the tablecloth. Her steel grey hair was tied into a bun on the top of her head. It elongated a thin face dominated by a hooked nose. She finished with the knife and placed it back into position, repeating the process with a soup spoon.
The door opened and Angel walked into the dining room, her head bowed.
"You're late, dear," Eleanor said.
Angel was dressed in a grey trouser suit and white blouse. The clothes were tight around her midriff and the ruffled collar was stained with blood. "I was working."
"Dear Lord," her mother said, almost spilling her wine. "What have you done to your hair?"
"I fancied a change," Angel said, running a finger through the blue streak of her fringe. She picked up the bottle of red Beaujolais and refilled her mother's glass.
"Hope looks lovely with her hair dyed," Eleanor said. "Why were you so busy?"
Gritting her teeth, Angel slammed the bottle into the table and the dregs of the Beaujolais spurted from the neck.
"I was in the conservatory," Angel said, taking a seat. "I'm taking my time with him."
Her mother's eyes went to the blood on Angel's collar. "You never got away with a slapped bottom where Hope was concerned. Have you used plenty of plastic sheeting? It costs so much for the cleaners to turn a blind eye to that sort of thing."
Angel nodded. "Yes, Mam. I did it."
"And you started slow? Small cuts to begin with?"
You'll see what I've done soon enough.
Eleanor picked up her fish knife again and examined her reflection. "Please don't talk to
yourself when I'm in the room, dear."
The door to the dining room opened. An overweight man stumbled into the room, pushing a silver trolley. His nose was bloody and his lips were swollen. He limped as if his thigh had been struck repeatedly with a red hot dessert spoon.
"This is Rock," Angel said. "He'll be our waiter this evening and if he talks without being asked, you're welcome to stab him with a fork."
Angel set a prawn fork to one side. Rock saw the movement and whimpered.
"Serve the first course," Angel said and Rock moved stiffly around the table, sniffing back his moans. Eleanor leaned away as a plate of wobbling scallops was placed in front of her.
The second plate shook in Rock's damp hands.
"I'm waiting," Angel said.
He slid the meal onto the table and stepped back quickly, taking his place behind the silver trolley. Angel looked at her mother and gave her a small nod. "What do you think?"
"It is a bit much, dear," Eleanor said, her face blanching.
Secured to the wall was a china plate depicting a field of wheat. As a child, Angel had asked about the black smudge in the centre and had been told it was a girl. The smudge had faded over time, but it was still there. It never grew old and never moved. One day, it would disappear completely. When that happened, Angel planned to hurl the plate from the roof so the girl could never return.
"I'm in charge," she said, chewing slowly on a scallop. "We do it my way."
"This is too much of a pantomime for me." Eleanor pushed away her food and drained the last of her wine, colouring her teeth red. "You had the merchandise for all of five minutes before you lost it."
"That wasn't my fault."
"So, you send three men to get it back and only two return." Eleanor pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fred the Kiddie Fiddler has been scared witless. Twice, apparently. Once by Daniel and a second time by Bronson at the scrapyard. He won't return my calls. Imagine him preferring to fix old people's toilets than work for the Maguires. It's beyond embarrassing."
"Fred was one of the unwashed. Like Bronson. Like Rock. They're stains to be scoured away." Angel picked under her fingernails, scraping out a rainbow of dried blood. "I can't be held responsible for how they behave."
"But you can, dear. Who you surround yourself with reflects on who you are."
Angel slapped the table and her cutlery clinked together. "And who do you surround yourself with, Mam? Me." She pointed at the other end of the table. "And an empty chair."
A plate sat in front of an unoccupied space. No food would be served and no wine would be poured. The seat belonged to Angel's missing father and had done since her childhood. It was a constant reminder of his absence.
Eleanor dabbed a napkin at the corner of her mouth. "You may as well know, I've called Hope back from holiday."
"Did she answer her phone?"
"Hope will call me and when she does, she'll be taking over. I'm sorry."
"Bronson has my cocaine. I just need to get it back."
Eleanor grimaced. "But you tried that, dear. Bronson has a reputation for a reason. You're not ready. Perhaps you should stay in your bedroom and play on your computer."
Angel sprang to her feet. Grabbing her plate, she smashed it into Rock's face. He yelped as the ceramic cut his cheeks and forehead. Angel's bloodied scallops slid down his face.
"Why are you blaming me? It was his fault," she shouted. "Not mine."
The prawn fork glittered, tempting Angel's hand. She grabbed it, plunging it into Rock's rubbery stomach. He howled, tottering backwards. He made to defend himself, swinging a hopeful fist in her direction, but she slipped behind him and thrust the fork between his shoulder blades. He spun from the trolley to the table, struggling to keep upright, his tears rinsing the blood from his face. "Help me. Please."
Eleanor pushed her seat from the table.
"I warned him," Angel said, "but he couldn't go two hours without stuffing his fat face. He left a van full of cocaine outside a fucking chip shop. What was it again?"
Rock hung his head, his hair falling loosely over his face. "I can't remember."
Angel kicked him in the arse. "What was it you ordered?"
"Battered sausage and chips," he said, wiping his wet cheeks.
"The most expensive meal he'll ever have. I'm not picking up the bill for that," Angel said.
Plucking the fork from Rock's back, Angel pointed it at her mother. Blood dripped from the prongs. "I'll get my cocaine back and Blizzard will make us rich."
Eleanor held up her hands, alarmed to see them shaking. "Okay, dear. Okay."
Brushing the blue streak from her eyes, Angel straightened with a smile. "Thank you."
"But you must reign in your impulses. Keep a clear head."
"I will, Mam."
"Do the right thing." Eleanor smoothed out the creases in her dress. "I'm afraid you can't keep your new pet. It's too ghastly."
Angel's eyes went to her steak knife. "I never intended to."
Rock bolted, stumbling into the table. He staggered through the doors, leaving bloody handprints on the walls as he bounced along the corridor. His heavy footsteps grew lighter, but his panicked gasps were heard around the dinner table.
"How are you going to get the merchandise back?" Eleanor asked.
Picking up the steak knife, Angel paired it with her bloody prawn fork. "I'm going to draw them out. I'm going to do what no-one has dared to do before."
Eleanor wet her lips with her tongue. "And what's that, dear?"
A candle spluttered, the flame dying into smoke. Angel watched it form a question mark.
Chapter Twelve
Swinging from the handrail of the bus, Ma Dayton stumbled to a stop on the pavement.
"I could have fallen on my arse," she shouted at the driver.
He closed the doors and pulled away, smothering her in black exhaust fumes. She coughed, waving her hand around her face before lighting a cigarette.
The Claystone Medical Centre in Harton was a new building with a roof curled like an ocean wave, reflecting its proximity to the North Sea. Shimmering solar tiles harnessed energy from the sun while glass walls flooded the interior with light. The pathway to the automatic doors was lined with lavender, providing scent for its patients on their route to recovery.
Ma Dayton drew hard on her cigarette. No matter how fancy the surgery was on the outside, it smelled of bad news on the inside. She'd renamed it Headstone.
Further into her sixties than she cared to broadcast, Ma Dayton's body was as limp as a day-old teabag. In her youth, she'd cavorted in every dance hall in the Northeast, twirling like a wooden top until the world was a blur. Her partners paid for her dance card, but arthritis had been the ultimate price.
Snorting smoke, Ma Dayton pressed her fingers into her spongy, permed hair. She was early for her appointment and turned from the medical centre, crossing a busy road to a pawnbroker called Vintage Pawn. She kicked out at two seagulls fighting over an abandoned slice of pizza. They took to the sky, squawking in anger. Ignoring them, she looked through a window smeared from a hundred noses pressed against the glass.
There were more engagement rings this week. Fewer wedding rings. Maybe people were feeling more optimistic these days. Maybe the recession was over. Ma Dayton doubted it. For her, the rings were the remnants of broken homes, traded in for a month's rent or one last night in the pub. Some things never changed, but occasionally, there was a break in the clouds.
Daniel had called, leaving messages both at Silver Linings and on her mobile phone. His voice had been hard, his tone curt, but Ma Dayton was thrilled. The family she'd had was trapped behind polished glass, no more than two-dimensional memories on top of a chest of drawers. But little Eisha wanted to see her. She wanted to be part of Ma Dayton's life. Isolation was a condition of old age, she reasoned, but the calls were another chance.
Among the wedding rings was a cameo brooch. It was an ivory figurehead of a young woman set in tortoiseshe
ll, reminding Ma Dayton of herself in her youth. She wanted to buy it. Not for her, but for Eisha. It could be the little girl's favourite heirloom. They could chat about it and Ma Dayton could share her stories of dancing with strange men.
But first, she needed money.
Spitting out her cigarette, she reached for another. Better not, she thought and searched through her handbag for some mints. She popped two in her mouth and sprayed herself with perfume.
The waiting room of Headstone was full. Ma Dayton settled into a plastic chair, tucking her legs under a table stacked with ancient magazines. The minutes ticked by slowly. Gazing about, she caught the eye of a young man and hastily searched for something to read. He was dressed in pyjama bottoms with a red shirt buttoned to the neck. His nose had been broken several times over and never properly corrected.
His smile widened when he saw her. "Nice to see you again, Mrs Dayton. Are you well?"
"I'm sitting in a doctor's surgery, Henry. How well do you think I am?"
He frowned and nodded repeatedly, as if she had said something profound. "Under the weather again? These bloody quacks make a fortune out of us, don't they?"
Picking up a motor car magazine, Ma Dayton flicked through its tatty pages. "The difference between us is that I'm old. My parts are going wrong. You're a bare-knuckle bruiser who used to work for my son, God rest his soul. Who knows what trouble brought you here this time?"
Henry's smile faltered. "I haven't been in no trouble, Mrs Dayton. I promise. The fact of it is, no-one will hire me after…what happened." His voice trailed off and she avoided his gaze, fearful he might see the sudden mist in her eyes. What happened? Was that how it was referred to? As if her son's death was a random accident? As if it wasn't an act of terror?
She threw the magazine onto the table where it slid to the floor. "If you haven't been fighting, what are you in here for?"
Henry looked to his crotch and crossed his legs. "Do you mind if I don't say?"
"Mrs Dayton to see Dr Cooper, please."
The voice came over the tannoy, husky with static.
"Good luck," Henry said, giving her a thumbs up sign.
