by Owen Mullen
Mark Douglas kept his eyes on the road and the red tail lights of the cars in front, following the sweep of Regent Street, slicked with rain, to the neon madness of Piccadilly Circus, crowded with teenagers and tourists enjoying the big-city vibe. Nina stared out but said nothing; he knew she was hurting. Behind the crass behaviour was a fragile woman, damaged in ways Douglas couldn’t begin to understand.
On Haymarket, he broke the silence. ‘Are you okay?’
She replied without looking at him. ‘Not really.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Not really.’
Douglas hesitated, wanting to reach her but wary of her reaction. The jibe about her mother had set her off. He spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that, Nina. Charley shouldn’t have said what she did. She pretends she’s super-confident. Didn’t sound like it to me. More like somebody struggling to find a place for themselves and screwing it up. Families are tough. Give it time.’
She faced him, her eyes dark and angry. ‘And that’s your advice, is it? That’s the best you’ve got. “Give it time.”’
‘You got a better idea?’
‘Yeah, tear her stupid head off her shoulders.’
He smiled. ‘Well, when you put it like that…’
At the bottom of Parliament Street, he turned left and crossed Westminster Bridge as the quarter bells of Big Ben chimed on the half-hour, then continued on towards the Albert Embankment. The exchange had mellowed her. Nina said, ‘Sometimes I hate him.’
She meant Luke.
‘Every sister in the world has felt like that. It’s natural.’
‘Except, I’m serious. Do your sisters hate you?’
‘Only got one – she’s in South Africa. No idea what she thinks of me. Haven’t seen her in twenty years.’
‘Do you keep in touch?’
‘We did, for a while. Not now. We’re strangers. Whatever we had died with our parents. That’s what I’m saying about families being hard. You’re from the same gene pool, you’re blood, that should bind you together, except all too often it doesn’t.’
They skirted The Oval cricket ground and pulled up at traffic lights. Nina crossed her legs, slowly and deliberately. Douglas caught a flash of thigh she’d intended him to see. He swallowed, gripped the steering wheel and forced himself to focus on the threat to LBC – still live, still real.
In Denmark Hill, she directed him to a quiet street and a white Georgian house with a square of well-tended garden at the front. Douglas said, ‘Didn’t have you pegged as the gardening type.’
‘I’m not. A man takes care of it for me.’
The implication was unmistakeable. Douglas ignored it, turned off the ignition and started to get out. Nina said, ‘Where’re you going?’
‘Have to see you safely—’
‘For God’s sake. I’m not a child, despite what my brother thinks.’
Douglas leaned into the car. ‘You’re not taking this seriously, Nina. Your family’s in danger. People have already died. Now, let me do my job, eh?’
Nina scowled, fished her keys out of her bag and marched to the door. In the lounge, she switched on a table lamp and flooded the room in warm light. Douglas paused; the interior was elegant: one wall featured a five-panel Rio Silver mural in a modern banana leaf pattern, behind a white leather couch resting on the polished hardwood floor and a deep-red oblong Indian rug. A set of African tribal figures, males and females, carved in ebony, claimed the far corner, while charcoal line-drawings and black-and-white photographs of Victorian London framed the original fireplace.
Under his breath, Douglas whistled: Nina Glass had eclectic taste – and style.
‘Nice place.’
‘The perks of being in the business. When something comes on the market, I get first shout, and I know what the owners are prepared to accept.’
‘You’ve done well.’
She went to the kitchen and called to him; it seemed her annoyance at her brother was forgotten. ‘Drink?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Go on, just one.’
‘Okay, one it is.’
Nina came back with two glasses. ‘I owe you an apology. What’s going on is scary. Maybe I’m in denial. As for Charley…’
‘Forget about her.’
She handed him a cut-glass tumbler. ‘You’re from Scotland so I guessed whisky, am I right?’
‘I never say no.’
She waited till he’d checked each room in turn, making sure no one was there. They clinked glasses and watched each other over the rim. Nina moved in closer, gently touched the cut on his cheek and ran a manicured fingernail down his chest. ‘What else do you never say no to?’
Douglas felt himself go hard. He stepped away and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Nina… this isn’t the time, really it isn’t. Luke’s expecting me back.’
Her eyes were bright, her lips parted defiantly. ‘To hell with him.’
‘I’ll tell him you said that.’
‘Tell him anything you like.’
He put down the glass. ‘You’re really not taking this seriously enough, Nina. I told you, people have died. Don’t you get that? Doesn’t it mean anything to you? Luke believes he could lose everything, and so do I.’
Her arms circled his neck, she lowered her head and looked up at him like a naughty little girl. Douglas couldn’t decide whether to kiss her or slap some sense into her.
‘And I might be next – is that what you were going to say? Don’t be so predictable, Mark. Predictable is dull. I don’t do dull.’
He took hold of her hands, irritated by her performance. ‘Please, Nina. Your brother has enough on without worrying about you. I’d stay. I want to stay. But it’s the wrong time.’
She turned her back to him and walked away. ‘A man only gets one chance with me. If he’s stupid enough to pass it up…’
Nina left the rest unsaid.
Douglas closed the lounge door and stood in the hall, torn between lust and anger, every atom in his body aching to take her in his arms. Desire crippled him; he felt weak, tried to leave and couldn’t; his legs refused to take him. He’d had his share of women – more than his share – but his need for this one was greater than anything he’d known. The face of the woman who’d had her throat slit rose in front of him, her lifeless eyes urging him back to the club and his duty. He shook his head, fighting against it, willing the memory to leave him alone so he could be with Nina Glass.
In the lounge, Nina sighed and kicked off her shoes – having a man reject her was an experience she wasn’t used to. She sipped the alcohol, the taste strangely harsh and unpleasant, and lay back.
Suddenly, Douglas kicked the door open and stood in the frame, breathing heavily through his mouth. He dived at her, pulling at her blouse with enough force to pop the buttons and reveal the firm breasts underneath. The bra was ripped away as though made of paper; he threw it into the corner with the African carvings, his lips searching for her nipples. In seconds, the skirt and everything underneath were gone and he had her naked. While Douglas devoured her, Nina undressed him, until they were skin on skin. He towered above her, surveying the toned body, savouring the feast laid out for his pleasure. Painted nails raked his flat stomach, her slim legs parted and he buried himself in her to the hilt. Nina gasped under his thrusts, arched her spine and climaxed. Then, they went at each other like animals. When it was over, he lay on the Indian rug, closed his eyes and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal.
Douglas couldn’t be sure if he’d fallen asleep – it was like a dream; she was calling his name. He followed the sound to the end of the unlit hall. A street lamp washed the darkened room. In the pale light, Nina was in silhouette, kneeling on the edge of the bed, facing away, her head low, thighs spread wide.
She sensed he’d joined her and spoke, her voice hoarse with lust. ‘Again. Take me again.’
After Bridie O’Shea and my sisters, the rest of the night seemed positively
dull. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. When Douglas got back, we shot the breeze, watching and waiting, happy to be wasting our time. Around 2 a.m., I called Bridie and eventually managed to get an answer. She sounded drunk, slurring her speech and losing track of who was phoning. The little I’d had to do with her had me convinced she was indestructible – a west London fixture, untouched by pain.
But under the skin, everybody was the same.
33
Stanford had been right about the speeches – tedious and unfunny; a parade of sycophantic anecdotes about what a great guy Jocky Shaw was. It was enough to make you puke.
But he’d been around. He knew the rules and played his part, laughing when everybody else laughed, at pains not to reveal how much the after-dinner cigar smoke bothered him. At a break, he went to the toilet and found himself next to Commander Iain Bremner. Senior officers used these occasions to bond with the men under their command, knocking back whiskies with the best of them, getting a round in when it was their shout, and generally pretending to be one of the lads. Racist comments and off-colour jokes were met with guffaws that would mean trouble if repeated in daylight.
The two men nodded to each other. Beyond the door, the murmur of the raffle being drawn drifted into the Gents. Bremner took a bundle of tickets from his jacket with his free hand, stared at them as if he hadn’t seen them before and stuffed them back in his pocket.
‘Never won a thing in my life – have you? The old football pools, the lottery, even the tombola at the church bazaar. A waste of bloody time and money.’
There was a slur in Bremner’s voice, his eyes were heavy, and Stanford realised the commander had had a few too many. More than a few: he was drunk. He said, ‘Another good man gone. Soon be our turn.’
Stanford humoured him. ‘The end of an era.’
‘Indeed. Indeed. We’ll miss Jocky.’
Suddenly, the hypocrisy was too much to take. ‘Will we, sir? You sure about that?’
Bremner considered the question, then put a clammy hand on the other man’s shoulder to steady himself. ‘Well said, Superintendent. We spout such terrible bollocks at these jollies. Easy to fall into the trap. A couple of brandies, a glass or three of wine, and we’ll swear black is white.’ He stared at his shoes, slowly shaking his head. ‘I worked with him for a year – 2008, I think it was – a useless lazy bastard of the first order. Pissed me off so much I requested a transfer to get away from him. Can’t complain. Indirectly, I owe him my career. But I’ve never met a copper who liked him.’
‘Neither have I.’
‘Not a bloody one.’
‘Hard to believe from what’s being said out there.’
‘Sheep, the fucking lot of them. Christ knows how Shaw’s got away with it, but he has.’
‘Friends in high places and a talent for fooling some of the people all of the time. A gift not many have.’
‘Spot on. Wish I had it.’
‘We all do.’
Bremner drew himself straight. ‘Miss him? Will we fuck.’
‘Between ourselves, sir.’
‘Between ourselves, of course.’ He started to leave and stopped. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Stanford. Oliver Stanford.’
Bremner nodded. ‘Of course. Thought I recognised you. A rising star, from what I hear.’
‘I do my best. Nice to know my efforts haven’t gone unnoticed, sir.’
‘Far from it. Say this for you, Stanford, you’re not afraid to speak your mind. There’s a place for that in the Met. Or there should be. These days the service is full of arse-lickers. Give me a call when we’ve sobered up. I’d like your opinion on a few things. Could do with a breath of fresh air. My people tell me what they think I want to hear. Save themselves a bollocking at the time, but it’s no damned good in the long run.’
‘Absolutely, sir. Anything in particular?’
Bremner continued as if Stanford hadn’t spoken. ‘The PM isn’t happy with the rising crime figures. Not the look he’s after. Election’s still a long way off but unless they improve, his law and order platform’s screwed and he knows it. Needs a big win if he’s to have any hope of getting back into Number 10.’
‘Anything I can do?’
Bremner leaned against the door. ‘As a matter of fact… Operation Clean Sweep mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Top bloody secret. Shouldn’t be talking about it, really. Pretend you didn’t hear that, will you?’
‘Not easy, sir, now you’ve whetted my curiosity. I won’t sleep tonight thinking about it.’
Bremner clapped his shoulder. ‘Sorry about that, sorry about that, Superintendent. Fucking unfair to give you a sniff and leave you hanging. Big mouth. Can’t hold my water – or so my wife says.’
The commander was three sheets to the wind; Stanford chanced it. ‘You can trust me, sir.’
Bremner’s muddy eyes studied his face. ‘Can I? I believe I can at that.’ He gathered his confused thoughts, jaw slack, mouth forming unspoken words. ‘Law enforcement in the twenty-first century is fucked. Absolutely shafted. Reduced to a bunch of soundbites to keep the masses from panicking. Don’t have to tell a man like you. The war on this, the sodding war on that.’ He laughed, grimly. ‘Whatever we do we’re humped and that’s the truth of it. Nobody says it out loud – defeatist talk. Not politically correct. Who wants to hear we’re beaten before we even get started?’
Stanford nudged him back to the topic.
‘Where does Operation Clean Sweep come in?’
‘Simple. Drugs, money laundering. London’s become the filthy-money capital of the fucking world. It’s out of control and getting worse. We need points on the board. Make it look like the PM’s a tough guy. And for the first time in Christ knows how long, it looks like we’ve got a break.’
‘With Clean Sweep.’
‘You’re catching on.’ He put his hands to his head. ‘Christ, I’m going to be bad in the morning. And I’m bloody working.’
The lie came out of nowhere. ‘So am I, sir.’
‘Yes, but you’re younger. In better shape than me.’
Stanford took the conversation back to where it had been. ‘What’s it about?’
‘What’s what about?’
‘Clean Sweep.’
‘Oh, corruption in the force. Rooting out the bad apples.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘I know, I know. We’re knee-deep in bent bobbies, always have been. These stings can take years. Not soon enough for the prime minister’s agenda. This is different. We’ve got somebody on the inside. Right at the centre.’
Stanford felt the hairs on his neck rise; he blinked but didn’t speak. His heart jumped in his chest. For a moment, he thought his legs would give way. If Bremner had been sober he’d have heard the quiver in his voice. ‘A mole?’
Bremner nodded. ‘Word is, a ghost squad and they’re the best.’
Stanford faked delight. ‘Great stuff, sir. The bastards have been getting it their own way for too long. Which outfit’s been infiltrated?’
The senior man put a drunken finger to his lips and smiled a sly smile. ‘Let’s just say it might be better to avoid a certain nightclub until the dust settles.’
Thank God the old bugger was too far gone to see the line of sweat on Stanford’s top lip.
‘Luke Glass? Christ Almighty!’
‘We’ll get whoever he’s in cahoots with. And we’ll get him as well. I’d bet my pension on it. He’s taken on a Scottish copper – a headstrong fucker who blotted his copybook and left Glasgow in a hurry.’
‘And he’s the insider?’
‘With his record? When the lid blows off, the Scotch bastard will fall with his pals.’
‘So, who’ve we got in there?’
‘That, my friend, is the best-kept secret in London. Even the PM doesn’t know the details. The commissioner, the deputy, and maybe two or three people in the whole of the Met have that inform
ation and I’m not one of them. Ridiculous, considering I’m part of it.’ He studied the palms of his hands. ‘It’s locked down tighter than a badger’s arse.’
Stanford swallowed hard. The commander didn’t notice and carried on. ‘But if it goes the way it should, it’ll be the biggest police corruption scandal since Operation Countryman in the seventies.’
‘Before my time, sir.’
‘And mine.’ He closed one eye and squinted. ‘How fucking old do you think I am?’
‘That’s not what I meant, sir.’
‘The media will lap it up.’ Bremner drew the headline in the air with an intoxicated finger.
‘BENT!’
Stanford’s tongue felt thick in his mouth; he struggled to get out the words. ‘Any officer who drags the good name of the service in the gutter deserves to go down.’
‘My feelings, exactly. We’ll get Glass and his associates. Two for the price of one. Spent thousands trying to nail his brother so, when it happens, it’ll be sweet. Danny came out of nowhere. No bugger rises as fast as he did without help from our side. Can I assume you’d be interested in being involved?’
Stanford was stunned. ‘Absolutely. Is that possible? I mean, can that be arranged?’
Bremner winked. ‘A whisper in the right ear won’t hurt. As you said, friends in high places and all that, eh?’
The door creaked shut behind him. Oliver Stanford waited a few minutes before following; he was trembling. Everything he had, everything he’d achieved was threatened by what he’d heard. Luke Glass was building a reputation as a successful businessman. It wasn’t the truth – the gangster was what he’d always been and always would be: a career criminal. Sooner or later, no question, he’d go down. In the end, his kind always did. Stanford had no intentions of going with him. How he’d manage to avoid it wasn’t clear. But he would. By God, he would.
When Jocky Shaw finished his retirement speech and accepted the inscribed crystal decanter and glasses, the room rose to applaud one of their own. Through the crowd Stanford saw Commander Bremner up on his feet with the rest.
