Текст книги "Good Bait"

Автор книги: John Harvey

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

42

When they arrived, Jarvis was coming towards the end of what would surely have been a winning break, two reds left on the table and the colours all lined up, nice and potable. He swung a cue in Costello’s direction, but his movement was too slow, his aim adrift, maybe he wouldn’t have sunk the black after all. Costello ducked easily beneath the swing and delivered a sharp kick immediately below the knee. Before Jarvis could hit the floor, three officers had seized hold of him and flung him on to the table, arms and legs akimbo, balls everywhere.

His opponent took the game by default.

Once Jarvis had been hauled away, Costello foolishly took up Ramsden’s challenge and lost the best of five frames in next to no time, Ramsden clearing the table on two occasions without Costello pocketing a single red.

‘One of those games,’ Ramsden said, as he relieved the younger man of much of the contents of his wallet, ‘where luck has bugger all to do with it. Craft, son. Practice. That …’ winking, ‘and a good eye.’

In the interview suite, Jarvis had done his level best to suborn Brendan Cullen as a congenital liar. Why in God’s name would he be giving Cullen a gun? To throw away? Dispose of? What kind of idiot would do that? Cullen, of all people. But images of himself, clear as if in HD, making off after the shooting in Woodford, added to some careful reminders of the factors behind his original arrest – witnesses who had placed himself and Rory Bevan in Walthamstow at the approximate time of the shooting – brought about a change of tack.

Yes, all right, maybe he’d passed along the pistol to Cullen. Maybe. But that night in Woodford, it’d just been about making a few threats, right, showing face. Warn the kid, back off, that was all. Stick the gun in his face and watch him shit himself. But, of course, for Rory fuckin’ Bevan, that wasn’t enough. Mad bastard that he was. Rory, who squeezed the bloody trigger, that was who.

‘You mean, like the time in Walthamstow?’ Costello had asked, mild as you please.

‘Yeah, like that,’ Jarvis said. ‘Just like that.’

Since when, Rory Bevan had been brought in and charged and now the pair of them, Bevan and Jarvis, were busy putting one another in it, passing the blame, talking themselves into the best part of sixteen years and change.

Well, Karen thought, they’d needed a break, deserved one, and, at length, it had come. She eased back the curtains to reveal pavements that were dark and slick from early morning rain. The first strands of light were stretched almost to breaking point across the sky.

She set the kettle to boil, showered, dressed, switched on the radio – more bad news of the economy – and almost immediately switched it off again, opting for music from the stereo instead. Humming along, she made toast and coffee, fixed her make-up, checked her phone. Three messages and half a dozen texts, one from Carla, two from her sister, one from her mum in Jamaica, all of them wanting, deserving, a little of her time.

She made a promise to phone her mother, at least; rinsed cup and plate in the sink and left them to dry, then reached for her coat. Her boots could have done with a lick and a polish, but what the hell.…

A good hour later she was at her desk, checking rotas, signing forms, wondering where her next cup of coffee was coming from, and there was Mike Ramsden, looking for all the world as if he’d spent the night on a park bench, but balancing two cups of coffee, one above the other, a smile crinkling up his face regardlessless.

‘The lottery?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Do tell.’

‘CCTV on the approach roads to Stansted – nothing at the storage units themselves, as we know, so that’s been our best bet. Poor bastards going swivel eyed, hour after hour of sodding tape. Concentrating on vans, seemed the most likely, and you can imagine how many of those there are shuttling in and out. Need checking, each and every one, but it looks like in the end it might’ve paid off. Clocked a Ford van coming off the slip road from the M11 just after four in the morning, heading for the airport, Volvo saloon following, S60 by the look of it, dark green. An hour, give or take, later, the same journey in reverse. Van’s a Transit 360, registration clear as a bell at one point, leased six weeks before from a garage in Milton Keynes.’

‘Leased to? False name, don’t tell me.’

‘Thought at first it was, but no, I don’t think so. D amp; J Foods. Office in Milton Keynes. Dennis Broderick, director. His name on the letterhead.’

‘Good work. And Cormack, he’s up to speed on all this?’

‘Thought you’d like to do the honours.’

Smiling her thanks, Karen punched in Warren Cormack’s number.

A little over twenty-four hours later, prompt as before, Cormack got back to her with positive news. As well as Broderick’s office in Milton Keynes, there was another in Luton, plus storage facilities in a small industrial park off the Al close to Bedford and, until six months previously, on a disused airfield at Wing, close to the Bucks-Beds border.

‘Bit of help from the local force, we’ve been checking those out. Nothing at Bedford, not so far, but a patrol car from County Division went out to the airfield first thing. Not immediately clear which of the buildings Broderick might’ve rented, so they looked around. Found, maybe, more than they bargained for. One of the older buildings, disused for quite a while by the look of it. Blood all over the place inside. A lot of blood. Not new but no doubting what it was. Burned clothing. And more. Hooks and chains where somebody might have been tied.’

Karen could feel the adrenalin beginning to race. ‘They’ve got the place secured?’

‘Tight as a nut. Their words.’

‘And where is it exactly? Wing, you said?’

‘M1 north. A5, then west. An hour’s drive, give or take. I’ll meet you there.’

The airfield had been the home of No. 26 Operational Training Unit for RAF Bomber Command during the Second World War, and then was used as a gateway for large numbers of returning servicemen during the late spring and early summer of ’45. After the war it squandered into disuse, weeds growing up through the cracks that spidered across its two runways; Nissen huts and hangars falling into disrepair. Now, partly reclaimed as farmland, it was also the home to a small number of light industrial units along the edge closest to the road, though a few of the old buildings still remained.

It was in one of these that the local officers had made their find.

Cormack was waiting when Karen arrived, smart in a blue-black overcoat, unbuttoned, grey cashmere scarf. And not alone. Scene of Crime officers in attendance, others from the project team Cormack was heading.

‘It’s this way,’ he said, and Karen fell into step beside him, others following.

When they reached the outbuilding, Cormack pushed open the high-arched wooden door and stepped back, letting Karen enter first. She took three paces and then stopped, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the levels of light.

Chains slowly sharpened into focus, hanging from hooks attached to beams above, and switching her, in her mind’s eye, back to the container shed at Stansted, the butchered bodies, the smell of butchered flesh. Chains that would have held men fast while others did their work. Slow, careful work essayed with relish and not a little skill.

Karen fancied she could scent the blood rising still from where it had congealed, near black, impasto like, close to where she stood. Something rustled amongst the mouldering debris in the farthest corner and scuttled away.

‘Seen enough?’ Cormack said, moving quietly alongside her.

‘Yes.’ She could taste it in her throat, like bile, thick enough to choke.

‘We ought to move back. Let Forensics get started.’

They stood outside under an opaque sky, not speaking, not yet. Cormack kicking gently at a tuft of grass that had squeezed up between the slabs of concrete, small concentrated prods with the end of his toe. Karen brought her hand to her mouth and shivered, little to do with the wind that scythed across from the perimeter, the eastern edge of the field.

Cormack reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, offered one to Karen, who shook her head, then accepted.

‘I’ve given up,’ Karen said, as Cormack, cupping a hand round his lighter, flicked it to life.

‘Me, too.’

The soft grey of their smoke dissipated upwards and was lost.

‘Until Forensics have got a match from the blood,’ Cormack said, ‘there’s no way to be sure. It could be animal blood even, not human.’

‘A little black-market butchery on the sly?’

‘Not impossible.’

‘This was the place Broderick used for storage till recently?’

‘This and one of the newer buildings, down by the road.’ Cormack swivelled slowly round. ‘Quiet, the immediate area pretty deserted. At night, especially. Not what you’d call a busy road.’

‘And Stansted – that’s how far?’

‘Seventy-eight point four-two miles. Estimated time of journey, one hour, twenty-seven minutes.’ Cormack grinned. ‘The wonders of modern technology.’

‘You’ve spoken to him? Broderick?’

‘Not yet. But he’s got a house just outside Cublington, just a few miles west of here. Why don’t we go and see if he’s home?’

43

The house was just beyond the village, set amongst mostly arable land, a low wall winding towards a five-bar gate and then a line of trees, bare branched, and curving away. The original farmhouse had been translated into something L-shaped, contemporary; a new wing, mostly steel and glass, extending at right angles to the refaced brick of the main building.

Of the two barns, one was in use as a garage: a Land Rover and an empty space. The second seemed to contain nothing but old farm equipment, rusting over, a haphazard collection of ancient tools, spades, long-handled rakes and scythes. Perhaps someone was considering starting a farm museum? How we used to live.

In a smaller shed, wood had been neatly stacked after sawing; enough to last out what was left of the winter. The sun little more than a suggestion overhead.

There was another vehicle on the drive in front of the house, sporty, red, expensive – the distinctive Alfa Romeo crest. Karen thought she had seen Uma Thurman behind the wheel of one, courtesy of Pearl amp; Dean, at her local cinema.

No bell in sight, Cormack used the knocker, brass on brass. Once, twice, once again.

The woman who opened the door was above average height, shoulder-length hair nicely, expensively cut; a cashmere sweater, grey skirt snug at the hips, red shoes with a low heel. A figure that suggested the right number of hours spent in the gym, the pool. A little work around the face, Karen thought, but not too much. Careful make-up. Green eyes. Mid– to late forties? Fifty at a pinch.

‘Mrs Broderick?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Cormack showed identification, rank and name.

She nodded, smiled. A flicker, then it was gone. ‘For another seven days, five hours and so many minutes, guilty as charged. After that …’ She reached out both hands, fingers spread wide. ‘Divorce, it’s a wonderful thing. Either that or kill the bastard. What does Shakespeare say? Lug the guts into the other room? Leave him for the cleaner to trip over next morning.’

For an instant, the smile returned. ‘Probably not the bit about the cleaner.’

‘Is he here?’ Cormack asked, persevering. ‘Your husband?’

‘Thankfully, no.’

‘Not behind the arras somewhere?’

An eyebrow arched in mock surprise. ‘A policeman who knows his Hamlet, I am surprised.’

‘Advantages of a good comprehensive school education.’

‘Is there such a thing? How heartening.’

Enough of the chit-chat, Karen thought. ‘Mrs Broderick, if your husband’s not here, do you have any idea where he is?’

‘Off traipsing after a golf cart somewhere; either that or slutting over some poor escort-agency tart paying off her student loan.’

‘Any idea when he might be back?’

‘Other than hopefully after I’ve gone, I’m afraid not.’

‘You won’t mind if we take a look inside?’ Cormack said.

‘You’ve a warrant, of course?’

‘Not at this moment. But, I assure you …’

‘Oh, what the hell? Come in, help yourself. Liberty Hall.’

She stepped aside. Cormack went on through, leaving the two women facing one another, close enough for Karen to be able to smell the alcohol on the other’s breath.

‘Cathy. Cathy Broderick.’

‘For now.’

‘Yes, for now.’

‘Karen. Karen Shields.’

‘And it’s your job to soften me up. Gain my confidence. Woman to woman. While the man does the searching.’

‘Something like that.’

‘So let’s have a drink.’

Karen followed her beyond where the oak flooring changed to matt black tiles and into a long room with glass at both sides, partly shielded now by blinds, and exposed steel beams. Black leather chairs on tubular frames.

‘Dennis met this architect somewhere, the golf club I expect. Convinced him that modernism was the way to go. Hates it, of course, now that it’s done. His quarter-of-a-million-pound fucking folly, as he calls it. Never comes in here at all.’

The far end was dominated by a large painting, a repeated pattern of crimson whorls on a white background, each overlapping the other. An ice bucket sat on a Perspex table, wine bottle protruding, a small tray of glasses, one used.

‘Please, sit. These are actually more comfortable than they look.’

Not difficult, Karen thought.

‘I suppose it’s no use offering you a glass of wine?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Chablis. Grand cru.’Cathy Broderick helped herself. ‘No sense leaving it for Dennis. He’d as soon Carlsberg out of a can.’

‘You’ve been married how long?’

‘The subtext to that question, if my opinion of him is so low, why stick around so long?’

‘Maybe.’

‘When you’ve been milking the cash cow – or, in this case, cash bull – as long as I have, it’s difficult to put all that aside.’

‘Give back the Alfa Romeo, for instance.’

‘Significant birthday present. Attempt to get me to change my mind.’

‘About the divorce?’

‘About my lawyer screwing him for every penny we can get.’

‘He’s not short of them, though? Pennies?’

‘The original self-made man. Market stall to millionaire in thirty short years. Started on fruit and veg, moved on to processed meats, from there to a company providing ready-cooked meals to schools, hospitals and nursing homes across five counties.’ She raised her glass. ‘Here’s to hard work, graft and the necessary greasing of palms.’

Warren Cormack had appeared in the doorway. ‘Access to the cellar? It’s padlocked across.’

‘There’s a key behind the clock in the kitchen. High-tech security.’

Cormack nodded and turned away.

‘Gordon Dooley,’ Karen said, ‘your husband knows him well?’

‘Gordon?’ She hesitated just a little too long over her answer. ‘They used to have, I don’t know, some business arrangement together. I don’t think he’s seen him in quite a while.’

‘What kind of business would that be?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘Processed meats? School meals?’

Cathy Broderick smiled. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Gordon was asking him for some help, that’s all I know. Money advice. Some cockamamie project or other, I dare say.’

‘He does know him pretty well, then?’

A snort of laughter. ‘Since they were kids on some poxy estate in South London. You should hear Dennis tell it, in his cups. How they nicked stuff from Woolworths and sold it on street corners to raise enough for their first market stall. Peckham, Saturday mornings. The thing is, Dennis he moved on, legit. Gordon, I’ve never been so sure. And now I’ve said too much.’

She splashed some more wine into her glass.

Cormack had been listening at the door for a little while. Of Dennis Broderick there was no sign.

‘Would it surprise you to know,’ Cormack said, ‘Gordon Dooley’s last known trade was in illegal drugs? Import and supply. Heroin. Marijuana. Cocaine.’

‘Surprised? No, not really. Never really liked him, Gordon. Too brash, loud. Too full of himself. Full on. Dennis should have dumped him years ago, but there was always something, made him hang on.’ She drank some more of the wine. ‘Take the boy out of South London, but you can’t … You know how it goes.’

‘He wouldn’t be involved? Some kind of partner?’

A laugh, genuine, open. ‘Dennis? Drugs? He’d run a mile. All I can do to get him to take a couple of aspirin for a hangover. No, not a chance.’

‘And you’ve no idea,’ Cormack said, ‘where he is now? When he might be home?’

‘Like I said, none at all.’ Not a whit unsteady, she was on her feet. ‘Only conversation we have nowadays, through our lawyers.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks for your time.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Karen said.

‘Helping out the forces of law and order. A pleasure, always.’

She walked them to the door.

‘The old aerodrome,’ Cormack said, ‘out at Wing. Your husband has some property there, doesn’t he? Somewhere he uses for storage?’

‘He used to. Not for a good while now, not as far as I know. Why d’you ask?’

‘Oh, nothing important. Thanks, again.’

‘One thing,’ Karen said, glancing at the Alfa. ‘You’re not thinking of driving? The next little while? Automatic disqualification and a possible six months in prison, that’s without the fine. I should stay put. Either that, or send for a cab. And if you are thinking of ringing your husband, dispute or no dispute, do tell him to get in touch. Nothing he should be unduly concerned about, just a few small matters need clearing up.’

‘What do you reckon?’ Cormack asked, once they were back at the car. ‘She on the outs with her husband as much as she says, or do you think a lot of that was for our sake?’

‘You mean that could all have been a big act? I’m not so sure. But it’s not impossible. She could be phoning him right now, warning him to stay clear.’

‘We’ll have someone keep an eye on the house. Soon as he turns up, we’ll know. Nothing by this time tomorrow, we’ll go looking for him.’

‘And Forensics, how soon d’you think it’ll be before we get something definite from them?’

‘Lean hard enough, maybe a couple of days. Meantime, I’ll suggest SIS take a closer look at Broderick’s business dealings. Check his phone records and so on. And hope we turn up something on the Volvo. Link that to Dooley and we’re really getting somewhere. At last.’

‘Amen to that!’

Karen drove back down to London with Aretha at full volume all the way. Lady Soul, Spirit in the Dark, Aretha Live at Fillmore West. Those old albums: singing in a way that made you believe.

44

More often than not, the mornings began in a slow drift of rain that laced across Cordon’s face as he strode the lane to the boulangerie and back, rucksack slung over one shoulder, protecting the croissants on his return. It suited him well, this small routine, the chance to stretch out, the time to himself. Birds, lively at that hour, singing their presence, darted between the trees to either side; Charolais cattle heaving themselves from the ground in the adjacent fields, coats creamy white in the haze of lingering mist.

By the time he arrived back at the house, Letitia would, with any luck, have stepped out from the shower and set the coffee on the stove; Danny would either be sitting up in bed, rereading for the umpteenth time one of his books, or be stretched out full length in front of the television watching cartoons.

Don’t get too fond of him, Letitia had warned, but in the circumstances it was hard not to. Considering all that had happened to him, being wrenched without proper explanation from one home, one country to another, Danny was surprisingly equable, ever eager to play, to please. His ready laugh and quick response brought a smile to Cordon’s face and, however sentimental, a touch of gladness to his heart.

All right, he knew what it was about. Understood that what he was doing, at least in part, was reconstructing the relationship with his own son that had so desperately failed. Even at Danny’s age there had been tensions with Simon he was aware of only in retrospect: tensions that came in part from the hostility that had been building up inexorably between his wife, Judith, and himself; partly from the way Cordon had pushed the boy too hard in a vain attempt to keep him in line. Do this and do it now. Don’t bloody question me, just do it! Do it, you understand?Until, by his early teens, the boy had turned quite against him.

You’re not a father, you’re a fucking policeman!

Cordon had slapped him hard, unthinking, and the boy had punched him back.

Punched and run.

Neither the first time, nor the last.

One life, one chance: when they were young, small, dependent for the most part, though they learned fast, accumulating more skills and knowledge than they ever would again, those early months and years seemed to move slowly, grinding on and on – then suddenly they were twelve, thirteen, and everything went past in a rush of hormones and angry words.

It came to Cordon in slack moments when his mind had stalled: in dreams.

The things he should have said and done.

Now passed and gone.

Don’t get too fond of him, Letitia had said of Danny. He’s already got one father to get over. He doesn’t need a fuckin’ second.

Quite right, Cordon thought. Buggering up one young life enough, never mind a second.

Kiley had phoned two days before: Taras had set up a meeting between himself and Anton which had been cancelled at the last moment; since then, nothing. No response to Kiley’s calls. The Ukrainian’s mobile permanently switched off, texts denied, messages ignored.

‘Stick with it, Jack, okay?’ Cordon had asked. ‘Can you? We can’t stay here forever.’

The reply had been a hesitant, ‘Okay.’ Followed swiftly by, ‘But I’ve got other things on the go, you realise. For some of which I even get paid.’

‘I’ll pay you, if that’s what you want.’

‘Forget it. I’ll do what I can.’

Since then, nothing. And Cordon was aware how far he was pushing the limits of friendship, the repayment of a small debt that had, in reality, already been paid off many times over. All he could hope was, that beyond his basic decency, Kiley was in it for the mystery, the need to see things through to their conclusion, find out how they’d been put together, how they ticked. Wasn’t that one of the reasons people became detectives?

The old man’s dog ran towards him from the nearby house, yapping, and when it got too close, turned tail. Letitia was just in the act of lifting the coffee pot from the stove.

‘Warm milk or cold?’

‘Cold is fine.’

Cordon swung the rucksack round and shook the croissants from their paper bag down on to the waiting plates.

‘Jam?’ Letitia asked.

‘Jam.’

Passing, she kissed him on the cheek.

‘What’s that for?’

‘Tip for the delivery boy. What else?’

The rain failed to clear until mid-morning, later than usual, and when it did they drove out to the nearby park and watched Danny tire himself out on the bouncy castle and the trampoline; afterwards, they stopped off at the creperie at the edge of the village for a late lunch.

Back at the house, the afternoon slipped harmlessly away. They had a supper of pate and cornichons, toasted bread, cured meat and cheese. Pears with a thick, marled skin that were delicious once it was removed.

Wine. Always wine.

Danny fell asleep where he was and had to be carried to bed.

Letitia put a cardigan around her shoulders and stood in the open doorway smoking a cigarette, while Cordon collected up the dishes and cleared the remnants of food into the fridge.

‘When did they say we have to leave?’ Letitia asked, turning back into the room.

‘Here? Easter at the latest.’

‘You think we could stay that long?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Leaving or staying, he didn’t know which held the most danger.

He went and stood behind her, close enough to smell the scent of whatever it was she used to wash her hair through the night air, the smoke from her cigarette. Save for a scattering of stars and a faint sliver of moon, the sky was an almost solid black.

When Letitia leaned back, accidentally or not, he could feel the warmth of her body against his chest, the bare flesh of her arm sliding across his, the curl of her hair brushing soft against his neck.

‘Remember that time you kicked me out of your bed?’

‘No.’

She laughed. ‘Regret it now, don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Lying bastard.’

She laughed again and, swivelling, raised her head and kissed him on the mouth, the taste of wine and tobacco clear and strong on her tongue, and just as he began to kiss her back, his arms closing tight around her, she pulled away.

‘It’s getting cold, let’s go inside.’

Once there she kept her distance, refilled her glass and took it into the other room; switched on the TV and sat, half-watching, chatting inconsequentially as if nothing had happened. When, an hour or so later, she said goodnight, her fingers brushed his neck as they had once before and left him wondering what, if anything, that meant.

Listening, through the lowered television sound, he heard her enter the bathroom, then leave, and then the closing of her bedroom door. Minutes later, he switched off the TV, went back into the kitchen and saw to the dishes, made sure the doors were locked and secure.

A half-inch of light showed under the door of Letitia’s room.

In the near-darkness, Cordon held his breath, then turned away, crossing to his own room, his own bed. And lay there, still listening, half-expecting her to come to him.

Three nights later, without hint or warning, she did. Her first touch breaking him from sleep.

‘What …?’

There was light enough through the shutters to see the smile forming on her face, the outline of her breasts beneath the T-shirt that she wore, the dark patch between her legs.

‘Letitia, you …’

‘Yes?’

‘You can’t …’

‘Oh, Cordon, why don’t you just shut up?’

Leaning down she kissed him hard, her hand reaching for him through the sheet.

He gasped at her touch and, as he arched his back, she dipped her head and took one nipple, then the other, in her mouth, licking, teasing them tight, taking them between her teeth and biting gently, then enough to hurt.

Slowly, she ran her tongue along his chest and up into the hollows of his neck, the corners of his mouth, his eyes, his mouth again, and then, suddenly, hutching up her legs, she slid down, taking him inside her, deep inside, deep – ‘Oh, Christ!’ – Cordon shouting out, head back, mouth wide, eyes screwed tight as she pressed down on him again until her hips ground against his and he thrust back, shouting, shouting her name, her voice rising against his – ‘Come on, Cordon, for fuck’s sake! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck!’ – Cordon grasping her hair, wet and slippery now with sweat, and then, with a wrench, rolling her over until he was above her, bearing down, wanting to bury himself inside her, hard, hard as he could, wanting to hurt her, yes, hurt her, hear her scream. ‘You fucker! You fucker! You fuck!’

Later he would think that beneath everything he heard the door, the sudden forward step, sensed the sweep of an arm and began to turn, but it was all lost inside Letitia’s scream, whether of orgasm or what she’d just seen over his shoulder he’d never know, and then something metallic slammed hard against his head, then again full in the face, not once, but twice, and all he knew was a lance of searing pain, then nothing at all.