Текст книги "The Cleaner"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

PART FOUR

Risky Bizness

36

Milton pulled over, extinguished the lights of the car and switched off the engine. He left the radio on so that he could finish listening to the news. The bulletin reported that a protest outside a police station in Tottenham had deteriorated into a riot. Relatives of a man who had been shot by police two days earlier had gathered to protest at his killing. Others had joined in and the crowd had started to pelt the police with bottles and bricks. There were reports that cars and a double-decker bus had been set alight. Milton drew down on the cigarette he was smoking and blew the smoke out of the window. It was a hot night, close and humid. There was something in the air, a droning buzz of aggression. It wouldn’t take much to ignite it.

He switched off the radio, opened the glove compartment, took out his holstered knife and pulled up the sleeve of his right trouser leg. He wrapped the holster around his calf and fastened the Velcro straps. He checked in his mirrors that the pavement outside was empty and, satisfied that he would not be observed, he took his Sig Sauer from its holster and checked the magazine. It was full. He pumped a bullet into the chamber and flicked the safety so that the gun was ready to fire. He slid it back beneath his armpit.

He looked around again. This part of Dalston Lane comprised a Georgian terrace of tall, two-storey houses with Victorian shop fronts that had been built over their front gardens when the railways arrived a hundred years earlier. The houses behind the shops had recently been used for social housing, but, as time passed and their tenants were moved into the high-rise blocks that dominated the nearby skyline, they had been allowed to begin their long slide into decrepitude. Those that were left vacant were boarded up. Damaged roofs were left unrepaired. Windows were shattered and left open to the rain. Four houses had been gutted by fire, the exposed bricks crusted black with soot and ash and the timbers exposed like cracked and broken bones. Those buildings had been condemned and demolished, tearing holes in the terrace like the teeth yanked from a cancerous mouth. Boards had been erected around the blackened remnants of the extension, and these had been scarified by graffiti and posters for illegal raves.

The Victorian extensions were occupied by local businesses. The entire house and extension at the corner of the road was a doctor’s surgery, with bars on the door and the windows plastered with posters about sexually transmitted diseases and nutrition. Next to that was an Indian restaurant, then a shop selling musical instruments, a Laundromat, a business selling second hand kitchen equipment, then a newsagent. Adjacent to that a façade announced the Star Bakery, but the shutters had been in place for so long that the rust had fastened the padlocks to their tethers. The property alongside had seen its extension occupied by a squat. It had been a bicycle shop years before, the block typography of its original frontage still visible despite the etoliation of the weather and the fumes from the busy road. The wide picture windows were obscured by sheets of newspaper and a printed notice that had been glued to the door declared that the squatters enjoyed rights of occupation, and could not be evicted without a court order.

Milton scanned it all quickly. The terrace behind the squat was one of Bizness’s most profitable crack houses. Pops had told him everything. Heroin and crack were sold around the clock, rain or shine. Most of the customers were poor locals, drawn in from the surrounding estates, but a significant minority of the customers were white, very often professional and middle-class.

Milton got out of the car. He went around to the back, opened the boot and took out a jerrycan that he had filled with petrol from the garage on Mare Street. There was no sense in making his entry through the front door. It looked as if it was locked, just enough of a delay to allow for escape should the police arrive for a clean up. Milton had another idea. The terrace was listed, and the plans were available online. He had visited the library and downloaded them, reviewing them before he came out. He knew that there was another way in. He followed the road to the junction, taking a right turn and then, before he reached a tawdry pub, another sharp right. A narrow cul-de-sac led around the back of the terrace. Overflowing dustbins were stacked up against the wall and detritus had been allowed to gather in the gutter. Each house had a rear entrance and the one that served the crack house was wide open. Silly boys. Milton took out his Sig and went inside. The first room used to be a kitchen. Old appliances had been left to rot, with anything that could be easily removed long since sold for scrap. The walls were partially stripped and scabbed with lead paint and the remnants of a twee wallpaper that depicted an Alpine scene had been left to peel away like patches of dead, flaking skin. Empty cardboard boxes and fast food wrappers were scattered on the floor. A single man, strung out and emaciated, was slumped against the wall. He was unconscious, and Milton would not have been able to say whether he was dead or alive. He heard low conversation from the front of the house and set off towards it. The junkie’s arm swept around sharply and his eyes swam with drunken stupor, but he paid Milton no heed as he passed through the room.

He moved through a hallway with a flight of stairs leading up to the first floor. Patterned linoleum was scattered with drug paraphernalia. A mattress rested upright against the wall. Another junkie was asleep on the floor. Milton tightened the grip on the butt of his pistol as he stepped carefully around him.

The noises were coming from the front extension. Milton paused in the shadows at the doorway to assess his surroundings. The only furniture was a sofa and a huge, monolithic television. It was a big unit with a cathode ray tube and it had been left on, badly tuned, scenes from a soap occasionally resolving out of the distortion of static. The front door was ahead of him, barricaded with an old sideboard that had been propped against it. Vivid wallpaper with a woodland design had been hung on the wall, the paper stained yellow by months of smoke. There was no ventilation and the atmosphere was thick and heavy, woozy, a sickly miasma.

There were a dozen people inside the room. Men and women, mostly supine, their heads lolling insensately, unfocussed eyes lazily flicking across the television screen. They were all black, dressed cheaply, feeble and thin. Plastic bottles were arranged in neat rows, each of them full of urine. A collection of shoes, random and unpaired, was pushed into one corner. Empty vials of crack had been ground underfoot, crunching like fresh snow as the addicts shuffled across the room to the two men who were sat on the sofa. They were clear-eyed, and moved with crisp purpose as they exchanged vials of crack for their customers’ crumpled banknotes. They were younger than their patrons; Milton guessed in their late teens, not long out of school. They were dressed in low-slung jeans, the crotch hanging down between the knees, there were diamond ear studs and golden chains, and both wore the colourful purple bandana of the LFB around their necks. These were the dealers, one step up from the shotters, Bizness’s representatives on the street. They sold the drugs and then protected the house so that their customers had somewhere to get high, and then buy from them again.

Milton felt a shudder of revulsion.

He assessed the situation. The junkies were too far gone to pose any kind of problem and he discounted them. The two dealers looked fit and strong, and there was a kitchen knife resting on the arm of the sofa. That would be a problem if they could get to it before he had disabled them. He could not discount the possibility that they were armed, either.

Milton suddenly decided.

He sprang across the room and lashed out with the barrel of his pistol. He struck the bigger of the two men across the temple, a stunning blow that dropped him to his knees. The second man stretched across the sofa but Milton had anticipated his move, firing out a kick that struck him in the side of the chest and brought a whistle of pain from him. The man’s hand fell short, the knife dislodged from its perch by the attempt. Milton’s hands grabbed the man in two places – bunching into his singlet and by waist of his trousers – and he heaved him off the sofa and onto the floor. The sharp edges of crushed vials and syringes bit into his face and throat as he tried to find his feet. Milton followed him to the floor, pinning the point of his knee between his shoulder blades and pressing down. He took the Sig and pressed the barrel into the cornrows on the top of the man’s head.

“Pay attention,” he said. “I want you to deliver a message to Bizness. Tell him that this is what I said would happen. If he doesn’t do what I told him to do, tell him that this will keep happening. One crack house at a time. Do you understand? Nod if you do.”

The man jerked his head awkwardly against the floor.

“Alright. You’re going to get up now, and you are going to clear these people out. Then you’re grab your friend over there and get him out, too. If you do anything foolish, I’ll shoot you. Understand?”

Milton got up and backed away. He took the jerrycan and poured the petrol across the floor, on the sofa, sloshing it across the thick curtains. If the boy needed motivation, Milton’s self-evident plan was it. He did as he was told, ushering the crackheads out the back and then returning to collect his friend, propping him up and helping him away.

The room quickly stank of petrol. Milton took out his lighter and thumbed it to flame. He played the lighter over a rag and blue-white flame consumed it hungrily. Milton dropped it onto the sofa and, with a quiet exhalation, the fabric caught fire. The flame spread quickly over the upholstery, stretching higher and higher until it started to scorch the ceiling. It raced across the floor to the walls, a quiet crackling that quickly became a hungry roar, with black smoke billowing up to the roof and then spewing back down again.

Milton went out into the alley gun-first, only holstering the Sig Sauer when he saw that both boys had fled. He walked briskly, making his way back onto the main road and to his car. He unlocked the door and slipped inside.

Across the street, the squat was burning fiercely.

37

Christopher Callan paused outside Flat 609 and then, satisfied that it was the correct address, he knocked firmly, three times, on the door. He heard sounds of activity inside: the chink of pieces of crockery being knocked together, a door opening on a rusty hinge, and then footsteps approaching. A woman opened the door. Callan guessed that she was in her early thirties. Dark black hair, smooth skin, wide eyes, a slender build. She was wearing the uniform of a fast-food chain.

“Yes?”

Callan smiled. “Excuse me. Sorry for disturbing you. Are you Sharon Warriner?

Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m detective constable Travis.”

Her face fell. “It’s Elijah, isn’t it?”

“Elijah?”

“My boy – what’s he done?”

“No, Mrs Warriner, it’s not that. Nothing to do with Elijah. Would it be alright if I came inside for a minute?”

“What’s it about?”

She had the usual suspicion of the police, Callan saw. It was to be expected in a place like this. He reached into his jacket pocket and took over the file picture of Milton. “Do you know this man?”

She became confused as she studied the picture. “That’s John.”

“John Milton?”

“Yes. I don’t understand. What’s he done?”

“Can I come in, please? Just five minutes.”

She reluctantly stood aside and let him through. They passed through the small hallway and into the lounge. It was a large room, the décor a little tatty and tired, an old sofa, a table with four chairs, a flatscreen television, PlayStation games scattered across the floor. Sharon stood stiffly; her suspicion had not been assuaged, Callan could see that, and he was not going to be invited to sit. Fair enough. He wouldn’t be long. In some ways, he had already seen enough.

“How do you know Mr Milton?”

“He’s a friend.”

“How did you meet him?”

She paused, her face washed by a moment of worried memory. “I just did,” she said. “What’s this about, please?”

“What’s he doing here?”

“I told you, he’s a friend. He’s helping me with my son.”

“How?”

“I’m sorry, detective, but I don’t understand how any of that is relevant. What has he done wrong?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Please – how is he helping you?”

She waved her hand agitatedly. “My boy, Elijah, he can be a bit of a handful. Headstrong, like they all are at his age. Mr Milton is” – she paused, searching for the right word, and then repeated the same one again – “helping me with him, like I said. I don’t understand why you’re asking me – has he done something wrong? Should I be worried?”

Should she be concerned? Callan suppressed the smirk. She had no idea. None at all. “No,” he said, “there’s no reason to be concerned. I’m sorry I can’t say any more than that.”

She made for the door. “Then I’m sorry, detective, if you can’t tell me what Mr Milton has done then I’m not sure what else I can do to help.” She opened the door. “Do you mind? I have to get ready for bed. I start work early in the mornings.”

“Of course,” Callan said. “Thank you for your help. Sorry again for disturbing you.”

He looked around again as he allowed her to shepherd him to the door. Unpaid bills on the floor. Paint peeling from the walls. Bars across the windows. What was Number One doing in a place like this, with a woman like this? He supposed that she was pretty, after a fashion, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to explain anything. The only thing that made any sense at all was Control’s contention that something had broken inside Number One’s head and that, if it was true, would not be good for him at all. He politely bid the woman good night and walked over to the balcony as she shut the door behind him. He rested his elbows on the balustrade and looked out over the East End. It was a hot night, the air torpid and sluggish. Sirens wailed in the streets nearby and a group of youngsters had gathered in the open space below, their raucous laughter reaching up to him. Callan did not understand any of it. His task was to gather evidence, not to draw conclusions, and yet he could not help but wonder: what on earth had happened to Number One?

38

Stoke Newington police station was a modern three-story building with wide windows on the ground floor. They were all lit up, lights burning behind them. Pops walked towards the entrance but did not go in. They had one of those old fashioned blue lanterns hanging from the wall and he carried on beneath it and further along the road before he stopped, crossed over, and headed back in the same direction again. He had repeated the pattern for the last half an hour, passing up and down the tree-lined road, thinking about choices and consequences. What he was about to do would change everything for him. There was no point in pretending that it wouldn’t, and the gravity of what he was contemplating frightened him. If he did as he had been asked to do there would be no turning back for him. His life would be yanked off course and sent in a different direction.

There was a Turkish barber shop opposite the station. He sat down, resting his back against the window and took the half-finished joint from behind his ear. He held it in the flame of his lighter and toked on it until it caught, drawing in a big breath of smoke. He held it in his lungs for a long moment and then blew it away. He needed to settle down, to relax. He drew his legs up to his chest and leant forwards, resting his forehead against his knees. He was hopelessly on edge.

Choices. He stared across the slow-moving traffic to the lit windows of the station. He knew that speaking to the police was a fundamental thing. It would make him a grass. He was at a junction; consequences one way, but consequences the other way, too. He had thought about it for long enough, before he met Elijah, before Bizness turned his back on him, before Laura, before Milton. There were always choices, even when you thought there were none. It had been his choice to join the LFB, to start mugging and steaming, to start selling drugs. There had been different choices at every point but the problem was that those alternatives were harder, or less lucrative, or less cool than the life he could have on the street. He had told the youngers that came up that the easy way was the best way but he had always known that the stories he told them were lies. He had always known. He lied to them, and to himself. He had persuaded himself that he was right but now, well, now there was nothing else for it but to face the truth.

Because the truth of it was that there was always a choice.

The shopkeeper had a small television above the counter and Pops could hear it through the open door. There was nonsense in Tottenham tonight, brothers getting together and wrecking the place. He could hear the reporter speaking from the scene, the sound of yelling in the background, things getting smashed up. Pops listened absently to it for a moment, not really paying attention, toking on the joint and letting the smoke slowly seep out from his nostrils. He finished it, sucking the flame down to his fingertips, and dropped it to the floor, grinding the roach underfoot.

He crossed the street, pushed open the door and went inside.

A female officer was on duty.

“How can we help you?” she said.

“I want to talk someone about Israel Brown.”

The woman looked at him askance. “Who’s that, then?”

“You probably know him as Bizness. The rapper. He beat a boy half to death in Chimes last week. I was there. I saw it all.”

39

Bizness stared out of the tinted window of the BMW at the burnt-out house. A fire engine was still at the scene, a fireman playing water over the smoking wreckage. The ceiling of the extension had collapsed and the window had buckled and shattered from the heat, revealing the blackened mess beyond. He didn’t own the house, and it wasn’t worth shit, anyway, but that was not the point. It was Bizness’s property. It served a purpose and it made him a lot of paper. Now he was going to have to find somewhere else, spread the word, get things going again. It would cost him time and lose him money.

“Motherfucker,” he said, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.

Mouse was in the passenger seat. “We got a problem, Bizness.”

“You think? Shut the fuck up, Mouse, you don’t know shit.”

Levelz and Tookie, the two boys who had been working the squat, had told him what had happened. The man had attacked the place just after midnight, taking them by surprise. He had beaten them both, passed on his message, cleared the junkies out and fired the place.

There would be a price to pay for that.

The door behind them opened and a man slid into the seat. Bizness glanced up in the rear-view mirror. Detective inspector Wilson glared back into his eyes.

“What’s going on, lads? Who did this?”

“Someone who’s gonna wish they never got involved with me. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Are you sure about that? Because I’m pretty sure that when the fire service confirm that this is arson there’s going to be an investigation.”

“Take it easy, aight? I know who did it. And I’m gonna sort it.”

“You better make sure that you do. You’ve got to keep a lid on things. Having one of your places go up like it’s bonfire night isn’t good for my blood pressure. You want to operate around here without any trouble from me, you keep things quiet.”

“Nah, man, me operating around here depends on you getting your cut every Friday.”

Wilson ignored him and stabbed a finger against the window. “Things like that don’t give me much confidence, son. I turn a blind eye to you because I don’t have time to start worrying about lads from outside the postcode causing trouble. There are plenty of others who can keep a lid on things if you can’t.”

“That you making a threat?”

“No, that’s me telling you that it’s going to cost you ten from now on if you want to stay in business.”

“Fuck, man, don’t gimme that shit. You’re doubling the fee?”

“There a problem with that?”

Bizness gripped the steering wheel hard. “Nah,” he said. “Ten’s fine.”

“There are other benefits to working with me,” Wilson said.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Advanced warnings. You’ve got more trouble coming your way. Your boy, Pops?”

“What about him?”

“He came into the nick last night. Says he’s willing to give evidence against you.”

“Against me?”

“So he says.”

“For what?”

“Beating up that kid in Chimes.”

“Man, that was nothing.”

“Tell that to the kid’s parents. He’s still in hospital.”

“Pops don’t got shit.”

“He’s saying he was there.”

“And he’s gonna talk?”

“That’s what I heard.”

Bizness glowered through the tinted windscreen, watching as the passing cars slowed so that their drivers could gawp at the smoking wreck of the crackhouse. The problem with the man who did that and now this? Timing was bad. Timing was awful. Bizness nodded grimly. Fair enough, he thought. Timing was awful, but sometimes that’s the way it was, the hand you got dealt. They were two small problems and they could both be sorted. He started to work out angles, tactics.

“You’ve got to keep on top of things, son,” Wilson said. “Do I have a reason to be concerned?”

“No,” he said, gritting his teeth. “No reason. It’ll all get sorted.”