accumulating out of the country.’
Capitalism, Karen thought, such a wonderful thing.
‘Some evidence,’ Frost concluded, ‘but not quite enough.’
‘How much longer do you need?’ Burcher asked.
‘How much can I have?’
‘I don’t know.’ Burcher threw up his hands. ‘Warren? What do you think?’
‘Well, everything we know suggests Kosach’s a major player. And not just money laundering. His hands are dirtier than that. People trafficking. Prostitution. It would be great to bring him down. But I can see there’s a risk. Delay too long and we could lose everything. The whole shooting match.’
Burcher massaged his scalp. Thought. Waited. Thought some more.
‘All right, the way I suggest we proceed is this. Karen, your team, with some assistance, keep Dooley’s thugs under surveillance. Warren, you look to Dooley himself. This to give Charlie as reasonable a time to get the evidence as he needs — and no use SOCA being timid about this, Charlie, we’re talking days not fucking weeks — and the minute it seems as if Dooley or anyone else we’ve got tabs on shows signs of panic and starts to run, we bring the whole lot in at a gallop. No exceptions.’
He looked round the table.
‘All agreed?’
They were agreed.
Karen was hoping to catch Alex Williams on the way out, but Burcher made his own claim. ‘Alex, a few minutes of your time?’
The door closed behind them and Karen walked on to where Cormack and Charlie Frost were waiting, midway along the corridor, for the lift.
49
Cordon’s left eye still looked as if he’d walked into a door just a few days before; either that or said the wrong thing to the wrong man in the wrong bar. More than enough of those around, as the previous night’s drinking with Kiley had proved. That great barn of a place on the corner where they showed the Gaelic football amongst them. Cordon had lost his footing at one point, his balance still not being what it was, banged his sore ribs against the end of the bar and let out a shout louder than the one that had gone up when Mayo scored the winning goal in the last minutes against Sligo at Quigabar.
Jane had been with them early on, but, in deference to what was to come, had made her excuses and left them to it. A shame, Cordon had thought. A nice girl, though she’d not have thanked him for calling her that; a pleasant woman, attractive, intelligent, both feet firmly on the ground.
What was it, he wondered, that had stopped him getting hooked up with someone like that, instead of the flotsam that, since the implosion of his marriage, had formed the basis of what he might have jokingly called his love life. Primary schoolteachers of the West Country, where had they all been when he needed them? Busy, Cordon assumed, filling in assessment forms, looking the other way.
Of course, the job hadn’t helped. By and large — and there were exceptions — it was a certain cast of woman who was attracted to the idea of going out with a policeman. And, from his experience, your average primary schoolteacher was not amongst them.
He wondered how Kiley did it. Downplaying, somehow, both his past years in the Met and his present role as a private eye in favour of what? A few old footballing scars and tales of his glory days with Stevenage Borough and Charlton Athletic?
Face it, he was jealous.
The nearest he’d got to what might be termed a relationship with a normal woman lacking criminal tendencies or connections had been his marriage to Judith and look what had happened there. A year or so of low- level lust and largely unfulfilled expectations, then the slow disintegration into brittle silences, betrayal and mutual recrimination. Result: a cold divorce, years of winnowing distance, and a son who, as far as he could tell, held them both in more or less complete contempt for the way they’d fucked up their lives and done their level best to do the same to his.
All with or without Philip Larkin’s blessing.
And if his future lay with the Letitias of this world, God help him.
And them.
Letitia, he wondered where she was now. What had happened? If, as he assumed, those who had taken her had returned her whence she had fled, what forgiveness, if any, might she have found in Anton Kosach’s arms? What forms of retribution might have been taken?
And Danny? Danya?
The bright smile on the boy’s hopeful face snagged for a moment on his memory and, best as he could, he brushed it away.
Yes, well, like a lot of things, easier said than done.
He checked his watch. Already twenty past one. Back by twelve, Kiley had said, twelve thirty latest. A meeting with the local solicitor he sometimes did investigative work for which must have gone on longer than intended. Been parlayed into lunch, perhaps.
A flurry of voices drew Cordon to the window. Kids from the local comprehensive pushing and shoving, blocking the pavement, oblivious to anyone other than themselves. Small knots of them, standing smoking, eating from fast-food containers. One couple pressed up against the window of Sainsbury’s Local, kissing, tonguing, his hand inside her top and no one caring.
Fifteen, sixteen — in Cordon’s life, a long time ago. More than the sum of years.
He crossed to the stereo, pressed play and jacked up the volume. Amongst the last batch of CDs Kiley had filched from the charity shop below was a Nina Simone. ‘You’ll want to take a look at this,’ Kiley had said. ‘Collecting versions of “Good Bait”, aren’t you?’ At first, he’d thought he was having a laugh, taking the piss, but there it was, ‘Good Bait’, just Simone’s piano, one hand at first, slowly fingering out the tune, as if uncertain, then, after a while, the left hand coming in, and no vocal, no vocal at all. Bit of a sacrilege, probably, Cordon reckoned, but on the whole that was how he preferred her.
After close on a couple of minutes, bass and drums swing in and from there things become more emphatic, more outgoing. The last couple of chords were ringing out as Kiley came through the door, takeout coffees from the corner cafe balanced neatly in one hand.
‘Just time to drink these down, then we’re out of here. Message from Kosach’s brother on my mobile. He’s agreed to meet.’
‘You or me?’
‘Both. Here in London. Some Ukrainian restaurant on the Cali.’
‘Where?’
‘Caledonian Road. Between King’s Cross and the arse end of Holloway.’
The place they were looking for was on a strip of betting shops and second-hand furniture stores, launderettes and dodgy cafes. There was a
As Kiley and Cordon approached, he stubbed out the cigarette and, half-rising, offered Kiley his hand. Cordon he glanced at, nothing more.
‘Sit,’ he said.
They sat.
‘You want wine?’
‘Sure,’ Kiley said, ‘why not?’
