When the suspicious look didn't disappear, I told him I had the photographs to prove it and pulled the print-outs of the images Tina had emailed me from my back pocket.
'All right, let's have a look,' he said, and took them off me. He unfolded three of them and looked at them carefully. 'And these were taken today in London?'
'In Hackney. Why? Do you know the guy?' It was a long shot but, given Maxwell's previous career, not a complete impossibility.
He shook his head. 'You said he was Irish, right?'
'That's right. Northern Irish, I think.'
'I had dealings with some Belfast paramilitaries – UVF blokes – a few years back, but I never trusted them. The greedy bastards were always trying to put one over on you.' He sighed, handing the photos back.
'So,' I said, 'do you believe me now?'
He nodded slowly like some wise, thuggish Yoda. Maxwell never did anything in a hurry. 'Yeah,' he said at last, 'I believe you. Looks like you're in a lot of shit, mate.'
'Yes, Maxwell, I know that. What I'm after are suggestions about what I should be doing about it.'
'My advice?' Pause. 'Take a long fucking holiday. A month at least. Somewhere a long way away. And make sure you're on email as well. We'll need to speak about the book. Try to forget any of it ever fucking happened.'
'But what about Jenny? I can't just leave her at the mercy of someone who's going to kill her.'
Maxwell's features cracked into an unpleasant smile. 'Never really took you for the hero, Robbie. Thought you were more the sort who just liked to write about them.'
'Then maybe you don't know me that well. If someone's in trouble and I can help them, then that's what I'm going to do.' Two nights ago that hadn't been the case, but now I genuinely meant it.
'Well, that's real touching, Robbie, but you try poking your nose into something like this and you're going to end up with it sliced off, know what I mean? Let me give you a piece of advice,' he said, pointing his Peroni bottle in my general direction. 'Only get involved in something when you absolutely have to, or where there's money involved. Anything else, steer clear, because it ain't worth it. Especially in this case. If what you're saying's true, then it's possible they've killed a copper, which means they're prepared to kill anybody. Next time it could be you.' He settled back in his chair, having delivered his sage advice, and lit another cigarette.
I realized what Maxwell was truly like then. When I'd first met him I'd thought him glamorous – a hard man definitely, ruthless too – but because he liked a laugh, told a good story and was always nice to me, I'd got to thinking of him as a loveable rogue, someone who might hurt other criminals – people whose actions deserved it – but also someone who would stand up for the underdog, who wouldn't put up with bullies, who could be reasoned with, because underneath it all his heart was still somewhere close to the right place. But this was all bullshit. Maxwell was just another selfish thug, and it shocked me that it had taken my own experience at the hands of selfish thugs to understand this.
'Have you ever killed anyone?' I asked him.
Maxwell shook his head. 'I've come close a couple of times when people fucked me over, but no, I ain't.'
'What about kidnapping someone? Have you ever done that?'
He paused before answering. 'I've had to persuade people to pay back money they owe. Sometimes that meant holding them in places against their will, until their associates came up with the cash. Maybe even giving them a little bit of a kicking to ensure their cooperation. But no. Not like you're talking about. I never hurt women. I respect them too much for that.'
The way he was talking disgusted me, and I think that disgust must have shown on my face because his own creased into a fierce glare. 'Don't go all moralistic on me, Robbie. I've done some bad things. You know that. And I ain't particularly proud of some of them either, but I'm also a realist. And yeah, it's bad that this girl, whoever she is, has got herself kidnapped, but it ain't my business, and it ain't yours either. You hardly know her. And you're in a lot of trouble already. You've done what you can. Leave it.'
'I can't leave it.'
'Then I ain't gonna help you, mate. Sorry, but that's the way it is.' He shrugged his immense shoulders, as if to say there was nothing more he could do.
I felt terrible. I'd been a fool to expect him to help me. I thought about threatening to knock the book on the head unless he changed his mind but dismissed the idea immediately. I needed it as much as he did; and anyway, right then, the book seemed totally irrelevant.
I drank the last of my beer down in one, savouring its coldness.
'Do you want another?' he asked.
I did. Desperately. I really needed just to unwind, and the chair felt extremely comfortable. I could feel the indignation draining out of me. 'Yeah, please. And can I ask you a favour? I need a place to stay for a few days. To give me some time to lie low and think. Can you put me up here?'
'All right, but on one condition: you don't try and hunt for that girl while you're under this roof. Like I told you, I don't want to get involved.'
He fixed me with the kind of stare that dared you to defy him. I had a feeling not many people did, and I was no exception. I said that I wouldn't, and he headed back into the kitchen for more Peronis.
I knew I wouldn't be able to keep the promise, though. The events of the last two days might have frightened the shit out of me but I was still determined to locate Jenny and get her to safety. My life had changed. I'd changed. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected to be risking my life to help a girl I hardly knew, but now that I was doing it, there was no way I was going to give up. And for the first time, sitting there in Maxwell's house, I actually felt good about that.
But tonight…Tonight I was going to have to put my quest to one side. I was tired. I needed to rest.
When Maxwell came back with the drinks, I was already yawning. He told me I looked shagged out, and I didn't disagree. I drank the second beer fast while he spun one of his more amusing yarns about his days as a gangster. I wasn't really listening though, and when he offered me a third, I declined. 'I just need to close my eyes for a minute,' I said, feeling an overwhelming tiredness.
I remember him saying 'No problem', and something about having some chicken soup when I woke up, and I also remember him watching me closely as I drifted off, which I thought was a bit odd. Then sleep came and relieved me, at least temporarily, of all the burdens of the world.
Thirty-three
They'd driven much of the way in silence. Two men who'd been colleagues for almost six years, who'd had their ups and downs but who also, when it came down to it, were prepared to risk their careers and their necks for each other.
Bolt was conscious of the fact that Mo had done more of the risking over the years, that he'd covered for Bolt in some tricky situations, and he wouldn't have wanted anyone else in the car with him as they went to see if the woman who'd been found dead near Tina Boyd's abandoned car was in fact Tina herself. There'd been no identification on the body when it was found with gunshot wounds to the face by a dog walker two hours earlier, and the only description Bolt and Mo had was that it was a dark-haired woman in her thirties. But it was one that fitted Tina, and Bolt wasn't the type to believe in coincidences. In the car he'd fought to keep an open mind and not jump to conclusions, but it was a battle he'd steadily lost.
He'd remembered the first time he met Tina, in a dive of a pub in Highgate one wet Saturday night. He and Mo had gone there to get some information from her about a case they were working on. It wasn't long after her boyfriend had died, and Bolt remembered how tired and vulnerable she'd looked, and how he'd had an immediate desire to take her in his arms and protect her. It was a feeling that had never really gone away during all the time he'd known her.
The victim's body was still at the crime scene when Bolt parked his Jaguar at the edge of the police cordon. Darkness was descending fast now, but the quiet stretch of wooded B-road just south of the village of Bramfield was a hive of activity. Two police patrol cars with their lights flashing blocked the road, a uniformed cop eating a baguette in one of them; a dozen other police vehicles and an ambulance were lined up on either side of the road. A plastic tent had been erected just inside the tree line, and a few yards behind it a red Nissan Micra that Bolt recognized as Tina's was parked up on the verge.
Bolt and Mo showed their ID to the uniform, who managed to finish chewing his baguette long enough to point them to a van where they could put on the plastic coveralls all officers were obliged to wear when entering crime scenes. Once they were kitted up, they slipped under the scene-of-crime tape and walked along a specially marked path lined with more tape in the direction of the tent.
Bolt was aware that his breathing had increased. He'd always feared death, right from childhood, because he'd never been able to believe – and God knows he'd tried – that there was anything beyond it. Unfortunately, because of his job, he'd had to see far more of it than most people, and almost always when the end had come violently. The sight of their empty faces was something he'd never got used to, and the prospect of seeing someone he knew and cared about lying there was much worse.
'I can do this if you want, boss,' said Mo quietly, turning his way.
Months earlier, when they'd been sharing one too many beers at a pub near SOCA's Vauxhall HQ, Bolt had told Mo about the night he made a pass at Tina, and about his feelings for her. It wasn't the sort of thing he usually shared; he preferred to keep matters of the heart to himself. But the drink had done what drink always does and loosened his tongue, and, with Tina having only recently departed from SOCA, he'd been at something of a low ebb. Mo hadn't approved, Bolt knew that, but he'd been sympathetic to his boss's plight, as he was now.
Bolt looked at Mo, saw the concern in his friend's eyes. He appreciated the offer but knew it was essential he didn't show weakness. 'No, it's all right,' he said. 'I'll be fine.'
One of the white-overalled officers peeled away from the throng and came over to them. 'Mo Khan?' The questioner was a woman in her mid thirties with an attractive, friendly face that didn't look like it needed much encouragement to break into a smile. Beneath the transparent hood she was wearing her hair, tied back, was a fiery red.
'That's me. And this is my boss, SG3 Mike Bolt.'
'I'm DCI Miller, the SIO on this case,' she said as the three of them shook hands. 'Thanks for coming. She's over here. The body was discovered by a dog walker approximately two and a half hours ago,' she continued as Mo and Bolt followed her to the tent. 'No real attempt to conceal the body.' She opened the flap and stood to one side. 'It looks like she was shot several times in the face and then just left where she fell.'
Bolt didn't flinch but his expression was granite as he stepped inside, barely conscious of Mo and DCI Miller filing in behind and standing either side of him.
She lay there alone, flat on her back in a halo of coagulating blood, arms neatly by her side, eyes closed. There were two small black holes in her face: one just below her mouth, the other high up on her cheek, like a large, out-of-place beauty spot. She looked asleep, peaceful, as if all the trials and tribulations of this world had been lifted from her shoulders. Which of course they had.
Bolt took a deep breath and turned to DCI Miller. 'It's not her,' he said.
Thirty-four
I'm going to kill you.
The afternoon had turned out to be the most terrifying of Tina Boyd's life. For what must have been close to an hour she'd driven her car at gunpoint along the North Circular Road, and finally out of London on the A10 heading north. During that time the man had spent much of his time asking her questions, often touching and stroking her as he spoke. Sometimes his tone was conversational.
