‘No local faces. Nobody known. We’re going to use a friend of my nephew’s. American geezer. He flies in, takes a look at the Houses of Parliament and Tower Bridge, takes some photos, does the job and fucks off back to Arizona or wherever.’
Reed rearranges grains of sugar on the surface of the table. ‘What do I do?’
‘Just keep your ear to the ground,’ Winingham says. ‘Make sure Carrodus hasn’t gone mouthing it about to the wrong people. And keep the police away.’
‘And seriously, nobody gets hurt?’
‘Not a chance. You need to see my nephew.’
Reed’s heart is a bird in his chest. ‘I’d need more than this favour. I’d need a proper cut.’
‘You’ll get a cut. Two hundred thousand. A rental, no questions asked. Some weight.’
Winingham sits there, patiently. Lets him think it through.
In the end, Reed licks his dry lips and offers his hand across the table.
Uniformed coppers clear a path through the mobbed press. Howie parks close to the main hospital entrance.
She gets out, opens the rear doors and leads a confused, blank-faced Christine James through the automatic doors, across the foyer, to the lifts and upstairs.
Outside the Intensive Care Unit, she introduces Ms James to the family liaison officer, Cathy Hibbs.
Hibbs leads Ms James into a private room, asks if she’d like a hot drink.
Ms James doesn’t seem to know. She’s bewildered. She’s got the innocent, blinking expression of an early onset Alzheimer’s case.
She doesn’t say a word, except to thank Hibbs for the cup of hospital coffee.
In the foyer, Luther and Howie find a quiet corner away from the assembled media.
Luther says, ‘I need you to stay here and keep me updated.’
‘Absolutely. Where will you be?’
‘I’ll be around. I’ve just got a few things to sort out.’
‘Boss…’ she says.
Luther says, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
He means it. Howie can see the anxiety in his eyes; the intense need to do something she doesn’t want to know about, and to do it quickly.
She doesn’t ask. She’s learned that much.
She watches him stride away.
CHAPTER 24
Barry Tonga’s wife, Huihana, runs Frangipani, a small florist in Hackney.
Grey winter light filters through the picture window, deepens the shade of the green foliage; seems to brighten the lilies, roses, tulips, chrysanthemums.
Huihana looks up from behind the counter when Reed and Luther enter. Luther badges her and shushes her.
The flagstones are damp beneath his feet.
Huihana steps away.
Luther and Reed find Barry Tonga out back, listening to an iPod as he prepares a large wedding bouquet. On the table before him are laid out garden string, adhesive floristry tape, ivory roses, eucalyptus stems, beaded wires and wide organza ribbon. He’s got a pair of secateurs in his hand.
He looks at them. He takes out one of his ear buds, lets it dangle. Luther can hear a hissy sibilance that he half recognizes. He thinks it might be Fleetwood Mac, although that doesn’t seem right.
‘Wotcher,’ says Reed.
Tonga nods. ‘How’s it going?’
Reed rotates his head on his neck. ‘Better, Barry. Yeah. How are you?’
‘All right, ta.’
‘Good,’ says Reed. ‘Good, good, good.’
Luther steps up. Tonga stands a head taller than him.
‘We’re in a rush,’ Luther says. ‘So do me a favour, put down the bouquet and come with us.’
‘Why?’ says Tonga. ‘Where we going?’
‘To the woods. We’re going to beat you shitless, shoot you in the head and throw you in the river.’ He shows his teeth; you wouldn’t call it a smile. ‘Only joking.’
Barry Tonga stands there with the secateurs, towering over them.
His eyes flit from Reed to Luther. Luther can still hear the tinny drumbeat emerging from the dangling ear bud.
They cuff Tonga and drive him to the corner of Meriam Avenue. Reed points out a low-rise, redbrick building. Ex-local authority. Tonga’s flat.
Three police cars are parked outside it.
Tonga says, ‘That’s my flat.’
‘I know,’ says Reed. ‘I’ve just been in there.’
‘What do you mean? What’s going on? Why’s Billy Filth all over it?’
‘What’s going on is this,’ says Reed. ‘You gave me a kicking and now life as you know it is coming to an end.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means, we got you away from your wife’s shop about five minutes before a swarm of coppers descended on it, looking for you.’
‘This is bullshit, man. What did I do?’
‘Besides assaulting a police officer?’
‘I didn’t assault any police officer.’
Reed laughs, then turns in his seat, stuns Tonga with his sudden, shocking malevolence. ‘Giving me a kicking’s all in the game, Barry. But you intimidated an old man, you cowardly fucker. Look at the size of you. You should be ashamed. You killed his little dog.’
Tonga holds Reed’s gaze, but not for long. He looks at his lap and shifts a bit in his seat. He mutters something about the dog.
‘What?’ says Reed. ‘You’re embarrassed by that, are you?’
‘I want my lawyer.’
‘He wants his lawyer,’ Reed says.
Reed and Luther laugh.
‘You’re not under arrest,’ Luther says. ‘This is a kidnap.’
‘What do you mean? You’re Filthy Bill, right? I saw the badges and that.’
Reed points to the police vehicles outside Tonga’s door. ‘What we did,’ he says. ‘We called in an anonymous tip to someone who’d take it very seriously indeed.’
‘What kind of tip?’
‘That there was a dirty gun on the premises.’
‘There’s no gun,’ says Barry Tonga. ‘Not in my house.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find there is,’ says Reed. ‘One that’s been used in a number of previous crimes. Including two shootings.’
He enjoys the sweat on Tonga’s brow.
‘As well as the gun,’ Reed says, ‘they’ll find a few ounces of heroin. Enough for intent to supply. Send you down for a long time. Long enough for your wife to find someone else who’s good with organza.’
‘This is shit, man,’ Tonga says. ‘It’s shit. This is police corruption. This is wrong.’
‘Totally,’ says Luther.
Tonga sits back. The car lurches on its springs. He looks at them from under his brow.
