did in the village high up in the mountains, or goats or sheep. He had no need of her. She had love of a sort and children and a home, and emptiness.
She pushed herself up from the cushions on the bench, and followed her aunt back to the house.
The cold fanned her skin, and thin sunlight fell on her.
Malachy stepped off the train. He had walked through the night and believed he had defeated the cameras. Instead of taking a train from Pluckley or Ashford, he had gone north to Wye, hammering out the miles on country lanes. He had taken the first service of the morning, wool hat still down and collar still up, that meandered off towards Canterbury. He had walked out of the station there, as if that was his destination, had headed for a car park, had pocketed his hat and folded his coat, then kept it under his arm, unrecognizable, when he had gone back to the ticket office. The London train staggered into the city. All that told of his night's work was the faint smell of petrol on his sweater and the scorch in his trousers where the first flames had lashed back through the broken window of the living room.
He stepped out of the carriage and was carried on by the wave of the London workforce that hit the platform. He felt no elation, no excitement, no pride – but knew he climbed the ladder. If the garage had not been empty, if the house had not been silent and all windows closed, if the stable with the restless pony had not been well distanced from the house, would he still have broken the window and splashed the contents of the canister inside against curtains, down on to carpets and lit the coil of paper?
'I don't have to answer that,' Malachy murmured to himself. 'I take what I find.'
Chapter Nine
Voices from the darkness of the parking bay, his and the one from the masked mouth inside the car.
'You did well, you don't have to do more.'
'You don't know what I have to do.'
'You've been as far as you can go.'
'Wrong. You cannot understand.'
'I know about you, read it in files. I have the picture of it.'
'Wrong. Paper doesn't tell it.'
'Three strikes, all well done. It's enough.'
'Wrong. Doesn't purge it.'
'The next step is too far, Malachy. It's what I'm telling you, too bloody far.'
'Wrong. Nothing's too far if you've been where I have.'
'Walk away. You've done all that was asked of you, and some. Forget it.'
The darkness of the parking bay swamped him and around him was the new quiet of the Amersham. In the afternoon he had heard the same voice, now muffled by a face covering, then by a thin adjoining wall. He had unlocked his door, closed it after him, gone fast down the steps and waited at the bottom of the stairwell. He'd heard, faint and far above him,
'You look after yourself, Millie, you take care. I'll see you.' He had waited. The heavy shoes had clipped down the steps and when the detective had stepped off the last, Malachy had stood in front of him. 'Call me, please call me,' Malachy had said, and the detective had walked by him, no response on his face, as if nothing had been said. He had gone to his car and had not looked back, and Malachy had climbed the steps, put the bolt back, turned the key and waited.
Three rings late in the night, then silence, then three more rings pealing in the room.
'What is the next level?'
'The next level, pal, would put you way out of your depth. For sure, you'd sink.'
'I sank once.'
'At the next level, they kill. Last one was dumped over a cliff, went down into the sea, but he didn't drown… Was dead already, tortured and then dead.
Late on his payments – only this isn't being late on a credit agreement for a living-room suite and getting a rap from the finance company. The repossession order is a sentence of death. Every bone in his body was broken, and that was before he went over the cliff.
Scrub it out of your head.'
'When I sank I hadn't the courage to end it. They took everything from me. Any self-respect and I'd have put myself away. They didn't leave me anything.'
'I helped you, Malachy. Don't look for more.'
'A dealer feeds the pushers. A supplier feeds a dealer. Who's next up the ladder?'
'We know who the corpse over the cliff defaulted on.
Know who killed him, having tortured him. I know, my inspector knows, my superintendent knows.'
'Who feeds the supplier?'
'We know the name, but we don't know where to look for evidence. What I said, forget it. It's big league, beyond your reach. Be satisfied.'
'I'm going up your pyramid. Who sold to George Wright?'
'Tell me, old friend, what is it you need to lose?'
'Disgust, what you can't imagine, shame. All of them queuing up to belt me…'
'Just self-pity, like a jerk-off.'
'You weren't there – you only read it in the file.'
'Then tell me, Malachy, what it is you need to get?'
'Ability to live, to walk, to laugh. Something of that.
You started me, put the ladder there. Don't take it from me. Please, I'm asking you – who sells to the supplier? It's not to do with Millie Johnson, it's for myself… please.'
From deep in the car there was a long, hissed sigh.
A ballpoint clicked. He heard the scribbled writing. A sheet was torn off a pad. Through the open top of the window a gloved hand passed the scrap of paper. He took it. A thin torchbeam shone on the scrap. He read a name and an address. Then the gloved hand snatched back the paper and the torchbeam was cut, replaced by the flash of a cigarette lighter and a little guttering flame.
'It's big boys' league. The importer sells to the supplier. Malachy, you watch yourself. Don't do anything if you haven't looked it over good and proper.
Take time.'
'Thank you.'
'Was it that bad, what was done to you?'
'It was bad.'
14 January 2004
When the sun was up, past eight, Dogsy limped to the lorry.
Fran, his friend, who was going to ride shotgun, reached down from the back to give him a hand up. Dogsy milked the moment, all his weight on his right boot and none on his bandaged left foot, and let out a little groan, not stifled, as he came on board.
He settled at the tail end of the bench, opposite Fran.
Inside the lorry, under the canvas, it would get to be rotten hot on the journey, but by the tailgate there would be air. He stretched out his left foot. Fran made a play of kicking it and Dogsy gave him a finger. The dust swirled, and the convoy moved off from Bravo.
It was because of personal hygiene that Dogsy had a seat on the lorry, and a bandaged left foot. The previous night, the stink of his boots had caused enough aggravation for them to be chucked out of the room where 2 Section of Salamanca platoon slept. In the morning, when they'd dressed for the lift operation, he'd gone in his socks, cursing, to retrieve them, and had stepped on a feckin' scorpion.
Little bugger had a bloody great sting in its tail. Dogsy had missed the lift: the corporal medic had bandaged him, and he had the ride back to Battalion and a look-over from the medical officer.
They had armour, Warriors, in front and behind for fire power. No chopper available. The lorry whined for
