would have liked Daniel to be beside him for a psychologist’s pitch on a relationship that would be, for her, fraught with danger.
William Anders knew plenty of the culture of law enforcement, had worked with the men and women engaged in it often enough to understand what made them tick. He had heard it expressed frequently that friendships and relationships should be tribal, that straying outside the reservation was neither clever nor satisfactory. God, what a boring fart he was becoming. The woman had the look of a well-bedded female, and her head was ducked – but even so she had the defiance streak daubed large. The boy? Well, he shambled beside her, would be going home, no doubt, to a Scout knife and would carve a notch on his bedpost. Next time he met up with Daniel he would put ‘battlefield romance’ on the agenda.
He admitted it to himself, came clean: he was struggling to contain raw jealousy. She was a fine-looking woman and strode ahead of the boy – who now had a mobile phone at his face – to unlock a little hire car. She would have thought it, Anders reckoned, an uncomplicated fling. He doubted that. What had been the pillow talk? Always was pillow talk… He watched them go, then went to meet his driver, who would take him for another day’s digging and searching. He believed in what he did, thought the past should not be permitted to fade from sight. It was accountable, as men were, for a lifetime and not for a day. No time limit on retribution, should be handed out whenever – as long as it damn well took.
At his home in the village Josip answered a call from Simun. He wrote rapidly, took down an itinerary. He felt like a swimmer failing in open seas until a rope was thrown. He – who was listened to but unloved – had created the idea and sent the principals of the village to the banks. Money had been withdrawn and perhaps had been squandered. He ended the call, lit a cigarette, poured more coffee and reached again for his phone.
Josip called Zagreb. He spoke respectfully to a man who lived in an apartment that overlooked the Trg Kalija Tomislava. Through the trees the man would have had a view of the statue of a nineteenth-century king, all powerful in his time, as was this man today.
The tentacles from Zagreb flexed, reached out, and a call was made to a man of influence in Warsaw, who spoke to an associate in the German port city of Hamburg. Through the tentacles, news was passed that Harvey Gillot, on whom a contract was taken and a man hired to enforce it, would travel from London to a town on the Danube, Vukovar.
From the Blankenese suburb of Hamburg, where another man of authority and wealth oversaw an empire, a message was sent in partial coding to Lenny Grewcock, who took a health-dominated breakfast in a north London hotel.
Grewcock said, ‘The little bastard’s lucky to get a chance, and he’ll take it. If he doesn’t, his family’s history and he’s set in hardening concrete. He took the money.’ There was talk between them of the importance of Munich in this matter, but also of a fall-back further down the journey’s line, then chat about the weather. Eventually, before he returned to his yoghurt and cereal, Lenny Grewcock made a last call and the chain was complete.
All done fast, and done because men had trusted each other’s judgement and recommended. The last call, forging the link, was to the grandfather of Robbie Cairns.
Through the night, he had watched over her. He had laid her on the bed and removed some of her outer clothing, as if that might make her more comfortable. Then he had pulled up a chair, the one on which he usually laid his trousers, shirt and underwear when he went to bed with her. He had held Barbie’s hand. At first it had been warm, but the flesh against his had cooled. Only when it had chilled had Robbie Cairns laid it beside her leg. The dawn had come up and light had pierced the half-drawn curtains. Then Robbie had seen the pallor of her face, the cheeks, the angry colours, distorted red weals and purple bruising at her throat. There were no scratch marks on his face. She had not fought him.
He had come into the room and she had been sitting on the settee with the pistol in both hands, the barrel pointing at the ceiling, the trigger guard below her fingers. She had seemed bemused – almost in shock – by what she had found. The questions had come with persistence and her voice had grown louder with each of his refusals to answer. Why was it there? What did he have a pistol for? It smelt – when had it been fired? If it had been fired, who had it been fired at?
Robbie could have lied, could have said it wasn’t a big deal and shrugged it off – minding it for a friend, getting rid of it in the morning. Could have said he was doing a friend a favour, a short-term one. He hadn’t lied and hadn’t answered. He had reached out his hands, intending to take it from her, but she had shoved it behind her back, and his hands had kept coming. She had said, ‘I don’t ask questions, God’s truth I don’t, but this is too far. How am I supposed to turn my back on a loaded pistol that’s been fired – and you’ve that stink on you, petrol? I read the papers, Robbie, so I know that petrol’s used to block gunfire traces on skin. I thought you might have been a bit… well, a bit dodgy, but not guns. I’m going. Sorry and all that. First thing, Robbie, I’m going to Lower Road. I’m going to the police and…’
He’d thought she meant it. It would have been for her a five-or six-minute walk down the road and past the station, past the old dock offices that were now a training centre, then the left into Lower Road and past the pub, be up the steps and at the front inquiry desk. He’d thought she meant it because her voice wasn’t raised.
His hands had gone forward to her throat. He wasn’t sure – then, now – if he closed his fingers to stop her going to the police station in the morning or just to stop the flow of what she said. She might have kicked, might have tried to bite his hands, didn’t use her nails. As if she didn’t want to save herself, or didn’t want to hurt him. It had taken three or four minutes – would have been longer if she’d fought him…
He had killed men but always with pistol shots. He had never knifed or manually strangled someone. He had never slapped, kicked or punched a woman. He had thought in the night, as she had gone colder and the marks on her throat did not dull, that Leanne would turn her back on him, Vern would spit at him, his dad would strike him and his grandfather would raise devils against him.
The phone in his pocket had rung. It had been a long night and the quiet was broken now by the traffic on the roundabout at the bottom of Needleman Street and at the top of Surrey Quays Road. He had answered the phone, listened, cut the call. He went about his business. Took trouble to wipe down the surfaces and use damp cloths with the stuff she had to wash the basin, the toilet, the sink and the cooker. He did it in the knowledge that his DNA would linger. He didn’t know where he could go to gain an alibi – for that he needed a friend. He left the curtains as they had been through the night, but light settled on her face. It couldn’t quieten her throat’s colours.
The pistol went into his pocket, and he closed the front door behind him, walked from the block and headed for the Albion Estate.
Behind him the front door was open. He looked once at the horse – it was still foraging among the garden plants – and waved the dog back towards the house. They had been for a walk together. Almost ‘together’. Roscoe had been a couple of paces behind Gillot and the dog and Bill had been another twenty-five paces back; there were uniforms now at the lane’s approach to the house. He had thought it a pretty walk – not taxing enough for himself and Chrissie, but there had been stretches where the low cliffs, coves and narrow beaches had been good to look at. Twice – as the kestrels had hovered over cropped grass – he had had to give himself a mental kicking and remember what his work was. No threat on any horizon. Suzie, in the night when they had done the stag together, had had her laptop open and talked to him about the history of the island from what she’d read. So Roscoe knew which ships from previous centuries had been wrecked on those reefs and on the pebble beach, how many had drowned and which quarries had supplied the clean white stone for the cemeteries in Flanders’ fields. Away to his right, as they had walked towards the lighthouse, he had seen the former naval research base where Harry Houghton and Ethel Gee had stolen secrets, and he knew the histories of the various lighthouses, the first one erected close to three hundred years before. They had walked to a great overhanging stone at the extremity of the Bill, the Pulpit Rock.
Almost at the house, Gillot had turned and made a hand gesture as if to summon Roscoe to his side. Roscoe had to bite his well-chewed lower lip to stop himself erupting in protest or ignoring the bastard. He had been told the Tango’s movements for the day, and had thought them imbecile when there would have been a three-hour flight direct into Osijek. The word ‘penance’ had been used, with a loose grin, and some sort of gibberish about a ‘blowback’, but that hadn’t concerned him. He had written the itinerary in his notepad, then waved Bill forward. The big fellow had jogged to his shoulder and they had done the tandem thing. Roscoe had called in, had given the times and the connections; they would go straight into the lap of the Gold Group co-ordinator.
When they came round the corner, the woman had started up. Quite a good soul, actually – nice, funny, warm. She’d spent part of the night with Suzie in the car, stretched out on the back seat – practically a hanging offence, as far as Metropolitan Police Service regulations went. He had no quarrel with her – none of them did – and
