‘Right. What do you know?’
‘He’s a big wig at Mollisons—the bank Tarquin Molloy was investigating when he died.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Is it wrong?’
Montifore leans back. ‘No. Molloy was investigating Mollisons and a couple of associated entities.’
‘Diamond Square and Large Sky,’ says Martin, his voice even.
Montifore’s voice sounds cautious. ‘Yes.’
‘So Harry Sweetwater is implicated?’
‘Harry Sweetwater wants to meet with you. With us.’
Martin doesn’t know how to respond. He catches himself gold-fishing and closes his mouth, in case something ill-considered escapes. Or he swallows too much smoke. He tries the coffee for a third time, if only to give himself some thinking room. It still tastes like an incinerator.
But the policeman has picked up on his disquiet. ‘What, Martin? What is it?’
‘Why does he want to meet with us? Why me?’
‘I don’t know. My guess is that he has information about Molloy and he wants you there as some sort of guarantor. He’s checked you out, knows your reputation for covering big true crime stories.’
‘He doesn’t trust you?’
Montifore shrugs. ‘That would be my guess. He tells us both what he knows. If I don’t investigate, or it gets whitewashed, you will know. You can publish.’
‘And you’re okay with that?’
‘As it so happens, I’m delighted with that.’
‘So me as guarantor. That’s one possibility.’
‘What are the others?’
‘He might want to kill both of us. He might want to kill you, use me as a witness. Who knows?’
Montifore laughs. ‘For fuck’s sake. Relax, will you? The guy’s a banker.’
Martin stares at Montifore. Does he tell him? Surely he needs to trust the detective, needs to warn him that Sweetwater is mafia, potentially deadly. He’s still considering how to phrase his response when his phone pings, distracting him. It’s WhatsApp again; Mandy persisting: Where are you? Urgent.
Martin can’t help himself. FFS, he types. Use the app. By the time he looks up again, Montifore is looking at a message of his own.
‘Come on. Sweetwater wants to meet in ten minutes. Central Station.’
chapter thirty-four
They sit in the middle of the floor, hands on their heads: Mandy, Yev and Lena. Joshua Spitt has turned the sign on the door to closed and pulled down the blind. He stands there, full of menace, a gun in his hand. Henry Livingstone is over by the scarvery counter, admiring the stock. He too has his gun in his hand, a huge thing, a retro accessory, charcoal steel and glistening pearl-shell grip. He uses it to spread out neckties for his consideration. He nods a final appreciation of the quality of Lena’s merchandise before turning back to them, everything about his body language relaxed, a pleasant smile playing on his lips. Mandy can smell him, a mix of hair oil and cigarette smoke, combined with her own odour of sweat and fear. He moves over, takes a seat in front of the three of them.
He casts his eyes slowly over each of his captives in turn, but it’s Mandy he’s looking at when he speaks, voice gentle. ‘Do you know how many people we’ve killed? Between the two of us?’
She shakes her head, unable to speak. She can hear Lena whimpering softly.
‘No. Neither do we, love.’ And he smiles, gold tooth glinting. ‘Where can I find Martin Scarsden?’
‘Why?’
‘No matter why. Tell me.’ His voice has hardened.
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Give me your phone.’
‘I don’t have his number.’
‘Then you won’t mind me looking.’
She hands over the phone.
He hands it back. ‘Open it.’
She does, using fingerprint recognition.
He starts going through it, looking confused. ‘Where are all your contacts?’
‘Gone. We just finished wiping the phone.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone was spying on us, using our phones.’
‘The police?’
‘No. We don’t know who it was.’
Livingstone looks at her phone once more, as if it might provide an answer. ‘What’s this?’ he asks. ‘WhatsApp.’ He’s looking intently at the phone, using his finger to swipe and select. Mandy steals a glance at Yev. ‘Beauty,’ says Livingstone, and starts typing away with his thumbs. He must be messaging Martin. Then he’s all smiles, addressing them again. ‘I like WhatsApp. All the crims use it.’
‘What did you say to him?’ asks Mandy.
‘Nothing much, just asked where he was.’ Livingstone takes another look at the phone, then resumes his seat, balancing the handset on his knee. ‘Mr Spitt and me, we had a chat with Zelda Forshaw last night.’
‘Jesus. Is she okay?’
‘No. She’s shitting herself.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s in the frame for murder.’
‘What?’ She can see Livingstone smirking at her reaction, but she doesn’t care what he thinks. ‘Who did she kill?’
‘My guess? No one.’
‘Sorry. I don’t follow.’
‘Neither do I, love, neither do I.’ And he smiles amiably and fondles his gun. Mandy wonders if he’s even rational.
He stands, starts to pace. She takes the opportunity to glance across at her fellow captives. Lena has her head bowed, avoiding eye contact, snot running from her nose; Yev also has his head lowered, but looks more composed, peering out from under his eyebrows, flashing the facsimile of a smile, trying to gift encouragement.
Livingstone stops walking and sits. ‘Have you ever run into a fat little cunt called Kenneth Steadman?’
‘The Turtle?’
‘That’s him. Friend of yours?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’ Mandy doesn’t know why she’s telling Livingstone the truth, but she can’t help it; her loathing for the Turtle is too strong.
‘Glad to hear it.’ He smiles again, his teeth stained with nicotine, except for the one gold incisor, unblemished amid the incipient decay. ‘I spent this morning with the police, an officious arsehole called Montifore. You know him?’
Mandy nods, unsure where this is going.
‘He had a video. Me and Tarquin Molloy. You give it to them?’
‘No. They already had it.’
‘You were going to give it to them?’
Again she nods. There’s not much point in lying. Not to a man with a gun. Who knows what Montifore said to him? ‘Yes. I was.’
‘So he says.’ And now there is something wicked in Livingstone’s smile, a hint
