Candleland (27 page)

Larkin turned away. “Turn it off.”

Karen did so. The black screen came as a welcome relief.

“She doesn't stop there,” said Karen, her voice losing its desensitised tone. “Not Melissa. You should see what her and her friends do with the baby.” Her voice cracked.

“What?” asked Larkin incredulously. “How did they get a baby?”

“Same way they get any of them. Through Melissa. There's two kinds of recruitment: working girls for the vanilla trade and the others for this stuff. Melissa gets them to order. What happens is, someone comes to Charlie Rook with their idea. He gives them a price, they agree, then he sends Melissa out to get what they want. She poses as a health worker, social worker, anything that gets her near to her target. She gets to know homeless kids, gives them money, food, organises shelter, earns their trust, then tells them she can get them work and money. Next thing they know, they're starrin' in one of these. Afterwards, when they're no more use, when there's nothin' left of them, it's off to Dagenham.”

Larkin nodded, understanding. “And nobody misses them. Because nobody knew they were there.”

“Right.”

“So what about the baby?”

“Bought by Melissa off a heroin addict,” Karen said, struggling to keep her voice even. “Used, then dumped. Like the others.”

“Shouldn't you go to the police?” asked Larkin, struggling to get his head round the whole thing.

Karen gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “You wanna see some high-rankin' policemen?” She nodded towards the screen. “I'll show you.”

“Shit.” Larkin sat on the bed in shock.

“Yeah. And you know what else?” said Karen. “That bastard Rook reckons he's doin' a public service. Can you believe it? He says that if these bastards weren't able to let off steam in his controlled environment, they'd do it in public. What a cunt.”

Larkin nodded in agreement. “So what are we going to do?”

Karen looked at him. “We?” she said. “You mean you want to do something about this?”

“Of course,” said Larkin. “But what?”

“My question exactly,” said a voice from the far end of the room.

Larkin turned. At the top of the steps stood Mickey Falco. As they watched he hauled himself slowly down and across the floor until he was in front of Larkin. Larkin stood up.

“How did you get here?” Larkin asked.

“Through the door.”

Larkin looked at Mickey Falco. The older man said nothing, his face as impassive as stone. Suddenly, the penny dropped.

“I'm still in Candleland,” said Larkin.

Mickey gave a weary smile. “Yeah, Stephen, sorry about all that cloak-and-dagger mumbo jumbo. But as you can see, we're not playin' about 'ere.”

“No.”

“We were listening upstairs,” said Mickey. “I didn't want to come in till you'd seen that.”

Mickey gestured to the computer screen, then crossed to Karen, still seated at the desk. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Sorry to make you go through all that again, love,” he said.

“That's OK, Mickey,” she said. She looked tired. Worn out by life. She looked at Larkin. “He had to see it.”

Larkin wasn't so sure, but he took her point. “I suppose I did,” he said.

“So,” said Mickey, “now you know the score. You know what we're up against. We can't count on any help with this one, but we've got to do somethin' about it. So.” He looked Larkin square in the eyes. “What's it to be? You in or out?”

Larkin looked at Mickey, at the screen, at Karen and back to Mickey.

“In. Definitely in.”

Larkin was standing in the public bar of The Volunteer in Hackney. His heart was beating so fast he was sure it could be heard. His hands were trembling. A camouflage tabloid, open at the sports pages, was spread out in front of him, a barely touched pint at his elbow. Through the mirror behind the bar he had a clear view behind him and at either side of him. It was twenty past two in the afternoon, the day was cold and threatening rain and he was nervous. He stood as still as he could, trying not to let his nerves show.

In his mind, Larkin had already gone over his plan of action and the events leading up to it several times but, like an anxious traveller mentally repacking his case before he reaches the airport, he thought he'd better do it again. Just one more time. So he again played back the last three days. The chain of events since he had met Karen Moir.

Hours after meeting Karen, Larkin was in Mickey Falco's office.

“Here you go,” said Mickey Falco, handing Larkin a mug of coffee. He sat behind his desk. Larkin sat in the chair he'd occupied on his first visit to Candleland. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Mickey Falco filled two glasses with generous slugs of brandy, handed one over and slumped in the chair behind his desk.

Larkin sipped his drink. The room was geared to keep the cold at bay: closed door, central heating, and the warm tones of Aretha Franklin in the background.

Mickey reached down into a drawer and pulled out a couple of files stuffed with papers.

“This,” he said, “is the evidence. Look, I'm sorry about you havin' to see all that downstairs. I didn't think you'd understand what we were up against unless you saw it.”

“You wanted me as angry as you, you mean.”

“Something like that.”

“I can understand that,” said Larkin suppressing a shudder. “But I'm more concerned for Karen. What it's done to her.” He remembered her face as he walked up the stairs. Like a condemned woman, left alone in her cell.

Mickey gave a grave nod. “I agree. That's why we've got to get this thing sorted as quickly as possible.”

“You got any ideas?”

Mickey took a mouthful of coffee. “We need to do two things. Set Karen free and make those bastards pay for what they've done both to her and the others. Now, Darren and Karen have spent the last few weeks gathering information on Charlie Rook. Karen on the internet, Darren pounding the pavements and sitting in libraries. This is the result.”

Mickey moved his arm, patted the files.

“We've tried to get as much information on him as we could find. His businesses, his associates, his clients, his family, everything. Even what colour toothbrush he has. This is it so far.”

Mickey opened the file. He started with Charlie Rook's father. Jack Rook had been a scrap metal dealer in Dagenham in the Sixties. Even in a trade renowned for skirting the fringes of legitimacy, his exploits had been legendary. A hard man, mean and ruthless.

“A real nasty bastard,” said Mickey, “brought his son up with the same values.”

The police had always been trying to pin something on him and when one of his business rivals disappeared, having last been seen complaining loudly at Rook's yard, they thought they had him stitched up for murder.

But Jack Rook was smarter than that. No body was ever discovered, and he remained briefed up and silent throughout questioning. Eventually, having no case to argue and not enough for a warrant, they had to let him go. Nothing was proven but everyone knew he'd done it.

“There was a lot of heavy-duty machinery and stuff in that yard. Easy to dispose of a body if you weren't squeamish.”

“And he wasn't squeamish,” finished Larkin.

“Exactly. And it's a case of like father like son. The yard's still there, in Charlie Rook's name, although someone else runs it. He just comes and goes as he likes. Or rather he sends his henchmen, Ringo and Lenny.”

“Just Lenny now,” Larkin reminded him.

“True.” Mickey turned to another page of the file. “Lenny Lothario, so called because he liked to sample the merchandise a bit too much. Ringo was half Greek, had a mother who was a Beatles fan. She named him. Impeccable choice.”

“Yeah,” said Larkin with a grim laugh. “Programmed to fail from birth, really.”

“Then there's Melissa,” said Mickey. “If it's her real name, because we drew a blank on her. Couldn't find a single thing. All we know is she's dangerous. Probably the most dangerous of the lot. The real force behind the operation, we think.

“Charlie Rook's also got connections with the local families. They hire him their heavy boys when he wants something doing. And there's also his so-called legitimate contacts. But we've seen enough of them on the disc.”

Mickey pulled out the second file. “Now Darren's been following them. The legits have left a paperchase, a hidden one mind, but it establishes links between each one of them and Charlie Rook. This is still a work in progress, though. When we've got enough information together, enough solid facts, we're going to go public. Till then we're still working on it.”

“You've been busy,” said Larkin in admiration.

“Yeah,” said Mickey, “we have. Even Ralph's been helping us with the last bit.”

Larkin said nothing.

“But what we have to do in the meantime,” said Mickey, “is make sure Karen's going to be safe. We can't keep her in the basement indefinitely. It's drivin' her mad.”

“What have you got in mind?” asked Larkin.

“A deal. We give them the disc in exchange for Karen's safety.”

“They won't stick to that,” said Larkin.

“I know. But it'll buy us time to compile a full case for the prosecution, as they say. We've got the disc, we just tell them we'll take it to the papers if they don't play ball. They won't argue.”

“You had experience of this kind of thing?” asked Larkin.

Mickey gave a tired smile. “A little,” he said. “In a previous incarnation.”

“Why would they agree to it?” asked Larkin. “If they know we'll be keeping a copy?”

“The way I see it, the disc Karen took was the master and only copy,” Mickey replied. “Accordin' to what Melissa told Karen, it was Charlie Rook's insurance against his clients. That's why it's so important. Maybe he was plannin' his own little sting.”

“So our copy is insurance against anything happening to Karen?”

“Yep.”

Larkin thought. “Then we'd better keep Karen well away from wherever this is going down,” he said. “They may try and nab her.”

“I agree,” sighed Mickey. “Trouble is, she knows about this. Said if we ever did this, she insists on bein' there.”

“Why?”

“Got a message for Lenny, she says. Reckons he'll be the one doing the handover.”

“But, haven't you tried –”

“Course I have,” said Mickey, irritably. “But you try arguin' with 'er.”

Larkin nodded. “True.” He thought for a moment. “It'll be more than one man, you know. They'll want to come in mob-handed.”

“Well they can't,” said Mickey, raising his finger. “Only one person from each side.”

“They won't stick to that,” said Larkin.

Mickey Falco gave a grin that showed more than teeth. It showed the cunning gangster he used to be. “Neither will we,” he said.

“So who's the person from our side going to be?” Larkin asked, already knowing the answer.

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Mickey.

Larkin raised his eyebrows, waited.

“You're the logical one for the job. I was going to do it myself, but …” He tapped his leg. “This is a bit of a liability.”

“So you waited till I was all healed, introduced me to Karen then showed me the CD, knowing I'd get angry and want to join up?”

Mickey nodded.

“You used me, Mickey.”

Mickey looked shame-faced. “Used a little manipulation, might be a better description. I checked you out. I know your past. With your body workin' and your head back together I thought you could carry this off better than me. Especially since it was for Karen. But if you feel you can't and you want to back out, I fully understand.”

“You think flattering my ego's going to help?”

They both smiled. Mickey remained silent.

Larkin thought for a moment. “What about you, Mickey? How d'you reconcile something like this with your beliefs? It could get nasty, you know.”

Mickey nodded, grimly. “I know. I've thought it over and over, looked at every possible alternative, prayed for something different …” He sighed. “It's a risk, but a risk for the greater moral good. And those are the ones worth taking. If it goes wrong, the blame's on me. I'll have to live with it.”

Larkin sipped his brandy. Aretha told her lover he was all she needed to get by.

“You'd better count me in, then,” he said. “I don't like being used, but in a way, you seem to have more to lose.”

Mickey nodded. “Thanks.” His relief and sincerity were apparent. He picked up his glass, raised it in a toast. “To Karen,” he said.

Larkin raised his. “And peace and love.”

“An' happy ever after.”

“And all that shit.”

Clink.

Then Mickey told Larkin the plan.

The next day, Larkin stood in a phone box he'd picked out at random, feeding change into the slot. He dialled 141 to preserve his anonymity, then keyed in the number Karen had given him and waited.

“Rook Enterprises.” A woman's voice. Pleasant but efficient.

“Hello Melissa, d'you know who this is?”

“No.” Still pleasant.

“Stephen Larkin.”

The voice on the other end didn't just freeze, it seemed as if ice had formed on the phone box. He had taken her by surprise. He pressed his advantage.

“Bet you thought you'd never hear from me again, didn't you?”

“What d'you want?” she hissed.

“Nothing that you've got to offer, darling. Get your boss.”

“He's busy.”

“He'll talk to me. I want to deal.”

There was a pause. Her animal cunning was almost audible down the phone line. “Give me your number,” she said. “I'll get him to call you.”