CAUSE & EFFECT (18 page)

“I hope you don’t have a secret camera on you.” RT was drooling all over Miranda.

“Girl Guides’ honour.” She saluted with three fingers.

RT mumbled a glib remark about seeing Miranda in uniform and Thomas seriously thought about giving him a slap.

“Here we are then.” Andrea swayed a little, having long since made her peace with Bacchus and the sacred grape.

She unlocked the door. Thomas couldn’t so much as look at Miranda. RT ushered them in, still in shadow until Andrea flicked the switch and the strip lighting clicked into life. The sculpture was covered again, only this time RT was without his magic button so he had to settle for a switch on the wall. The tiny motor whirred, drawing the silvery cloth to the ceiling, where it juddered to a stop and flapped gently, suspended on a fine metal cable.

RT unclipped the rope to let everyone draw close. “I haven’t thought of a proper name for it yet.” He took Miranda’s hand. “Maybe you could come up with something?”

Thomas unclenched a fist and moistened his lips. Christmas had come early this year. “Actually, I think I can help you there. How about
fraud
?”

RT gave a chuckle but didn’t get the joke. Miranda passed Thomas the portable UV light from her bag and then cut the lights so he could deliver his coup de grace.

“So there’s no way this came over with you from Spain.”

Miranda threw the lights back on. The colour had drained from RT’s face. Andrea was looking a little peaky too.

“I warned you . . .” RT began, before thinking better of it.

Andrea was slower off the mark, but soon several steps ahead of him.

“What do you want? Name your price.”

Miranda came to the rescue. “Why don’t we go back upstairs and discuss it?”

Black coffee was now the order of the day, with the two giant sofas territories around a negotiating table. RT hunched up, hands tightly together, unwilling to say the first word. Andrea made a couple of false starts — it was no big deal; other people did it. And besides, no one benefited from the truth coming out whereas
everyone
stood to gain if the genie stayed in the bottle.

Thomas swirled his coffee, in no doubt now that Jack Langton knew nothing about it. Miranda jumped into the fray.

“If there’s a problem, maybe Thomas can help.”

Ouch. That wasn’t in the script. RT and Andrea held a staring contest until finally Andrea cleared her throat.

“Jack was instrumental to RT’s success.”

The word reeked of something more suspect.

“I was hiding away in Spain, pretty much. I’d got into some difficulties down in Kent, so I decided to start afresh. Anyway, I met Jack out in Spain and we got chatting. I told him more than I should have, but he said he might be able to smooth things over for me. And when he found out I was an artist and he saw my work, well, he couldn’t do enough for me.

“All he wanted in return was for me to keep an eye on things for him in Spain. Most of the work is actually mine; sometimes, though, I only provide the ideas and the outline; maybe some sketches too. I had a couple of new pieces exhibited in Japan like that, because of the distance. Jack’s been fine with it in the past . . .”

Another pause; things were going down a notch.

“. . . But this time there were problems in Spain. What you might call distribution issues. I knew Jack would want me to prioritise sorting them out, so the artwork had to wait.”

“It’s what he pays you for,” Andrea chipped in.

“What about Natalie Langton?”

RT looked over to Andrea for moral support. He didn’t get any.

“Natalie doesn’t get involved with Jack’s business,” he continued. “Ray’s the man, only he and I don’t really see eye to eye. So this sculpture . . .”

“Fraud.”

“Yeah, fraud.” RT’s laugh was hollow and heavy. “It was supposed to herald a new phase of my work. There’s been a lot of interest since Jack went to prison — notoriety by association, I suppose.”

Miranda placed her coffee cup next to his. “We’re just trying to find out who might have a grudge against Jack Langton, because of the attack on the boy.”

RT nodded like he understood, or cared. Thomas suspected neither was the case. He finished his coffee and eased forward. Time to go. He nudged Miranda and they stood up to leave. Andrea tried a last ditch attempt.

“How about this: you say nothing to Jack about the sculpture’s provenance and I’m sure we can find a couple of pieces of RT’s work. One each?”

“There’s a couple of smaller works,” RT conceded. “
Naked Trust
and
Naked Need
.”

Andrea went to fetch their coats. “Why not sleep on it?” Her Turkish slippers made no sound on the rugs. “And if you wanted to realise their value, we could arrange a private sale. No one outside this room would ever know about it.”

Thomas helped Miranda on with her coat.

“And these two pieces are your
own
work?”

RT didn’t say anything. Maybe he couldn’t remember.

* * *

Thomas passed the walk back to the car wrapped up in thought. Modern art was everything he’d expected — artificial and bogus. No, give him a decent landscape or a Pre-Raphaelite: that was real art.

“Do you want me to drop you back, if you’re stocktaking first thing?”

“You really are naïve. That was for their benefit. I couldn’t very well get plastered, now could I? Your place will do very nicely; maybe I should leave a bag there or have a couple of drawers to myself. What do you reckon?”

“Have you ever considered a career in intelligence, Ms Wright?”

“Well, the intelligent thing would be to take up Andrea Harrison’s offer.” Before he could object, she added, “the pieces could stay in the gallery — on loan. They’ll feel you’re properly on-side then, so you might learn more about Jack. What do you think?”

“I think maybe we should swap jobs and I’ll run the bar.”

“I’m sure Sheryl would enjoy working under you.”

He blanched. “Let’s not go there. For what it’s worth, I doubt either one of them is connected with Jacob, but Karl is taking more of a personal interest in Jack than I expected.”

“Is that a problem?”

“For me? No.”

“Me neither.” She brushed her hand down his arm. “We all want this sorted as soon as poss, so do whatever it takes.”

Ken stared out of the passenger window. The driver of the 4x4 wouldn’t look him in the eye and had hardly spoken to him since he picked him up after midnight. The rifle was in the back somewhere and now a scratched up pistol nestled in Ken’s gloved hand. The other held a set of keys.

“You’re clear about where to go?”

Ken nodded and closed his fingers, engulfing the small weapon. It looked old, second world war or fifties, and there wasn’t an identifying mark on it. The 4x4 pulled in and the driver put on the interior light. Ken could see the sweat on his face now.

“I’ll be here for fifteen minutes. After that you’re on your own.”

The light blinked off.

* * *

He pocketed the gun and let himself out, closing the car door behind him with a
chunk
. Having studied the map several times he knew the route by heart, winding his way through the alleys of the housing estate. There was no name this time, just an address, keys and a time limit. It didn’t sit well with him, but another £10,000 in the account would help to ease the pain.

The back gate was the only one with
PERV
painted across the front. Someone had tried to paint it over but what was left shone a garish green in the ambient light. He inserted the key and teased it round by degrees until the lock clicked. The gate swung in, silent as night; someone had seen to that. The ground floor maisonette was pitch black with heavy curtains that kept the world at bay.

He set to work on the back door with the two remaining keys and slipped inside, taking a moment to orientate himself. The bedroom was second on the right and a thin strip of light beckoned at the end of a short corridor. In a couple of breaths he was at the door, listening, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He smiled; he’d always had an instinct for the kill.

The handle gave way under his touch, releasing more light around the door; his other hand slipped the pistol free, ready.

There was a man sitting at his computer; his back was towards him and the screen betrayed his depravity: kids.

“Jesus!” Ken gasped.

The man turned around and made a grab for something behind him. Ken was dazzled by a flash of silver as a hunting knife swung out towards him. He bumped back against the door, closing it. In a split second he made a decision and pocketed the gun.

The blade slashed wildly but he could tell it was for defence. When it came down to it most people had a natural aversion to blood — even someone else’s. Ken wasn’t most people though. He sought his moment, waiting until the blade was the furthest distance away and rushed in, one hand up to block as he punched him in the throat with the other.

The man dropped to the floor choking, fighting for breath with the blade still in his hand, and tried to scrabble backwards until the computer blocked him. Ken grabbed the hand with the knife and squeezed the fingers tight against the handle. He felt the body shuddering uselessly as it struggled against the inevitable. He forced the arm in at the elbow and levered it under until the blade glimmered beneath the victim’s ribcage.

Ken didn’t speak and he didn’t hesitate, using his whole upper body to thrust the man’s hand against his abdomen, tearing through his flesh in the process. He maintained the pressure and stared into his eyes, watching the agony and recognition on his face. Then he twisted the blade and tried to remove it. The victim’s body sagged but he didn’t die easily, lurching forward with the last of his strength to end up in a bloodied final embrace.

Ken felt the dying breath against his face and shoved him away in disgust, smashing him against the computer stand. He stood up and gazed at the blood; so much blood. Time to leave. He drew a cuff over his hand and turned the door handle, fighting the urge to vomit. As he reached the back door he grabbed a long coat that hung there and pulled it tight around himself, wearing the skin of his enemy.

It would have been quicker to just leave, but he locked the back door carefully and opened the gate. There were four people waiting across the way, three women and a man. Ken touched the pistol through the coat; the people never moved. One of the women called out.

“Is he dead?”

He nodded, turning to lock the gate behind him.

“We’ll give you ten minutes before we ring the police.”

There was nothing more to be said. The 4x4 was waiting, although he was sure he was late. As he opened the door and climbed inside, his coat opened. The driver stared at him in horror.

“What did you expect? It’s done. Take me home.”

Whoever said take refuge in dreams had never spent time in Thomas’s nightmares. Childhood — again. Caught out in the front room with the gun he’d found wrapped up at the back of the greenhouse. Only this time he knew it was loaded.

Dad lurched forward and Thomas retreated, waving the pistol from side to side to warn him off but it only made Dad more determined. He could smell the booze on his father’s breath and the stench choked him. His arm twitched, the pistol rattling in his hand.

“Stay back! Stay back.” The tears were streaming down his face now.

His father never spoke, but a guttural moan accompanied each step, that of a creature in torment.

“No!” Thomas screamed as the hands reached towards him, closing his eyes as he pulled the trigger. The whole house trembled and one of the York Minster plates on the wall smashed to the floor. Then the walls broke apart and blinding light burst in . . .

* * *

He juddered awake. Miranda grumbled and turned over. Something was buzzing. He licked dry lips and scrabbled under the covers to retrieve his mobile — set to vibrate so he didn’t wake up in a panic. Nil points.

“Tommo, it’s me. Get up.”

“Huh?” He peered at the phone, squinting at the glare. “Karl, it’s not even six yet.”

“Put News 24 on and call me back.”

The dream was still percolating through his brain as he dragged on some clothes and stumbled to the TV in the front room. It didn’t take long to get the message. The ticker tape across the screen read: ‘Convicted paedophile murdered at home.’ Meanwhile, the presenter was adding details. The victim, who’d served time in prison, had been found at home after reports of a disturbance. There was no sign of forced entry to the council property. The police refused to comment on their investigation — what material might have been found at the ground floor flat, or the precise cause of death.

Thomas’s blood ran cold. He’d seen enough; he muted the sound, pulled the door to, and rang Karl back.

“How did he die?”

“They’re not releasing details. Don’t make plans after work. I might need your help.”

“Course.”

“I’ve got a very bad feeling about this, Thomas.”

* * *

Morning. Proper morning. Sat next to Karl, having yawning competitions and watching the laundry for signs of Paulette Villers. The target repeated the script from their previous stakeout, only this time there were no new bruises. Or else, he reasoned, she’d done a better job of hiding them.

“What is her partner’s name?” Thomas fired off the shots.

Karl flicked through the paperwork. “Lemme see here . . . Rachel Perry — all legit. Are you gonna try another rendezvous with Paulette after she stood you up last time?”

Thomas thought back to the twenty minutes he’d spent in the café, on show and conspicuous.

“Might be worth a go. It could help us get some intel on Charlie Stokes, before I go and ask him for Jack’s drugs back.”

“You’re really gonna do that?”

“Yeah, after I get the okay from Jack. Besides, I want to try and get Greg off the hook. Got any better suggestions?”

“If the SSU ever lays you off, you might wanna try Social Work.”

In the finish they tried a different tactic altogether for Paulette Villers, driving past, out in the open. Maybe she’d react, run off . . . do
something
. Unfortunately there was no box on the evidence sheet for ‘stared blankly at me as I passed her.’

“She’s either a very cool customer, or she’s scared witless.”

“Thank you, Professor McNeill.”

“Hey now, you’re close. I have studied psychology.”

“Really?”

Karl looked affronted. “What, you think everyone across the Irish Sea just reads Roddy Doyle and drinks pints of the black stuff? That’s when we’re not listening to Van Morrison, of course.”

“No, I think you drink shandy.”

“Okay, Mr Philistine, where to next?”

* * *

The day played out like a series of misadventures. Roland Dolan — presumably — was nowhere to be seen, which made Thomas wonder if Paulette Villers had warned him they were onto the plot. There was no logic to it other than the link with Charlie Stokes.

Elsewhere, they failed to get anything conclusive on two supposedly single mothers, a sickness claimant that Karl insisted had ‘a very lively limp,’ and a man who may well have done small building jobs on the side, but who had spent his time in the lens today watching TV with his hand down his trousers.

“Manual labourer.” Karl elbowed Thomas in the ribs. “Listen, fancy knocking off early to get a little shut-eye before we go out tonight?”

“Fine by me. Will you tell Christine, or shall I?”

“If you drop me back to the office, I’ll pop up and see her — you go on your way.”

Thomas wasn’t going to pass up an invitation like that, although it bugged him that Karl was the de facto superior in their partnership. Then again, when had it ever been any different?

The drive through East London before five p.m. was a treat. He’d forgotten what it felt like to crawl through Stratford in pre peak-time traffic without losing your rag. He wondered if you could be a London driver and a Buddhist. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he recalled Karl saying that he’d once gone out with a Buddhist. Now there was a match made in Nirvana — a pair of joss sticks and a pair of Brownings.

He made it through Leyton, steadily gaining ground until Hoe Street funnelled him to Forest Road and then home. He slept easily, surfacing just before the seven pm alarm. A shower, a cheese sandwich, a strong coffee and he was ready to face . . . Well, that was the big question — to face
what?

He picked up Karl at Marylebone as planned. He didn’t bother asking him why there, or how come Karl had put a holdall in the boot.

“All eventualities.” Karl faked a smile, closing the passenger door behind him.

Thomas knew the score. Based on last time, if Ken were implicated he’d end up at the military pub. Maybe not tonight, but some evening over the next few days, so Karl —
they
— would be there to meet him. In a twisted way it was a welcome distraction from the Jack Langton situation.

Parking was a nightmare but eventually they found somewhere and sat for a while, watching the illuminated door.

“I, er, don’t know how this is going to pan out — you do realise that?”

He nodded. That’s what life with Karl was like. “Only one way to find out.”

By the second hour, he wondered if Karl had called it wrong. The Evening Standard boasted front-page photographs of a police forensics van and the ubiquitous crime scene tape roping off the back door. More details had emerged. The police had removed a computer and bags containing ‘relevant items.’

He went back through it as the conversation withered and died. He’d craned his neck at the door so often he was starting to worry about repetitive strain injury. Thank God for the cryptic crossword.

“Nearly ten-thirty. Let’s call it a night. Same time, same place tomorrow?” There was a tinge of desperation in Karl’s voice.

He nodded, collecting the four empty glasses to deliver them back at the bar. The pub wouldn’t be getting rich on them tonight.

“I’m heading off for a piss, Tommo. I’ll see you out the front.”

From the swing door he took a last look at the walls. So much history; what must it feel like to carry the burden of all that heritage? Karl reckoned some of the regiments went back to the 1700s and beyond; another thing Karl had studied in his spare time.

The air was cold outside; an autumnal breeze that carried a hint of the winter to come. He didn’t want to wait outside the door — too many memories of childhood and Dad. So he edged round the corner and leant against a wall where he could see the car.

There was barely time to register the running footsteps and then
wham;
someone had him pinned against the brickwork with his arms by his side. Ken Treavey looked like he’d been to hell and back, and then stayed on the bus.

“Where’s McNeill?”

He stared into manic eyes and kept it brief.

“He’s just coming out the pub.”

Right answer. Ken Treavey released him, patting the air between them.

“I just . . . I just need to see him. He’s got to help me. He
owes
me.”

And the way he said it told Thomas all he needed to know. Pissed and pugnacious — never a good combination.

“Come back to the car — you two can talk there.”

Ken Treavey deliberated for a moment and then followed him. He climbed in the back and Thomas passed him the newspaper. The headline seemed more lurid under the streetlight.

Karl came up to the car, saw Ken and got in. “Drive, Tommo.”

They took a scenic tour of London while Ken Treavey spilled his guts. It was either the weight of his conscience, or the whisky bottle Karl had produced from his coat pocket. Whatever it was, Ken let it all pour out of him. That first, fateful meeting in Central London with the man in the Daimler, the way they seemed to know his background and his life — it all added up to an eel trap. One way in and no way out.

Ken did most of the talking, but Karl managed to coax a few extra details like the first note under his mat and the later ones through his letterbox. Ken ranted, and cried, and swore he never meant to get involved in the business of killing again. He told them how he nearly took a swing at the stranger in the 4x4, who collected the rifle only to exchange it for another weapon.

In the absence of instructions Thomas made for the North Circular Road, heading clockwise. Midnight approached and Ken was still in confession.

“I can’t go on, Karl. I can’t do it again. This last one was a bloodbath. I need to get clear.”

He slumped back into the shadow, groaning, while Thomas drove on.

“I’ll need to think on this, Ken.” Karl spoke so quietly that Thomas wasn’t sure Ken had heard him. “What you’re asking, well, it would need planning. You can’t just disappear — given what you’ve done, you’d be a liability for them.”

Thomas gestured to the sign for Finchley, but Karl shook his head.

“Nah. If this is going to work then everything has to carry on as normal — for now. I’ll tell you where to turn off so we can drop him home. This is just an evening out with a couple of pals. He’s in no fit state to do anything tonight anyway.”

Hardly surprising, Thomas thought, since you’ve been anaesthetising him. It wasn’t long before they heard heavy snoring behind them.

“I’ll talk with him properly when he’s sober — find out how it all works.”

Thomas nodded and took a turn-off for Tottenham. Karl reached into the glove compartment for a street guide, reading it by torchlight. He navigated the car through the back roads to Stoke Newington, calling out left and right turns at places where Thomas couldn’t even read the street names. Maybe it was deliberate.

The car finally juddered to a halt near a housing estate, not far from a kebab shop. Karl turned to the back seat. “He’s still sparko. I’ll have to get him back into his flat. I could use a hand.”

The two of them roused Ken and dragged him out of the car. He seemed to revive once he was outside, insisting that he buy everyone a kebab. To Thomas’s surprise, Karl took him up on the offer and the three of them gravitated like moths towards the neon. Ken waved a twenty in the air. The poor sod at the till, who Ken repeatedly called
Abdul,
took their orders and went off to prepare the delicacy. Thomas managed to call out ‘no chillies’ just in time.

Ken pocketed the change, took several bites of his fiery kebab in rapid succession and then launched into a unique rendition of
Flower of Scotland
. Thomas quickly realised that they were visible and memorable — in case anyone came round asking questions. If Sir Peter Carroll was involved, Daimler and all, anything was possible.

As they steered Ken home, he entered the repetitive phase of drunkenness, telling Karl over and over that he knew his old oppo would see him right. Karl didn’t reply, which suggested he didn’t share Ken’s optimism.

Ken’s shoes scuffed on the steps and, as he rolled up his sleeves Thomas caught a glimpse of a tattoo and wondered if Karl had one that matched — comrades in arms and all that. Making the most noise, Ken shushed his companions and then laughed at nothing. Thomas reckoned it would all end in tears.

Finally, with some assistance, Ken got his front door key in the lock. As the door gave way and he staggered inside, Karl held a finger up for Thomas to wait there and went in after him.
Flower of Scotland
echoed again, followed by the sound of a kitchen skirmish. Thomas listened, aware of the night air against the back of his neck.

“Enough!”

That was Karl’s voice, clear as a bell, and then exit one agitated Irishman clutching a white plastic bag. “Let’s get out of here, Tommo.” He squeezed the top of the bag tighter. “Don’t ask unless you really want me to tell you.”

He could see bloodied clothes inside, pressing against the plastic. No further questions.