Down into Darkness (10 page)

‘That's what Mike Sorley said. What are you making?'

Delaney gestured to the ingredients as if to indicate that they spoke for themselves.

Stella fetched a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge and poured two glasses. ‘Spanish omelette, bag salad: the very outer reaches of your repertoire.'

Delaney took a big slug of wine. ‘Not true, I can roast a chicken.'

‘I look forward to the day. There's something I need to tell you.'

She hadn't meant to say it, but there it was, the words circling the room like little heat-seeking missiles. Maybe because Anne Beaumont had prompted the idea; maybe because she felt Delaney had intended to say something important to her at the restaurant, and she needed to get things straight between them.

He transferred the eggs to a pan and adjusted the heat. He didn't say anything; she wondered if he knew what was coming.

I slept with someone. It was stupid. It didn't mean anything. It wasn't to do with him, it was to do with us – a payback. And I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry
.

But what she said was, ‘There's something else that connects them: the victims. He wrote on them.'

‘It's what you're holding back – to weed out the crazies.'

‘Yes.'

‘I thought you weren't going to tell me.'

No, but I almost shot my mouth off, almost confessed; then my nerve broke and I needed some cover
.

‘It's privileged information. If I see it in the press, I'll arrest you.'

‘Writes what?'

‘Insults.'

‘Yes, but what?'

‘No. I
am
keeping that back.' Something salvaged.

‘Okay: appropriate insults?'

‘More or less. Let's say they are.'

‘So he knows them.'

‘Or knows about them.'

‘Yes, or
knows
them. Has a connection.'

‘Is… what?… in their circle.'

Delaney shrugged. ‘It's a theory.'

‘The girl was a hooker; Pigeon was a senior research assistant to a prominent Tory MP.'

Delaney added the peppers and onion to the eggs. He laughed. ‘Circles come a lot wider than that.'

When they were eating, she said: ‘I thought I saw my mother. I was on Harefield; she was going into a flat with some guy.'

‘Thought you saw her.'

‘She had her back to me. Well, a bit of profile, but only for a second.'

‘You told me she was in Birmingham.'

‘Manchester.'

‘And so…'

‘So she's back. Could be back.'

‘You'd know your own mother.'

Stella laughed without smiling. ‘I never knew her.'

Delaney knew about this. Little Stella Mooney, address Apartment 1818, Block C, Harefield Gulag, watching the weather, following the flight of birds and wishing she could do that, wishing she could find a thermal, like the city gulls, and tilt, sliding down the wind until she reached somewhere that was somewhere else. Stella keeping quiet, keeping to herself, reading her own school reports, because her mother never would, looking for a way out, taking charge of her own life.

Her father was the man with no name. Stella wondered whether her mother actually knew it; could actually remember what he had looked like; could actually pick him out of the line-up of lovers and liggers and one-night stands.

‘How long since you saw her?' Delaney asked.

‘Ten years.' She said it without thinking, as if she had been keeping a tally.

‘What will you do… if it's her?' Stella shook her head. ‘If you meet her? If you go and see her?'

She forked up some omelette and raised her wine glass as if for a toast. ‘Good food, good wine, the evening lacks only one thing.'

Their lovemaking still had a genuine hunger that, eventually, brought a sweet fatigue. They lay side by side, hands linked, half asleep.

Delaney said, ‘Maybe I'm right. The killer knew his victims. They knew each other. Leonard Pigeon had a secret life.'

‘Don't print it.'

‘I'm not a reporter any more. I'm a features guy. The Rich List, the swells, their itch to be rich.'

‘Do you ever miss it, Delaney? Be honest.'

Stella had never known him as a war reporter. He'd talked,
sometimes, about the way he'd felt. Never about the things he'd seen. She remembered his descriptions of jeep rides taking him towards the smoke and the sound of gunfire; she'd heard something in his voice that was fear and excitement: a life lived on the edge.

‘Never,' he said.

She thought he was lying but was too sleepy to be sure. ‘What were you going to say – in Machado's? “Are you happy with us?”'

‘No,' he said. ‘It'll keep. I'm sleeping.'

Stella was drifting. She saw Tree Girl's pale body being lowered through the dark branches; Leonard Pigeon on the bench, head bowed as if to watch the river as it flowed.

He said, ‘I'll tell you tomorrow.'

‘I'll be late. Something I have to do.'

‘Okay.' Then he said, ‘Take care,' as if falling asleep were a leave-taking.

They were playing Texas Hold 'Em, and Costea Radu was looking for a queen or a spade on the flop. The dealer's name was Charleen, and, even though the casino was only a shanty in old shanty-town, she was dressed in a glitter dress of emerald-green, backless and cut deep at the front, so a full, plump cleavage appeared when she leaned forward to shoot the cards.

The basement was large and low, neon strips on the ceiling, bars on the windows, a throw-bolt on the door. Three poker tables, blackjack, roulette, fruit machines standing round the room. No pictures on the walls, no carpet on the floor; the roulette table was a bad hand-me-down, the blackjack shoes were scuffed, and the bar was a trestle table laden with bottles. In each corner of the room a standing fan stirred the soup of cigarette smoke.

Charleen burned one and turned one: the queen of spades, which gave Costea a pair and a possible straight. He made a careful raise: not so confident that he looked good, but enough to make people think he had hopes. Two hands folded, three stayed with him: check, check, check.

Charleen turned the river card. The nine of spades. Costea blinked. Two hands folded, but one stayed in: an Asian guy in a Redbear T-shirt and loose-fit Levis. Redbear Man mantled his cards and lifted the tips. He seemed reassured: enough, anyway, to raise Costea five grand.

Costea smiled a smile that no one saw, because it never reached his lips. He flipped bundles of notes out on to the worn baize, everything he had.

He said, ‘Going all in.'

Redbear shook his head. ‘You're full of shit.'

‘Yeah?' Costea laughed. ‘Find out.'

Redbear was cash leader, but only just. He counted his stack and matched the bet. In the same moment the Notting Hill Clubs and Vice Squad came through the door, with Stella and Harriman keeping back and to the side. There was better than £23,000 on the table.

The
CO
14 squad members were wearing Kevlar vests and dome helmets with perspex eye-masks. Some had holstered weapons, though two were carrying Heckler & Koch
MP
5 automatics. These men stood wide to get an angle of fire, but slightly in advance of the others to eliminate the risk of shooting their colleagues. In a confined space blue-on-blue was a real possibility. They had used a Hatton gun to take the door out, and the bang seemed to have paralysed everyone. There was silence, apart from the fruit machines playing electronic scales.

Stella looked round the room and found him: tall guy, carrying weight, looked like a roadie, big crucifix on a silver chain. Maybe it was the fact that her gaze settled on him, though it was more likely that he acted from a mixture of panic and necessity. He hadn't got time to do time: he had girls to run, an investment to protect. He walked round the table and pulled Charleen to her feet. The neon threw a line of light from the open razor in his hand to the far wall, close to where Stella was standing.

There was a back door about twenty feet from where Costea was standing that led to a small, paved yard. He started to back off, and the
CO
14 squad leader gave a shout. A red laser dot from an
MP5
raced across the thin nap of the poker table and fluttered over Charleen's glitter dress. Costea pulled her close, one arm round her waist, the other at her throat. She started to cry.

He said, ‘I'll kill her.'

There was something in his voice: fear and anger, yes, but something more – almost a touch of regret.

He acted on instinct
, Stella thought,
and now he doesn't know what in hell he's going to do
.

The squad leader said, ‘Let her go. Put down the weapon. It's the only way.'

Costea risked a glance at the door and made a step or two towards it; Charleen shuffled with him. She was still crying, crying and panting; his arm was tight round her waist, but the shortness of breath was fear.

Now there were two red laser dots, and the other guns had come out of their holsters, officers using a two-handed grip, knees bent, eyes on the target. They could see all of Charleen and almost nothing of Costea.

He said, ‘They put down their guns.'

‘And you'll let her go…' This was the squad leader pretending he was prepared to strike a deal.

‘No. They put down their guns, or I kill her.'

‘I can't do that.'

‘Okay.' As he spoke, Costea cut Charleen under the jawline, pulling her tight as he did it. She screamed and leaped in his arms like a fish. The room was loud with noise for a moment: Charleen's scream, reactions from the gamblers, a yell – ‘No!' – from the squad leader and Costea's answering shout.

‘Guns down – down now!'

Then silence; status quo. Stella could see the shake in Costea's legs, but no shake in the hand holding the razor. Blood was running freely from the point of Charleen's chin down on to her green dress; her eyes were rolling, but she was too terrified to faint.

If they push him, he'll kill her, because he doesn't know what else to do.

Stella looked across to Pete Harriman, who was leaning against the wall on the far side, as if he were enjoying the show, though Stella knew he was finding an angle that gave him a partial view of Costea's face, wanting to read the man's expression. Wanting to read his mind. The razor lay lightly on Charleen's throat close to the jugular vein.

Stella said, ‘Stay there; you're okay there. Stay put.'

Costea was looking through the faces, trying to find hers. She raised a hand to pull focus.

‘You're okay,' she told him. ‘Stay where you are, and you'll be fine. I'm coming over. I'm coming over to talk to you.' She didn't move.

Costea took a pace back. The bloodsoak on Charleen's dress had gone to the waist. He said, ‘I'll kill her. You hear me say that?'

‘You don't have to. You don't have to kill her, and you don't have to get killed. I'm coming over there. Coming to talk to you.' She didn't move; she said, ‘Okay?'

He said, ‘What?' meaning ‘What do you want?' It was the first time he hadn't spoken of killing.

The room was quiet. The squad leader's voice was barely audible.

‘Not your operation.'

‘No.' Stella wished he would shut the fuck up.

‘You'll be putting yourself in the line of fire.'

‘I know.' Then, to Costea: ‘Okay?' When he didn't answer, she took a couple of steps forward and stopped, then took a couple more. She said, ‘Okay?'

The squad leader moved to cut Stella off, then turned his back on the action to talk to her.

‘He's not going through that door.'

‘He'll kill her. He'll cut her throat.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘He's scared. He wishes he'd never done this. All he knows
now is: don't back down; stay in control. He's not thinking clever thoughts. And she's bleeding.'

‘It's non-negotiable.'

‘Negotiation is all you've got.'

‘One clear shot.'

‘See any chance of that?'

‘You think he'll stand there all night?'

‘No. And I don't think he'll give himself up either.'

‘So?'

‘So he has to be persuaded.'

‘You think you can do that?'

‘Yes.' Stella didn't think that; she had another idea altogether.

The squad leader said, ‘If you like. But he's not going through that door.'

Stella moved through the semicircle of guns. The punters had scattered when the
CO14
squad first came in: they had gone to the walls. Costea and Charleen were out on their own. The door was ten feet back, maybe twelve. Stella walked towards them, moving slowly, stopping now and then, punctuating her progress with the same question.

‘Okay?… Okay?… Okay?'

She could feel the red laser spots on her back and sweat starting up in her armpits and prickling her forehead. Just about everyone in the room was watching her, except Harriman, who was watching Costea, watching the way he made Charleen feel the blade, to remind Stella of the risk.

Stella stopped about six feet light of where Costea and Charleen were standing; she was close enough to speak softly and still be heard – by Costea at least. The girl stared straight ahead; she couldn't blink, and she couldn't stop crying, though now she was open-mouthed, uttering a short syllable of pain with each sob.

‘If you kill her, you're dead.'

Costea said nothing.

‘If you kill her, you'll die here tonight. You'll never get out of that door.'

‘So I go out of the door. She comes with me.'

‘The armed officers will shoot you if they can. It's their only thought.'

‘So they put their guns down.'

‘They won't do that. That's not going to happen.'