Edge (25 page)

    "So you're closing in." Josh hoped his voice was level. "You've ruled out everyone who didn't know him."

    "Anyway, it's just a professional tip I thought I'd pass on, that little habit of mine."

    "Say what?"

    "Reading the news. Did Suzanne keep you up all night, lover? You're a little slow today."

    "The news."

    "Sometimes it's the business section that's interesting, believe it or not. Give that girl a hug from me. And Josh?"

    "What?"

    "Be careful. Really careful."

    "That's a strange thing to–"

    "With Suzanne, be careful with her."

    "She's not dangerous, for God's sake."

    "No, but you are. Hurt her, and I'll have your balls for earrings."

    "That doesn't–"

    The display went shiny black.

    So much about Suzanne Duchesne was a mystery. Was he truly fascinated with her, or just reacting to Maria and Sophie and everything? Was he spinning out of control? Enough of the Regiment guys, whether from Ghost Force or other squadrons of the SAS, had ended their lives in spectacular ways after Army service, trying to find meaning where they had been taught to look for it: right on the edge, the more risk and adrenaline the better.

    In the Regiment, you learned to accept what your comrades told you, because sometimes they can see a problem that you don't. Petra's brother Andy had been particularly good at it, just one reason why he'd been such a great troop leader, before the Siberian debacle. Good times, spent sipping tea around campfires and–

    
Forget the history. Look for Richard.

    There was a greasy spoon on the corner. Josh went in. There were workmen polishing off great plates of sausages and chips, others with falafel or locustburgers. Josh was tempted to ask for a lightly tossed salad and Dom Pérignon, but maybe not today.

    "Cheese bap and a mug of tea," he said. "And have you seen this lad, by any chance?"

    The guy behind the counter was young and dark skinned. Unlike some others, he took care checking the image; still, he shook his head.

    "Sorry, man."

    "Never mind."

    "Eat in or take away?"

    "Here, please. I'll sit in the corner."

    His table was at the rear. Incense smells drifted from out back. He sat leaning against the wall, pulled up the business news and searched for Broomhall. A tiny overlay pane checked for new sightings of Richard, finding nothing. The main pane showed thirteen recent items, none mentioning Philip Broomhall directly, all featuring companies he owned. Every one of them was facing a shareholder revolt or some other indication of possible hostile takeovers. Put together, it was an allout corporate attack on Broomhall's interests.

    
Shit, I hate this stuff.

    There are salespeople whose idea of aggression is to sell things more cheaply than their competitors. Business writers couch their narrative of corporate manoeuvres in the language of battlefield and military strategy. Without limbs being blown off in boardrooms, AGMs being rife with sucking chest wounds, and seventy percent burns on voting shareholders, the analogy was an insult. Or perhaps he was one with the limited viewpoint.

    A related comment piece, one that did mention Philip Broomhall, described him as looking "unusually selfabsorbed." Worried about his son?

    
Maybe he loves Richard and just can't show it.

    "Cheese bap. Tea." It was a young woman who delivered the food. "Here you are."

    Her gaze was dull and her shoulders slumped, and she shuffled back toward the kitchen with little interest in what was going on. Congenital, or worn down by her situation? But saving the world was beyond him: witness his inability to find a single fourteen year-old boy.

    The bap tasted dry and floury. Chewing, he scrolled through his phone's contacts list, found Viv, and pressed. He forced down the food as her image appeared, with the homeless shelter in the background.

    "Hi, Josh. I haven't heard anything definite, before you ask. But there was something I was going to follow

up before calling you."

    "What kind of thing?"

    "Just a maybe… The lad might be friendly with some gekrunners."

    "Any particular location?"

    "No, sorry."

    "Viv, you've given me the only piece of meaningful information I've had today, maybe this week. So thank you."

    "Well, you're welcome. Look, we're busy at the–"

    "Sure. Take it easy."

    "You too."

    So, gekrunners. He could fire off querybots to research their movements locally, see which places they haunted, perhaps even backtrack to where they lived.

    His attention snapped outwards as seven young guys, aged around eighteen, filed in and sat around the window table. The large workmen had departed; only two solitary men were left, finishing their lunches. The gang – all white, some with motile tattoos: a swastika rotating on one guy's neck, or flowing lines of tears from eye to jawline – ordered tea, then sat waiting for everyone else to leave.

    The dark-skinned man behind the counter shuffled his feet. His gaze kept moving towards the gang, then sliding away, while his hand repeatedly went to his phone, drew back.

    Josh shut down his own phone.

    First guess: five were armed.

    "Tea tastes like piss," one of them was saying.

    "We need to ask for our money back."

    "With cash interest, like."

    "Fuckin' dark skin cooks their brains, don't it? Absorbs heat, right?"

    They sniggered.

    "Need a piss," said one.

    "Got a magnifying lens you can borrow. Help you find it."

    "Fuck off."

    It was Rotating-Swastika Guy who went past Josh, heading for the small toilet at the back. Meanwhile, some of the others were on their feet, slapping each other's arms, all part of the ritual. The two men who'd been lunching both drained their cups and left, heads down, trying to maintain a fiction: that nothing was about to happen, that what went on around them was none of their business. Finally, Rotating-Swastika came back grinning. Chairs scraped as the remaining gang members stood up. Rotating-Swastika stopped at the till.

    "You got cash in there, intya?"

    "That's nothing to do with you."

    "Seein' as how you served us piss, it fuckin' does, pal."

    "Please leave now."

    The others were gathering in a semi-circle, one-deep, behind Rotating-Swastika. When Josh stood up, all seven of them were in front. The tables on either side would make it hard for anyone to outflank him. They thought they outnumbered everyone; in fact they were lined up, targets for him to drop.

    "Oh, sorry, mate." One of the guys with drippingtears tats had noticed him. "After you."

    The thug's sweeping, ushering gesture, encouraging Josh to leave, was not courteous: it was passiveaggressive. In court, he could claim he was being polite; uneducated witnesses would find it hard to describe the intimidation.

    As Josh breathed from his diaphragm, his voice came out deeper than normal.

    "I'm in no hurry to leave."

    Dripping-Tears Tat and five of his mates straightened, eyes widening. Only Rotating-Swastika Guy failed to react, immersed in mouthing off to the lad behind the till. But the others were frozen, their brains processing unconscious alarms, primal senses re-evaluating the violent potential here.

    One of them grabbed hold of Rotating-Swastika and yanked him back.

    "Come on, you dick."

    Those nearest the door were already leaving.

    "What–?"

    "Police officer, come on."

    Then they filed out, and were gone.

    
Good.

    Except that part of him thought the opposite, that it was an aching shame they had denied him the opportunity of the dance, to let loose the reptile inside, the lizard-brain that fought with logic, and the primate layer that knew the joy of blood because a smile and a scream are predator's expressions, the baring of teeth and the spurting ecstasy of ripping and rending, hitting and twisting, smashing knee-joints, slamming skulls into red oblivion.

    He wanted to tear them apart.

 

The guy behind the till was called Gopan. After thanking Josh, he called out all his family so they could give thanks, too. Three people came out from the kitchen: a large man called Uncle Rajesh, skinny brother Sanjeev, and the tired girl who served the food: Gopan's sister, Mina.

    "You're all welcome," said Josh. "And look, you've already got spyballs. Why don't you get two more cams, and rearrange them there and there."

    "Ah." Sanjeev's eyes were bright as he nodded, understanding the geometry. "Very good idea."

    "Add an alarm that you can trigger," Josh pointed at Gopan's phone. "Then buy a monthly call-out plan from one of the local security firms. Except check at the police station before you deal with anyone."

    "Will you be there?" asked Gopan.

    "I'm not a police officer. They were mistaken."

    "Ah. But you were looking for someone."

    "I'm working for the boy's father, who's worried."

    "Oh. Would you show us the picture again?"

    Josh brought up Richard's image, and turned the phone to Gopan. This time Gopan frowned for a long time before shaking his head.

    "I'm really sorry. Uncle Rajesh?"

    The big man took a look. "No, sorry."

    Sanjeev had been peering at it over the others' shoulders. "I don't think so."

    But Mina gave a tilting nod.

    "You recognise him?" said Josh.

    "With Opal." Her voice was less dull than before. "Walking with Opal."

    "Who's–?"

    "Local girl," said Sanjeev. "Comes here sometimes, not often. Chats with Mina."

    "When did you last see Opal?"

    "Days ago." Mina looked down at the floor. "A few days."

    "You know where she lives? Or which school she goes to?"

    Mina shook her head.

    "Sanjeev?" asked Josh. "Any ideas?"

    "Sorry."

    "That's OK. I've got a name. You probably don't know her surname?"

    "Afraid not."

    "OK. Thanks, everyone."

    "Thank you!"

    Smiles and nods and waves carried him to the door. He went out onto the street grinning, remembering to check for signs of the gang waiting in ambush, but seeing only a clear ordinary street, safe to walk along. After some eight or ten paces, he stopped, remembering Viv at the shelter, and what she had said just a few minutes back: "
The lad might be friendly with some gekrunners."

    He turned and went back in. The family were still standing among the tables, discussing what had happened.

    "Mina, I don't suppose this Opal is a gekrunner, is she?"

    Mina's smile was big as she nodded.

    "Jumps," she said. "Somersaults and things. She's brilliant."

    "So are you," Josh told her. "So are you."

    Uncle Rajesh hugged her, and her grin reminded Josh of Christmas and getting just the present you wanted, and had thought you would never have.

    Josh waved a salute and left.

Richard looked up from the floor, sponge in hand, as Opal entered the shop, unhitching a backpack from her shoulder.

    "Whoah, bad smell," she said. "Who threw up? Cal told Brian to keep out the winos."

    "It was me. Again."

    "Oh."

    "Brian's getting some sort of spray, says it'll clear the air."

    He rinsed the sponge in the bucket, and wiped some more. There was nothing left to clean up, nothing visible, but Opal was right: the stench remained.

    "Hey, Opal." Brian came in from the back, a huge yellow aerosol in hand. "Stand by for some biochemical warfare. This is powerful stuff."

    "Maybe I should open the front door."

    "Probably." Brian looked down at Richard. "You must have started wearing a hole in the floor. It won't get cleaner than that."

    "Sorry."

    "That's the seventy-seventh time he's apologised," Brian told Opal. "I've been counting."

    "Not that many," said Richard.

    Opal asked, "What did Cal say?"

    "He hasn't been in, thank God." Brian waved the aerosol, sloshing the contents. "Let's keep him none the wiser."

    "Oh, right. He's probably at South Bank."

    "And you're here about tonight." Brian pointed at her backpack. "Equipment check, right?"

    "Uh-huh. So, you want me to open this door? Cause I'd like to breathe."

    "Sorr–" Richard stopped himself.

    "I've a better idea," said Brian. "Opal, close up, and we'll go in the back room."

    She locked the shop door and tapped the buttons on the door frame. The glass shone with the word CLOSED, in reverse.

    "Come on." She took hold of Richard's sleeve. "Let's get out of here."

    He picked up the bucket, dropped the sponge inside, and let her lead him out of the room. From behind came the sound of Brian sucking in a breath, followed by the prolonged hissing of the spray. Then Brian was pushing him into the back room and slamming the door shut.

    "That is evil, evil stuff. But when it blows away later, it'll take any other stink with it."