In the Dark (18 page)

‘Let's have some names, Jacky.'

‘They're just like nicknames, you know?'

‘That's fine.'

Jacky took a few seconds, then reeled off half a dozen names while Clive scribbled them down. Frank pushed harder: demanded descriptions, times of any regular visits to the club, information as to where else these characters might spend any time; anything Jacky might have gathered about a hierarchy.

Jacky did his best.

‘You noticed anything different, last couple of days?'

‘I'm not with you, Mr Linnell.'

Clive leaned into him. ‘Fucking
concentrate
, Jacky.'

‘Changes in behaviour,' Frank said. ‘You know? A different atmosphere, a different mood. You can smell it.' He couldn't say precisely how the change would manifest itself, but Frank knew that, among the gang responsible for Paul's death, things would now be a little different. A police officer was dead and they would surely be smart enough to know what the repercussions might be. Whoever was calling the shots could say ‘business as usual' until he was blue in the face, but, for the foreseeable future, nothing would be quite as it had been.

Frank had been in a similar position himself, as had Clive. Both knew that marked men could never fully relax.

Jacky grunted and nodded again, like something had come back to him. ‘Now you mention it, I
have
noticed one or two of them acting a bit funny. Yeah, thinking about it—'

‘Don't just tell me what you think I want to hear.' Frank's anger was sudden, and alarming; even to Jacky, who had been on the receiving end of it before. He stood up, the volume dropping as he walked towards the water. ‘Do
not
piss me about.'

Clive dropped a meaty hand onto Jacky's shoulder and said, ‘Look, I'd prefer to get this over with, tell you the truth. I'd like to get back in the car and find somewhere to have a nice bit of lunch, a decent glass of wine, whatever. But if you carry on treating us like morons, I
will
march you into those trees over there and stick your head so far up your arse you'll think nothing's happened. Fair enough, Jacky?'

Frank sat down again, leaned back on the bench.

‘Look, I don't know if this is what you're talking about,' Jacky said. ‘But there haven't been so many of them knocking around.' He looked from Clive to Frank, checking to see how he was doing. ‘There's usually a few of them in every day, playing pool, having a laugh, whatever. But not so much in the last couple of days.'

‘What about before that?'

‘Before?'

‘You see anything going on a week or so ago? Get the impression there was anything being set up?'

Jacky thought, then told Frank about the meeting upstairs: the young black guy with the stupid hair and his big Asian mate; the white bloke in the smart suit.

Frank looked at Clive, who shrugged and made a note of it.

Back at the car, Frank watched Jacky Snooks hurry away with enough money in his pockets to keep him in tea and toast for six months. He was probably no more than forty, but looked closer to Frank's age than Clive's.

There were plenty of people like him in their world.

Frank studied the scrawny figure in his grubby jacket and Asda jeans and knew that, when it came down to it, there was not a great deal separating the two of them. Or hadn't been, back when paths were chosen; when futures were decided in violent moments or flashes of brilliance. There wasn't very much between him and the likes of Jacky Snooks. He'd been a little more desperate, that was all. A little less scared, maybe.

But not much.

 
Helen woke up and looked at the clock: 3.18 a.m. She reached down and felt the wetness between her legs.

She waited for the cab downstairs, swearing out loud at Paul and wondering if she should call Jenny, or her father. Sweating. Carrying her wash bag and a change of clothes in a near-to-bursting plastic bag.

At the hospital, she was told that everything was normal.

‘It's just spotting,' the midwife said, ‘and baby is fine. There's nothing to worry about. Baby isn't coming just yet. He's perfectly happy where he is, OK?'

‘Go home,' the nurse told her, ‘and put your feet up. Relax and let the baby's father wait on you until the time comes. Everything's fine.'

SEVENTEEN

Some days, Theo might have called in to his mum's place on his way out. He would have checked everything was OK with her and eaten a bacon sandwich if he wasn't still stuffed from twin dinners the night before. He would have walked Angela to the bus stop on those days, or all the way to school if the weather was nice.

He was still getting himself up and out of the flat good and early, but he hadn't been round to his mum's since the previous Friday. He'd taken to eating breakfast on his own at a greasy spoon. Studying the newspapers and letting shit slop round in his head, like how it would be for Benjamin to grow up without a father around.

How it would be to think about that in prison.

Twenty fags every morning from the newsagent two doors along. A pile of papers several inches thick and a look on the newsagent's face that was the highpoint of the day. The old man never said anything, just how much it all cost, but you could see he thought it was odd. Boys like Theo weren't supposed to read one newspaper, let alone half a dozen, and certainly not the big ones without the scratch-cards inside. He smiled when he took the money, like he thought it was a good thing. Like he
approved
. Or maybe he just enjoyed taking the money.

In the café, Theo bit into his sandwich and looked at the front pages first, same as he'd done every morning since it had happened.

The police were drafting in another fifty officers; stepping up the hunt for the ‘headlights' killer.

The Commissioner was promising that the man responsible for the death of his officer would be found and was urging anyone who might be shielding him to step forward.

The killer was ruthless and cowardly. Someone who thought that guns earned respect. He was probably no more than a teenager, or even
younger
, according to experts on London's booming gangs and gun culture.

Theo didn't see Easy come in, but turned fast when he heard the voice at his shoulder.

‘You want something else, T? A latte or some rubbish? Maybe a croissant or whatever, to go with your morning reading.'

‘I'm OK,' Theo said.

Easy went to fetch himself tea and when he came back he grabbed a folded
Daily Star
from an adjacent table. He dropped it in front of Theo and jabbed at the bikini-clad model taking up most of the front page. ‘
That's
the way to start your day, man. Some of that good stuff get you up and at the punters out there, you get me?'

Theo started to gather up his papers.

Easy nodded and leaned forward. Lowered his voice, nice and serious. ‘I know what's happening here, T, but you got no reason to be fretting about all this, I swear. You got a solid crew round you, man. Hundred per cent.'

‘The police are fired up, though.'

Easy shook his head, not interested.

‘Seriously, you should read this stuff.'

‘
Fuck
the police.' Easy looked round, like he was searching for somewhere to spit. ‘They don't even know where to start looking. The Five-O are nothing. For real, T.'

Theo nodded and laid the pile of papers to one side. Easy leaned back and grinned the grin.

Subject closed.

‘Now, we still on for tonight?'

‘On for what?'

‘I still need that innocent face.'

‘Shit.' The job Easy had been talking about a couple of days before. Theo had forgotten all about it. ‘I've hardly seen Javine and the baby in days, man,' he said. ‘I'm working my bollocks off, you know?'

He was working longer hours, that much was true. Spending as much time apart from the family as he could get away with. Carefully avoiding anyone who cared.

Easy wasn't having any of it. ‘You got to be
doing
this stuff, man. Last thing you need right now is to sit about and let all this mess with you, you get me? Besides, kind of job we're doing tonight, that's the reason you shot into that bitch's car in the first place, isn't it?'

The reason
. . .

It was money, Theo supposed. Or respect, like the bigger newspapers said. Although, thinking back to the moment he pulled the trigger, it felt like he'd done it mainly because Easy and the others had been shouting and taking the piss. He told Easy that it was a stupid question, because he didn't know
what
they were going to be doing.

‘It'll be a laugh,' Easy said. ‘I swear.' He stood up, taking the
Star
with him and promising to call Theo later with the details.

Theo finished his sandwich, then went outside to smoke. He took a paper with him and stood on the pavement, looking down at the picture of Paul Hopwood. The thirty-four-year-old. The expectant father. Kept looking until the soft worm of ash fell onto the paper and he had to shake it away.

More shit, slopping about.

 
The entire sequence of ideas and impulses took no more than a few seconds, but Helen enjoyed watching the different expressions pass across Ray Jackson's face, trying to interpret them, as he eased the taxi off his front drive and turned onto the road.

The confusion at seeing a woman trying to flag him down outside his own front door. The momentary dilemma when he saw her shape. The ‘sorry, love, nothing I can do' shrug as he made his decision and put his foot down, wanting to get a full English inside him before picking up any fares, least of all mad women.

The anger, then the resignation, when he saw the warrant card being waved. As he slammed on the anchors and pulled over.

Helen walked up to the window, waited until it was wound down. ‘Turn the engine off please, Ray, and hop in the back. We can have a natter in there.'

It was a neat little side street in North Acton. Mid-twenties terracing; trees in blossom outside every other house, lined up as nicely as the satellite dishes. Jackson did as he was told and held the door open as Helen climbed into the cab. She thanked him and he said it was all right, but could they get a fucking shift on, because he had a living to make. She said that she'd try not to hold him up.

‘You had a passenger in the back of your cab, a police officer, on Friday, the eighteenth of last month. And on the Friday before that.'

‘Which one?' Jackson asked.

‘Sorry?'

Jackson took a couple of seconds. ‘Which Friday?'

‘You're not listening, Ray.
Both
. An afternoon and then an evening.'

‘You got any idea how many passengers I carry every week?'

‘You picked him up outside the NCP on Brewer Street.'

‘I'll take your word for it.'

‘You don't have to. We've got both pick-ups on CCTV.'

‘So? Did I break the speed limit somewhere?'

‘I'd like to know where you took him,' Helen said. ‘I'd like to know who the other passenger was. The man who was already in the cab when you made the pick-up on Brewer Street.'

Jackson was fifty-something and solid. If Helen did not already know that he was someone comfortable with a certain degree of violence, it would have been clear enough when he turned to look at her.

‘I don't have to talk to you. I've done nothing. So, you can get out of my cab now.'

‘I'm not finished,' Helen said.

‘Sorry, love, that's me done.' He turned to look out of the window. ‘Shouldn't you be at home knitting bootees, anyway?'

Helen swallowed. ‘The police officer I'm talking about was killed a week ago.' She let that sink in. ‘So, you
do
have to talk to me, or at least you do if you don't want us all over you like shit on a blanket for the foreseeable future. Everybody's done
something
, Ray, and you more than most. So, it's probably easier if we get this over with now, wouldn't you say?'

It was all nonsense, of course. There was no reason why even those officers who
were
investigating Paul's death would be interested in a taxi ride he'd taken a fortnight earlier. Helen gambled on Jackson not knowing that, and she was right.

He swore for a while, gathering himself or editing information in his head before he began to spit it out. He told Helen about one particular client he drove sometimes; a respectable businessman for whom he worked on an exclusive basis, alongside his regular fares.

‘Sounds like a decent whack,' Helen said. ‘Cash in hand?' She smiled at the reaction. ‘Don't worry, I'm not the taxman.'

Jackson nodded. ‘A lot of the cabbies are doing the same thing these days,' he said. ‘There's a demand. We're cheaper than a limo service and we don't get lost.'

‘This businessman knows who's driving his cab, does he?' Helen waited, but Jackson wasn't coming up with an answer. ‘See, if he knows all about Parkhurst and Belmarsh and the reasons why you were in there, and he's
still
happy for you to chauffeur him about, I've got to ask myself just how “respectable” he is. Can't see Alan Sugar taking you on, can you, Ray?'

‘It was all a good while ago.'

‘Where did you take them? Your boss and the police officer?' Jackson said that he couldn't remember where he'd driven to on the Friday afternoon Helen was asking about, or whether the two passengers had left the cab together. The evening job was to a restaurant in Shoreditch; Italian place. He couldn't remember the name.