In the Dark (8 page)

‘I'll fill you in at lunchtime, all right?'

Kelly nodded. Seemed happy enough with that.

‘Not that there's anything too dramatic.'

It would give Paul a couple of hours to come up with something. A fuck-up on an old case that had come back to bite him in the arse; some mess he was trying to get himself out of on the sly; maybe a few personal odds and ends he needed to deal with.

Kelly was a good friend, meaning he was easy enough to bullshit.

‘How's the missus?'

‘She's fine,' Paul said, looking back to his computer screen. ‘Huge, but fine.'

‘You still excited? Or have you hit the “scared to death” stage?' Kelly had two kids and a wife who had just fallen pregnant again. ‘Seriously, mate, it's hard work, but you'll love it, I promise you.'

A good friend, but there was plenty Paul hadn't told him.

‘By the way, I need to get fifteen quid off you.'

‘What for?'

Kelly stuck out a hand. ‘They're organising a leaving do for Bob Barker, a week on Friday.'

Paul dug into his wallet for the notes. ‘Where is it?'

‘Still arguing about that.' Kelly took the cash. ‘Be handier for us if it was round here, but some of those old buggers he worked with on the Flying Squad are pushing for somewhere north of the river. I'll let you know.'

Paul looked past him, saw Detective Inspector Martin Bescott heading his way; pointing, open-mouthed, in mock-surprise at seeing him.

‘Oh yeah, he wants a word,' Kelly said.

The DI wouldn't be quite as easy to deal with as Kelly, but Paul knew he could handle it. He stood up and walked around his desk, smiling. Said, ‘I don't suppose a note from my mum would be any good, would it?' Fifteen quid down already, and a tricky ten minutes with his boss on the cards; but still, not
too
much that was going to piss him off this morning.

Not with what Kevin Shepherd was offering.

Shepherd had called a few days before: full of it, like they were old friends or something; tossing out an invitation to dinner that night at some new Italian place with ‘properly cooked spuds' and no ‘fucked-up French sauces'. That was how it usually worked: a meal and a few decent bottles of wine; maybe a day out at the races or an evening in some club or casino; and
always
on them. ‘
No, no, you keep your hand in your pocket, mate
. . .
don't be daft, mate, my treat
.' Nothing changing hands, though; not at the beginning.

Just making the intentions clear from a safe distance.

The taxi had picked him up in the same place as before. Ray every bit as garrulous, giving it Marcel Marceau all the way to Shoreditch. Flashing a dangerous look when Paul stepped out of the cab and told him how much he'd enjoyed the chat.

Shepherd was waiting at a table in the corner. He was texting someone on his mobile phone and getting stuck into a generous glass of something. Very relaxed, or making a good job of looking like he was. ‘You'll enjoy this, Paul.' He passed the menu across, poured a second glass of wine. ‘I could tell when we met that you'd have a taste for places like this. Mind you, we enjoy egg and chips in a greasy spoon when someone else is stumping up, don't we? Human nature.'

Paul enjoyed every mouthful of a wild mushroom risotto, and linguine with clams in a spicy sauce. Shepherd complained that his pasta was overdone, smiling sadly at the waiter, then winking at Paul as his plate was rushed back to the kitchen. He was suitably gracious when a replacement arrived, and when coffee and tiramisu were provided on the house. Paul tried to look ever so slightly impressed while he was thinking that Shepherd was even more of a twat than he'd first taken him for.

They talked about Shepherd's place in Languedoc, and the converted warehouse in Docklands; the cars he drove, and those he kept locked away as investments. Shepherd tried to worm a few more personal details out of Paul, and Paul saw no harm in letting him.

He told him about his flat in Tulse Hill, about his girlfriend and the baby that was just a few weeks away. Shepherd looked genuinely pleased and raised a glass. Joking about how everything was going to change: the nights out on the piss, the sex life, and not least how much money Paul would have left in his bank account at the end of every month.

They both let that one hang in the air for a few seconds.

Obviously, not a great deal was said about money laundering or carousel fraud. No in-depth exchanges about Stanley knives and staff discipline. Just casual conversation, chummy and unbusinesslike - par for the course at this most delicate stage of a relationship. Until they were outside, at any rate; waiting at the kerb for the taxi to swing around.

‘This stuff you know all about,' Shepherd said. He had lit up a large cigar and waved it around as he spoke. ‘My theoretical business dealings with Romanians and what have you. This is
specialised
knowledge then, is it?'

Paul looked at him. ‘That's right,' he said. He toyed with using the same kind of round-the-houses language that Shepherd seemed to enjoy and talking about ‘intelligence that had been independently acquired'. In the end, though, he couldn't be arsed. ‘It's just down to me, for the minute.'

Very important, that last bit.

Shepherd blew smoke from the side of his mouth. ‘I work with a number of police officers and staff, and I suppose they're all specialists of one sort or another.'

‘Sounds like you don't need any more,' Paul said.

Shepherd shook his head. ‘You'd be stupid not to broaden your network of associates whenever the chance presents itself. Everyone brings something different to the table, don't they? Some kind of expertise.'

‘Experts don't usually come cheap.'

‘You get what you pay for, Paul.'

The cab pulled up and Shepherd opened the door for him. Paul said thank-you for a good night, then nodded towards Ray. ‘You need to tell him to keep the chat down, though. That constant yap-yap-yap's starting to get on my tits.'

‘You're a funny fucker as well, which is good.' Shepherd dropped his cigar into the gutter. The skin around his mouth was white. ‘Not sure Ray's going to be pissing himself, though. See, some arsehole took his tongue out with a pair of secateurs a couple of years back.'

Paul looked at Ray, who had turned round in his seat. ‘Jesus . . .'

‘Mind you, laughing isn't
quite
as tricky as yap-yap-yapping.'

‘Sorry.' Paul opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘I didn't . . .'

Ray almost gave it away then, turning round before his face betrayed him; enjoying the joke as much as he clearly had on any number of previous occasions.

‘I'm winding you up,' Shepherd said. ‘Look at you.'

Paul clapped a hand to his chest and hacked out a laugh. ‘Oh, thank Christ.'

‘Your fucking face . . .'

Paul reckoned he was doing the relief thing pretty well. Every bit as well as he did shock and gullibility. He was good at letting the likes of Shepherd think that they had the upper hand, even before they handed over any money. Five minutes later, in the back of the cab on the way into the West End, Paul decided that the whole evening had gone well. And he knew that Kevin Shepherd would be thinking exactly the same thing.

EIGHT

There appeared to be at least one crossword and a couple of sudokus on the go. Several puzzle magazines lay open on the small table next to the sofa, alongside a dictionary, a
Daily Express
and two paperback thrillers with bookmarks inside. Helen was pleased to see that her father was keeping busy, though part of her suspected he laid it all out on display when he knew she was coming round.

He came through from the kitchen with two mugs of tea on a tray, and a plate of muffins he'd made that morning.

‘Date and pecan,' he said. ‘I've got some cranberry ones in the freezer if you'd prefer.'

She started eating. ‘This is gorgeous, Dad.'

‘They're dead easy,' he said.

Whether he was putting on a show or not, Helen was pleased that he was looking after himself so nicely. She polished off her muffin and reached for another. Better than I am, she thought.

Her father had moved down to Sydenham five years earlier with his second wife, as many years again after Helen's mother had died. Robert Weeks had been understandably devastated when breast cancer had taken his childhood sweetheart at forty-nine; and, among a slew of mixed feelings, both Helen and her sister had been amazed when he had appeared to find happiness a second time. The marriage had lasted eighteen months.

Nobody quite knew why wife number two had packed her bags so quickly, and their father had never been keen to let on. Helen and Jenny had agreed that he probably wasn't the easiest man to live with and left it at that, but they were once again surprised at his resilience; at the speed with which he'd steadied himself. He'd taken early retirement at sixty-two and dug into the small pot of money he'd put away. He'd joined clubs, taken up hobbies with boyish enthusiasm, and now, to complete the rejuvenation, it looked as though there might be another woman on the scene. Helen and Jenny were still giggling like schoolgirls, months after the old man had revealed the existence of the ‘nice lady over the road who sometimes lets me park in her slot'.

The small road was neat and well kept; an army of terracotta pots in its front gardens and its parking spaces guarded as fiercely as children. There were Neighbourhood Watch stickers in most of the windows and a residents' association of which Helen's father was an active member. Jenny said that was how he had met this new woman. Probably wooed her with a muffin.

‘You can take a few of these with you,' her father said. ‘Straight out of the freezer, thirty seconds in the microwave. Give one to Paul for his breakfast.'

Helen grunted. It sounded a nice enough idea.

‘Jenny took some last time she was over. She puts one in the kids' lunchbox.'

Of course she does, Helen thought.

‘She was here last week, matter of fact. Did she say?'

‘Having a good go, was she?'

‘Sorry, love?'

‘Slagging Paul off?'

‘Why would she do that?'

‘Doesn't matter.'

He looked confused, stared into his tea. ‘She knows how much I like the lad,' he said. ‘I mean,
maybe
she's same as me, thinks Paul should have married you by now, but I know that's just me being an old fart who should mind his own business.' He shook his head. ‘No, I don't see any reason why she would do that, love.'

‘She wouldn't,' Helen said. ‘Sorry. I was just . . .'

Of course she wouldn't. The tawdry private life of big sister and unstable other half was territory that had been firmly deemed off limits months before, and Jenny knew better than to overstep the mark. Helen had a temper that was quite bad enough, even before the hormones kicked in.

‘She worries,' her father said. ‘But I can't see too much wrong with that.'

Nor could Helen; not when she was being rational. She knew for the most part that Jenny was just doing what sisters always did - taking her side whatever the rights and wrongs might be. Sometimes, though, Jenny's true feelings seemed clear enough: in a judgemental sigh at the end of a telephone call, or a look as she nodded sympathetically and carried on cooking her kids' tea.

Helen was a stupid slag who'd had it on a plate and then screwed up her life at the worst possible moment. Which was fair enough, and precisely what Helen thought herself.

A bad temper, and a bad habit of pressing the self-destruct button.

‘You all right, Hel?'

She took a deep breath; could feel the sweat between her shoulders and the flush spreading across her chest. ‘Can we open a window? It's baking in here.'

‘Most of these buggers are painted shut,' her father said. He stood up. ‘I'll open a door.'

Her father's cat, a permanently moulting black and white tom, swaggered across from beneath the window. It showed Helen its arse and wandered away again.

‘You and Paul had a ding-dong?' He put a hand on the back of her chair as he walked past; held it up when she turned to look up accusingly. ‘I told you, Jenny didn't say anything.' He sat down and began to rearrange the books and magazines on the table next to him, even though they were already neatly lined up. ‘You've not really mentioned him for a while, that's all, and I've hardly spoken to him.'

‘He's up to his eyeballs.'

‘That's not what I meant.' He sat back in his chair. ‘If I call and he answers the phone, we normally have a bit of a natter. About the cricket or something on the TV. Now, he just passes the phone over to you, quick as he can. It's . . . awkward.'

‘He
is
really busy,' Helen said. ‘I barely get the time of day out of him myself.'

It had been an attempt at jokiness, but something in her face must have given her away. Her father nodded, as though he understood. ‘Wait until he sees the baby,' he said. ‘Something happens to you when you see your own flesh and blood for the first time. Everything changes.'

Helen was already hauling herself up. ‘Little bugger's pressing on my bladder,' she said. ‘Why don't you make some more tea?'

‘There's some of that nice liquid soap you like by the sink . . .'

In the bathroom, she pulled down the toilet seat and sat there for a few minutes. Waiting for the flutter in her guts to settle, fighting the urge to let go and crumble. Tears came far too easily of late, had become her default setting, and she was sick of it.