Little Triggers (14 page)

He offered her official police condolences and led her away to identify the body. After that painful experience – wailing, sobbing, an unending fountain of grief – Moir had arranged for Mandy to receive some counselling. None for him, though.

“Every time you find a body, you lose part of yourself,” Moir told Larkin.

A press conference had been hastily convened, Moir sharing the platform with Chief Inspector McMahon. Moir found the man eminently dislikeable: too much the politician, the pathological game-player. He was good with the media, though.

There they had sat, Moir his usual untelegenic self, McMahon resplendent in an expensively tailored dove-grey, double-breasted suit, well-cut dark hair receding at the temples, and a suitably mournful tie. After Moir’s initial address, McMahon did most of the talking. “To hear him,” said Moir to Larkin, “you’d think he’d bloody well done all the work himself.”

When the press conference broke up, Moir had returned to the CID incident room. Despite having a body there was nothing concrete to follow up on yet. So Moir had returned to his solitary den, been unable to settle, and gone to Ruby’s. There he’d sat all evening, alone with his thoughts and his alcohol.

Their bottles were empty. Moir went to the bar and bought them both another round with the addition of a very large whisky chaser for himself.

“So how was your day?” he asked Larkin, forcing himself back into the slender gap between chair and table.

“Rough. Not quite as bad as yours.”

“What have you done?” Moir was beginning to slur.

“I’ve been gathering evidence against this Noble guy,” said Larkin casually. “I broke into his flat.”

Moir did a double-take that would have been comical in different circumstances. “You did
what
?”

“Before you start, just listen.” Larkin went on to tell him about the discoveries he and Ezz had made, careful as always to keep Ezz’s name out of it. As he talked, Moir’s anger gradually abated.

“My hearing has become selective,” Moir replied after Larkin finished.

“I’m glad to hear it. And I didn’t get caught.”

“Good for you. But that is categorically
not
the way to do things.”

“Point taken. Did you manage to run a check on Noble?”

“Nothing,” said Moir, knocking back his whisky in one fell gulp, barely pausing for breath. “Absolutely blank. Someone as involved as you say he might be should have shown up somewhere – but no.”

“Maybe someone wiped him from the system.”

“Don’t talk crap.” Moir’s tone told Larkin he would brook no argument.

“Actually, I had a visit from a couple of your lot yesterday.”

Moir raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“Umpleby and Grice? Questioning me about Houchen’s sudden demise.”

“Heard about that. My condolences,” Moir muttered.

“Thank you,” said Larkin. “I must say I didn’t take to them. What’s your opinion of them?”

“Fuck d’you care?”

“So the money you spent on that charm school wasn’t wasted after all?”

Moir gave him an unnerving, half-cut stare.

“I just want to know,” said Larkin. “They seemed a bit iffy to me.”

“I don’t like them,” said Moir after some thought.

“You do surprise me.”

Moir ignored him. “They’re untrustworthy. Careerist. Not that I’m saying they’re bent, mind you — ”

“Heaven forbid!”

Moir didn’t rise to Larkin’s bait. “They just know which arses to lick. They know how to play the game. Surprised Umpleby didn’t land the case I’ve been working on. Anything high-profile, he’s in on it. Must’ve come in on his day off.”

They sat in a silence which might have been described as ruminative as Larkin gave Ruby’s the once-over. Linoleum-covered floor; mismatching pub furniture; brown walls that had, over the years, absorbed tobacco, alcohol, blood, and anything else that had been thrown at them. Yet they remained standing. Eventually, Moir broke the silence.

“I’ll get someone from the Sex Crimes Unit to give your friend a ring. They’ll be discreet. I reckon we’ll have enough for a warrant, anyway.”

“Thanks. It’s much appreciated.”

Moir shrugged and lapsed into wordless gloom. Larkin forced out a strained laugh. “We’re not a barrel of laughs tonight, are we?”

A ghost of a smile passed over Moir’s face. “Reckon not,” he said, then sighed. “Fucked-up kids, fucked-up adults … I dunno. That’s all I see. Human fuckin’ garbage. And I’m the one who has to clean it up.”

Larkin nodded, opened his mouth to offer a sympathetic comment, but Moir seemed suddenly to have found his voice. “Messed-up kids become messed-up adults. Fact. Then they have kids and take their own shitty lives out on them. Another fact. And on. And on. It’s a vicious circle. And it doesn’t look like it’s goin’ tae be broken …” Moir’s slurring was becoming more pronounced. “You know how to do it?” He pointed accusingly at Larkin. “How
to break the cycle? Eh? No, well, I don’t either. I’m just here to clear up afterwards. Fuckin’ road-sweeper. Get today’s sorted – there’ll be another tomorrow. And the next day. And the one after that…” His voice trailed off as he grabbed his bottle and upended it into his throat.

“You’re drunk, Henry,” said Larkin, stating the obvious.

The bottle was replaced on the table, probably harder than Moir had intended. The bang made several people glance across, then quickly back to their own business; they didn’t want to get involved in someone else’s misery. Larkin didn’t blame them.

“Damn fuckin’ right I’m drunk,” Moir growled. “So would you be if you’d seen what I’d seen today. And you know what? I reckon that kid’s better off out of it. Excuse me if that’s offended you, but I couldn’t give a fuck. I mean, what chance would he have? Slag mother – bless her – no father, fuckin’ towerblock rat trap … Better off out of it.” He drifted off again, shaking his head.

His words, drunkenly rambled, touched a chord in Larkin. He slowly nodded his head. “Triggers …”

Moir focused on him vaguely. “What?”

“Triggers. ‘Little Triggers’. It’s an old song I was listening to earlier. You could say that’s what all abused, dysfunctional kids are – little triggers. The adults they become are loose cannons – you can either attempt to defuse them, or get out of the line of fire.”

Moir nodded absently; Larkin didn’t know whether he’d even heard him.

“Human garbage, and I’m the fuckin’ dustman …” Moir mumbled, then fell into silent introspection, marked only by the lonely, hallow clack of pool balls, the muted, small victories and losses of the players.

“Your round,” rumbled Moir. He had sat slumped and silent for so long, Larkin thought he had nodded off. He silently questioned the wisdom of making Moir even drunker than he was already, but he knew enough not to utter his thoughts aloud.

“And a chaser,” Moir said grimly as Larkin stood up.

When Larkin returned to the table, Moir had made an effort to pull himself together. Larkin set the drinks down.

“All that – before …” Moir said, with an effort.

“It’s OK,” said Larkin.

“Sometimes, I just get—” He clenched his fists impotently.

“I know,” said Larkin. He looked at Moir with compassion.
There were tears gathering at the corners of the big man’s eyes. Moir sensed Larkin’s inspection and dropped his head. He sat like that for a while, trying not to let the tears fall.

“I mean …” His voice, when it came, was thin and filled with pain. “I mean … how do you bury your own child …?”

Larkin knew now what was behind Moir’s mood. Knew the reason for the fear and confusion in his eyes. And it wasn’t just to do with Jason Winship.

Moir grabbed his chaser and guzzled it down as if his life depended on it. When he had recovered his composure, Larkin spoke.

“You OK?”

Moir stared at him furiously. The alcohol was fermenting his shame and embarrassment at exposing his emotions into anger. “Don’t be so fuckin’ patronisin’, y’ bastard!” He attempted to struggle out of his seat, make his way to Larkin.

“Henry, sit down,” Larkin commanded.

Moir slumped back. “Bastard …” he mumbled. Then he was out of it, head on his chest, saliva drooling down his chin.

Larkin called across to the barmaid. “Could you phone for a cab please, pet?” he asked.

With a weary look that suggested she had seen it all and nothing now could phase her, she nodded soundlessly and shuffled down the bar to the phone.

Larkin regarded the collapsed body of his friend. Just another miserable, lonely drunk: someone who’d seen too much of the worst life had to offer and tried to escape for a while. Passed out, looking for the heart of Saturday night.

Larkin was on the long walk home. He had bundled Moir into a cab, paying the driver in advance and allaying the man’s fears that the backseat upholstery – such as it was – wouldn’t end up covered in vomit. As Larkin was manhandling eighteen-and-a-half stone of unco-operative bulk out of Ruby’s, Moir suddenly roused himself, and with reddened eyes, began to mumble.

“Karen … Karen. All my fault … should never have left you …” His voice trailed off as his senses closed down again.

It was as Larkin had suspected.

Karen. Moir’s daughter. Nineteen years old, heroin-addicted, HIV-positive. A history behind her for which Moir blamed himself. She was never far from his thoughts, Larkin knew; the Jason Winship case must have pushed her to the surface.

Larkin watched as the comatose Scotsman was driven away. He’d wake up alone and in pain, Larkin thought. Poor, sad bastard.

3.30am. Larkin walked. All around him, the city was starting to die. A few clubbers, failed Casanovas, headed for the taxi ranks, making one last desperate attempt to score in the queue, actions motivated more by fear of loneliness than genuine desire. Odd stragglers throwing up overpriced beer and undercooked kebabs down walls and in doorways. Occasional couples glimpsed fucking down alleyways, sodium-lit and silhouetted like Hiroshima lovers. Distant, whooping sirens circling in the air, like Indians laying siege to a stockade. Cop cars kerb-crawling, scrutinising walkers. City snapshots from the corner of Larkin’s eye.

As he walked, he thought about Moir. Was he right? Was Jason Winship better off dead? When life deals cruelty and unpleasantness
to you first-hand, it can harden a person. But was there more to it than that?

The alternative was someone like Andy: accepting the world was shit and having as big a party as possible. When he thought about it, he realised Andy and Moir had both reached the same conclusions; it was only their methods of dealing with it that were different.

And what about himself? His experiences had led him to share their conclusions. His initial response had been – he thought – a genuine, pro-active attempt to improve matters. On the face of it, shaking down corrupt politicians had seemed like a good idea. But now he felt … Guilt? Doubt? He didn’t know. In all honesty, would his actions actually make any difference? Or was he just seeking another sort of self-gratification, trying to turn today into tomorrow through hate and contempt? “You know how to do it? How to break the cycle?” Moir had asked; Larkin, once, had reckoned he did, but he wasn’t so sure any more.

The whole thing was too much, too big, for his half-exhausted, half-cut mind to take in at that moment. His only course of action was to let his mind do what his feet were doing. Just keep on going.

As he approached the front door, he sensed something was wrong. When he entered, he knew it, immediately. The place had been ransacked.

The hallway had contained only an expensive vase filled with artfully displayed hazel twigs, a couple of rugs over polished boards and a phone on a wooden stand. It now contained smashed porcelain, broken twigs, ripped carpeting, and splinters.

The front room: slashed upholstery, broken picture frames and scattered glass, upended TV and VCR. Videotapes pulled from boxes, books flung from the shelves, CDs stamped on, cracked and broken.

Kitchen: drawers and cupboards pulled out and emptied, shattered china and cutlery decorating the floor. Fridge and freezer emptied, food and drink left congealing in soggy masses where they’d been hurled.

Back room: more of the same.

Larkin ran upstairs to Charlotte’s bedroom and found similar carnage there. Her bed was stripped and upended, books were torn
and CDs were scattered and smashed, her clothing – that he hadn’t yet been able to part with – pulled out of wardrobes and drawers, shredded and discarded.

His heart had been racing since he stepped into the house, but now he felt his fear being replaced by anger. Some nameless bastard had torn up his last links with Charlotte. It was something he himself had not been able to do, and he hated them for forcing his hand.

As Larkin was checking the remaining rooms he heard a sound: the tell-tale creak of bodyweight on floorboard.

It came from the attic.

Fuelled by anger at the final desecration of Charlotte’s memory and not stopping to consider the consequences, Larkin grabbed the first thing to hand – a snapped-off chair-leg – and made for the stairs.

As he came through the doorway, he heard footsteps beginning a hurried descent from his room. Obviously he’d made too much noise; someone was now coming to silence him. He flattened himself against the wall inside the doorway, turned off the light, and waited, club in hand.

The figure reached the bottom of the attic stairs and crossed over the wide landing to the main flight of stairs, back turned to Larkin. Larkin just had time to take in the figure: average height, as darkly clothed as he himself had been earlier but complete with black ski-mask. What the well-dressed burglar about town was wearing this season, he thought.

Possessing the element of surprise, Larkin rushed forward, club raised, and brought it swinging down, aiming for the back of the intruder’s head. Unfortunately, the figure span round just as the club descended, diverting Larkin’s aim from his head, though Larkin was still able to land a solid and very nasty blow to the intruder’s right shoulder.

“Jesus
fuck
!” the figure shouted and turned fully to face Larkin.