Little Triggers (23 page)

“Great,” said Andy. “That makes me feel so much better.”

Ezz didn’t move; didn’t even acknowledge their presence. As they reached the car, he came to life. “Is he dead?” Ezz asked.

“Yeah,” said Larkin uneasily. “Ezz – that wasn’t anything to do with you, was it?”

Ezz shrugged. “Dead,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Larkin. “That seems to be it. He’s dead. And apparently he confessed to killing Jason Winship before he topped himself.”

“No!” Ezz grabbed Larkin’s arm, looked straight into his eyes; Larkin was more than a little surprised. He saw something in Ezz’s eyes that he had never seen before. Emotion. Alarm? Anger? He couldn’t tell. Ezz continued talking, his voice almost imploring. “It’s not over yet. I can feel it — ”

“You may well be right,” said Larkin, “but I have to go now.” He looked down at Ezz’s hand, still gripping his arm; Ezz took the hint and immediately dropped it. Larkin opened the car door, swung inside.

“Let me know what happens,” said Ezz. Was that really desperation Larkin detected in his voice?

“I will,” said Larkin, and Andy started the engine.

As they pulled away, Larkin looked back over his shoulder. Ezz was still standing there. He looked lost, vulnerable. Like a boy who’d ventured far from home, and didn’t know how to get back.

The Man was alone now, ensconced in his own private den. He sat back, stretching his legs under his desk, crossing his ankles. Taking his iced malt in small, measured sips. Safe.

His lucrative private enterprise was gone. Destroyed. No matter. Only money. And although his empire was presently being dismantled and closely examined, there was no part of it that could be traced back to him. He mentally patted himself on the back for that, and once again went over his plan for damage limitation, checking for flaws.

Power. There was no point in having it if one wasn’t prepared to wield it. And he’d done that, all right. James had already been scapegoated; Colin would follow. And Alan? He was beyond reach. They were the three people he had known most intimately over the years. But they were expendable. If it came down to them or him, he would win, every time. This was self-preservation: he felt no remorse.

And the boys, all those boys … gone. All traces, all mementoes – destroyed. There would be others, but for the time being he would have to content himself with waiting. Planning.

Not even his brother could stop him now. Nor that do-gooding journalist, nor his bitch of a girlfriend. They would soon be taken care of. Permanently.

He smiled, feeling the crackle and buzz of power surround him like a magnetic field. Yes, he thought. Safe.

Back in the office, Larkin wrote his account of Noble’s suicide. He stressed that Noble had confessed to Jason Winship’s murder, but also intimated that there was still another person wanted in connection with the whole thing: someone who could blow the whole affair wide open. He said he expected the identity of the man to become known in the next few days – that the police were on his tail.

“Let’s see if that counts as proper reporting,” Larkin said to himself grimly as he put the piece to bed.

He let himself out of the office, drove to Scotswood and crashed on Jane’s sofa. For the first time in ages his sleep was long and peaceful.

The next morning he was woken up by a newspaper, flung at his chest.

“Who’s a star, then?” said a familiar female voice.

He pulled himself on to his elbows to see Jane smiling at him, mug of coffee in hand. She was silhouetted against the translucent curtains, her shape accentuated by the jeans and vest top she wore. Larkin began to feel a tingling sensation in his loins.

“Good sight to see first thing in the morning,” he said.

She knelt down beside him, placing the coffee on the floor. “I know exactly what you’re thinkin’,” she said with a laugh, “and we haven’t got time. Alison’s in her room and I’ve got to go to work.”

“And that’s more important, is it?”

With a salacious smile slinking its way across her face, she pulled the material of her vest top to one side to expose her small, firm left breast, holding it up and massaging the nipple. Before Larkin
could do anything except get aroused, she rearranged her clothing, stood up, and fixed him with a mock-stern stare. “That’s enough for now. You’ll get the rest later.”

Alison chose that moment to wander in, and she and Larkin exchanged morning greetings.

“Look,” said Jane, “I’ve got to go. Well done on this.” She pointed to the paper.

“Thanks. Everything all right at the centre?”

“Everythin’s great. Social Services came to talk to Lorraine. Trevor and Daniel yesterday. Lorraine came to see me to say thanks. It’ll be a struggle, but they reckon everythin’s gonna be all right there. Wounds heal quicker at that age.” She sighed. “Shame James had to end up the way he did, but …”

“Maybe it’s better this way,” Larkin concluded for her.

She nodded bleakly, lost for a moment in self-reflection. “Anyway,” she said, “all we need is notification of our grant renewal, and we’ll be up an’ away.”

“I’ll see what I can do about that. Reckon I can pull a few strings.”

She smiled, and her face lit up with genuine joy. “I think you’ve done more than enough already!” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “And I’ll see you later to give you a very special thank you.” She kissed him and, taking Alison by the hand, left.

Alone, Larkin grinned to himself and picked up the paper. “Stop smirking, you daft bastard,” he told himself. “You’ve got work to do.” But as he read through his article, he couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth twitching unconsciously upwards.

Once Larkin had dressed, he was hungry to go hunting. The Third Man was close – he could feel it. The first thing to do was collect Andy, so he headed down to the quayside, to the same beige aircraft hangar of a hotel that Larkin himself had stayed in on his return to Newcastle. He remembered enough of the layout to dodge the receptionist, and made his way up to Andy’s room.

He gave an officious knuckle-rap on the door. “Room Service,” he said briskly.

From deep inside the room he heard a grumbling voice and the reluctant creaking of bedsprings. The door opened and there stood Andy, towel round his waist, eyes barely open.

“Morning, Andy,” said Larkin, brushing past him into the room. “Hands off cocks and on with socks, as my mother used to — ” He stopped dead in his tracks, mouth gaping. There, in Andy’s bed, was Carrie Brewer.

“Good morning, Stephen,” she said, the sheet clasped over her breasts. She gave him a triumphant smile.

Larkin turned to Andy. “What’s she doing here?” he attempted to hiss under his breath.

Andy held his head down, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Come ’ere,” he said, and pulled Larkin into the bathroom, shutting the door behind them.

“Good vengeance fuck, was it?” Larkin asked once they were safely out of earshot.

Andy looked uncomfortable. “I know you won’t believe me, but I didn’t plan it this way. I just went back to Noble’s place last night, tried to get some pictures an’ that, right? An’ she was still there. We got talkin’, one thing led to another, and …” He shrugged.

“I thought you didn’t like the woman?”

“You don’t have to
like
them,” Andy replied, as if stating the obvious. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

Larkin looked at Andy, then at the door. There was no way he was going to talk about work with Carrie Brewer lying in the next room. “Nothing,” he lied. “I just wondered if you fancied grabbing some breakfast, perhaps hitting a few bars later on.”

“Yeah,” said Andy, perking up. “That sounds cool.”

“No, don’t bother,” said Larkin, jerking his head in the direction of the bedroom, “you’re already tied up.”

“Tied up? About the only fuckin’ thing she hasn’t done. Fuck me, she’s made me work. I’ve lost two stone since you last saw me.”

“Well,” said Larkin, making for the door, “another time, yeah?”

“Smashin’,” Andy replied.

Larkin let himself out, shaking his head at the perfidy of male sexuality, and went looking elsewhere for help.

It was approaching lunchtime by the time Larkin found himself walking up the rickety stairs to the first floor at the back of a Chinese restaurant on Stowell Street. He knocked on the door, and when it wasn’t immediately answered he went on knocking. He wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

Eventually, Moir opened up with a grunt and walked back inside, leaving the door swinging. Larkin followed, taking it for an invitation. Moir was in the process of redecorating. He was systematically pulling down from the walls and board all the information that had accrued on Jason Winship and neatly – by his standards – depositing it into half a dozen box files that lay open on the desk.

“Moving house?”

“Case closed, isn’t it?” replied Moir gruffly. “Justice has not only been done, but has been seen to be done. No point in leaving all this lying around.” He dropped a photocopied picture of the dead boy’s face into a file and closed the lid. Looking weary, he sat down on the swivel chair; the springs screamed for mercy, but he wasn’t giving any.

Larkin opened his mouth to speak.

“And before you say anything,” Moir continued, “the results have come back from the path lab. The prints in the flat were all Noble’s, the wounds on his body look to be self-inflicted and are consistent with suicide. None of his neighbours saw or heard anything or anyone suspicious. Including you. Admittedly, the folks round there are about as likely to help the police as they are to discuss their personal finances with the DSS.”

Moir leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “And that’s that. The end. Sometimes a bang, sometimes a whimper.”

“But what about the Third Man?” asked Larkin. “Can’t Harvey finger him?”

Moir straightened up. “You mean you haven’t heard the news?”

“I’m taking a day off. Tell me.”

Moir sat back expansively. “Harvey’s dead.”

Larkin took the news like a physical blow. “What?”

“Hanged himself in his cell at Clayton Street nick. Wasn’t seen as a potential suicide – which I find hard to believe in the circumstances – but news of Noble’s death must have tipped him over the edge. Reckon the Clayton Street lot thought it’d save the taxpayer the expense of a trial.”

Larkin was in shock. He began pacing the room in disbelief, until a sudden recollection stopped him in his tracks. “Wait a minute,” he said. “When I asked Harvey about the Third Man yesterday, he started shouting, saying ‘I’m dead, I’m dead!’ Perhaps it was the Third Man who killed him. And Noble. Or somehow had them killed.” Larkin was warming to his theme. “Swanson, or one of his
cronies, they could have crept in – I don’t know, even persuaded someone on the force — ” He broke off and looked at Moir. “What’s the matter?”

Moir was sitting motionless at his desk. The shakes from the day before had disappeared, but the policeman seemed to have aged ten years in the last two days. He sat staring, as if he’d forgotten where he was.

“I said, are you all right?”

Moir’s thoughts jerked back to the present. “Yeah, fine.” He searched his memory for the thread of the most recent conversation. “Yeah, that sounds like a good theory. Look into it if you want to,” he said, a marked lack of interest in his voice.

“You don’t want to help?”

“My job’s done,” Moir said, in a tired voice. “Noble’s dead, Harvey’s dead, I doubt anyone will mourn their passing. The two boys are recovering nicely, it’s all tied up. Bloody shame about little Jason, but — No, everything’s fine.”

“What about Haining? You found him?”

“Either gone to ground or gone back to Amsterdam. The latter, I expect. We’ll get him eventually, now we know who he is.”

Larkin was concerned. The longer Moir sat there, the more distant, the more strange, he seemed to become. Larkin perched on the edge of the desk. “Henry … are you really OK?”

Moir sighed, rubbed thick hands over his stubbly jaw. “This whole thing … It’s unsettled me.” He glanced up quickly, caught Larkin’s eye, looked down again. “I’ve had enough. I’m … I’m tired. I might take some time off. I’ve got some … things to think through. Decisions to reach.”

“Difficult ones?”

Moir gave a snort. “Are there any other kind?”

Larkin stood up. He had a fair idea of what Moir was getting at, and thought he was best left alone. “Let me know,” he said, and left.

Alone. That’s how it would have to be. Larkin sat in the car, mobile to his ear, pen and paper in hand, waiting for the phone to be answered. He knew there were plenty of other things he could be doing – assessing the full extent of the damage to his house, calling the insurance company – but that would have to wait. He was on
to something and he wouldn’t – couldn’t – let go.

He had spent the last hour and a half trying to get through to Swanson. The MP was either in a meeting, or not taking calls. So Larkin was trying yet again, without much hope, on the direct line he’d been given for Swanson’s office.

After three rings, it was answered by a female voice, dripping with bionic super-efficiency. Larkin explained who he was and why he was calling. Again he found himself on hold.

Suddenly, the bionic woman was back. “Mr Swanson says he’s tied up in meetings all week during business hours, but he can see you at eight thirty tonight, at Milburns. How does that suit you?”

Larkin said that suited him just fine, and the woman broke the connection, but not before telling Larkin that Mr Swanson was looking forward to meeting him.

“I’ll bet he is,” said Larkin.

Larkin spent the rest of the afternoon stocking up on clothes to replace his destroyed wardrobe. He even bought himself a new suit and shirt for the evening’s meeting, liking it so much he walked out of the shop wearing it, his old clothes bundled into a carrier bag. He was charged, hyped-up. He drove down to Jane’s; partly to see her, tell her what was happening, but also to show off his new finery. He laughed to himself when he realised what he was doing. Strutting around like a peacock out to attract a new mate. Well, he thought, it was a long time since he’d had someone to impress.