Little Triggers (25 page)

Swanson sat down again. “You’re absolutely right, Mr Larkin. I agree. But one of the lessons I learnt early as a politician was work with what you have.” He leaned back expansively. “Here’s the part of the speech you’ve never heard before. You see, I also am under no illusions about my profession. Most politicians are corrupt, or at least in the pockets of the people who bankrolled their rise to prominence. Those are the people I have to work with. Self first, cronies second, voters way down the list. There was no point in me saying I was going to eradicate poverty, provide better housing, schools and hospitals, bridge the gap between rich and poor. For one thing, without complete redistribution of funds from Westminster I had no way of doing it. So what I’ve done is made a small start. The Rebirth Of The Region is a money maker. It will generate revenue for the whole of Newcastle. What I have to do is try and plough that revenue into projects that will make a tangible difference to everyone in this area, no matter who they are.” He took a gulp of his juice, looking pleased with himself.

“Well that’s all fine and dandy and peace and love,” said Larkin, “but forgive me if I’m just a mite suspicious. All this sounds like so much bullshit to get you noticed at Westminster.”

“Oh, I want to be noticed – make no mistake about that. But I want it to be for the right reasons.”

“And what about your Minister for Youth ideas?” asked Larkin, feeling on familiar territory now that Swanson had admitted his actions were less than altruistic. Now he could go in hard. “Why make such a fuss over people too young to vote?”

Swanson’s face became serious: his
Question Time
look. “Deride
my Rebirth schemes all you want. But don’t doubt my sincerity on children’s issues. I genuinely believe in the welfare of young people and children. They always get a raw deal. Remember – I have personal experience.” He caught himself becoming solemn, allowed his face to rupture into a grin. “And, yes, they’ll grow up into voters. And when they see the opportunities that have been created for them – by my projects – they’ll vote me in again. And again. I’ve got a lot of work to do, Mr Larkin. I intend to be around for a very long time.” He leaned forward to emphasise his words. “Think about it. If you were in a plane that was about to crash, who would you trust to get you down? A captain who cared only about the passengers’ safety and not his own, or one who himself had no intention of dying?”

Despite himself, Larkin was impressed by the man’s honesty. “So how do you propose to do this?”

“The first thing I needed was a committed staff. And the best way to get a committed staff is — ” He looked playful. “What, Mr Larkin?”

“Give them decent incentives?” replied Larkin.

“They already have those. Try again.”

“Make them share your vision?”

“Getting warmer,” said Swanson, his eyes twinkling, “try again.”

“Threaten them?”

“Bullseye, Mr Larkin! Best of all, a combination of all three. Focus my team’s minds. Keep them in line. And for that I’d need associates.” Swanson’s smile grew.

The sub-text behind the politician’s words slowly started to dawn on Larkin. “You … conniving little bastard! You set me up!”

“And didn’t you do the same?” Swanson’s expression was suddenly stern, business-like. “I needed results, Mr Larkin. I needed loyalty. I didn’t want any bad apples on our side. I’d known Ian Houchen for years. He’d done some investigating for me before and I knew I could trust him. He and I hatched the plot together. He was going to do it alone, but he decided he needed help to make the plan effective. He mentioned you. I knew of you by reputation and thought you sounded perfect for the job.”

“So you used me?”

“Don’t get high-handed with me, Mr Larkin. It’s exactly what you were doing, and for exactly the same reasons. Putting on a bit
of moral pressure.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Not pleasant being on the receiving end, is it?”

Larkin could feel the anger welling up inside. He sat on his hands to stop himself from lashing out. “So what about Houchen? How did he die?”

Swanson’s face lost its smile. “Ah. Well that’s where our story takes a rather disturbing twist. Houchen was killed because he knew too much. And I would like to see his killers brought to justice. But, again, I can’t do it alone. I need your help.”

Larkin was becoming intrigued, despite his better instincts. “Go on.”

“Right,” said Swanson, “I’m taking a big risk in trusting you with this. But I think I can. I think you’re on our side.” His face was earnest, wholly sincere. “In the course of us setting up our – little exercise to keep the troops in line, a tape came into Ian’s possession. A snuff tape. Extremely unpleasant. A recording of the death of Jason Winship.”

Larkin’s heart skipped a beat; his stomach turned over. “How?”

“You might not believe it, but Ian was a very good investigative journalist. One of the best. I paid him well, but he wasn’t one of society’s consumers, so I imagine his children will be well-provided for. He wasn’t the moral crusader type, just a bloody good workman. And he had a God-given gift for nosing out a story.

“Well, he knew someone who knew someone who knew someone … etcetera. You know how it is. The course of his investigations led him to a house in Northumberland which I believe you yourself are acquainted with.”

“Yeah.”

“Unfortunately, his spot of breaking and entering didn’t go unnoticed. Ian was terrified. He came to me and I took the tape and put it in a safe place. The person who owned it wanted it back and sent out his two pet Rottweilers to retrieve it. Unfortunately their efforts were a little over-zealous. The fire was a convenient cover-up.

“That left me with a dilemma. I wanted to expose the murderer, but I didn’t know how. You, on the other hand, were closing in on the paedophile who made the tape. So you were my best bet.”

Larkin was stunned. “But why didn’t you just go to the police?”

Swanson threw back his head and gave a bitter laugh that startled both of them. “You haven’t got it yet, have you? The reason I can’t go to the police is because Jason Winship’s killer – the person you
call the Third Man – is none other than Chief Inspector David McMahon.”

Larkin sat there in shock. He couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d found out he’d done it himself. “That’s ridiculous! It
can’t
be him!”

“Why not? Because child killers and child abusers are supposed to be sick little outsiders with no self-esteem? Oh, he’s all of that. He’s also very good at masking his true identity, and let’s not forget how well-connected the man is.”

Larkin sat in silence, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You still don’t believe me? Then try this. Remember the brother I told you about? The one who had the hellish childhood? Endured experiences that might send anyone a little crazy? Well, that’s him. Look what a monster he’s become. Conclusive proof of the nature-nurture argument, wouldn’t you say?”

Larkin stumbled to his feet. “This is the biggest load of bollocks I’ve heard in my life.”

Swanson stood also, his face deadly serious. “Look, I’ve had to live with the knowledge of what my brother is for years. But I thought it was only theory with him. I thought whatever – tendencies – he had were controlled. I didn’t think he’d take the risk, to be honest. I was wrong. And he’s gone way too far this time. He’s got to be stopped.” Larkin began to walk away. “What about the tape, Mr Larkin? If you saw that, would it change your mind?”

“It would certainly help,” said Larkin.

“And when you saw I’d been telling the truth? Would you help me?”

“If all this checks out, I reckon I would.”

“Then let’s go,” said Swanson, heading for the stairs. But as he reached the top step he stiffened, began slowly to retreat back into the room.

“What’s up?” asked Larkin. Swanson’s face was ashen.

“You might well ask,” said a half-familiar voice, ascending the stairs.

A figure was making its laborious way up, one step at a time. It seemed to be having trouble with its right leg. Nothing wrong with its right arm, though – an automatic was firmly clenched in the figure’s right fist. As the man reached the top of the stairs, Larkin
had no trouble identifying Umpleby. And the figure following close behind was none other than Grice.

“Remember the two Rottweilers I mentioned?” said Swanson, turning to Larkin, his voice shaking. “Well, here they are.”

“Dead right,” said Umpleby, a murderous gleam in his eye. “We’ve met your little friend before, Swanson. You mentioned something about going to get a tape. Not much point making two journeys. We’ll all go, shall we?”

Larkin and Swanson were marched, as inconspicuously as possible, down the spiral staircase and through the main bar of Milburn’s. Larkin was tempted to shout out that someone had a gun against his back and make a dash for it, but the bar was now full to bursting, and it would be impossible to run from the line of fire.

The four men made it eventually to the front promenade overlooking the Tyne. Since it was a warm summer evening, drinkers were spilling all along the waterfront, gossiping, guffawing. The crowds were less sparse than inside, however; it would be easier to dodge through. As he walked, Larkin mentally worked out his escape plan. Unfortunately his thought processes must have shown in his features because suddenly Umpleby’s twisted face was nose to nose with his.

“Don’t even think about runnin’, you piece of shit,” Umpleby snarled.

Larkin looked at him, holding eye contact. “You’re grimacing, Umpleby – what’s the matter? That knee giving you a bit of gyp?”

Umpleby drew back as if to strike Larkin but, aware of the watching crowds, struggled to contain himself. “Funny fucker. You’ll be laughin’ on the other side of your face soon.”

“My mother used to say that,” said Larkin with as much cockiness as he could muster. “I never did work out what it meant.”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Now, go.”

“Where?”

Umpleby gestured to Swanson who stood in front of Grice. The MP’s earlier bravado had disappeared; he looked defeated, crushed. “Wherever he says.”

“It’s not far,” mumbled Swanson resignedly.

They started walking, Swanson leading. Past the newly developed quayside area, all the way to where the completed buildings ran out and the skeletal husks of half-finished ones loomed. Frameworks of steel, surrounded by scaffolding and planking. Four main buildings, all to be interlinked, ten storeys high: the jewel in the Rebirth Of The Region crown. The area was surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped chainlink fence. The gates were, of course, locked.

“You got a key?” asked Grice insolently. “Or do we have to throw you over the fence?”

“I’ve got a key,” said Swanson, fumbling in his pockets. He found it and began inserting it into the padlock. Before the gate could open, Umpleby placed his hand on top of Swanson’s.

“There’s no guard dogs here, is there?”

Swanson shook his head.

“No cameras? Night watchmen?”

Swanson pointed upwards. “Surveillance cameras,” he said, turning the key, slipping the padlock from its chain and pushing the gate open. They entered the yard and stopped, waiting.

Swanson turned to them. “Look,” he said, his voice trembling, “there’s really no need for all this. I’m sure we can work something out.”

Umpleby and Grice didn’t reply; Swanson took that as his cue to continue. “I’m a very wealthy and influential man. This spot of bother could be sorted out quite amicably — ”

He was silenced by Grice swinging his pistol butt, slamming it into the side of Swanson’s face. He crumpled immediately to the ground, a spurt of blood flying from his mouth.

“Shuddup, man. We haven’t got all night.” Grice’s eyes were shining, as if the sight of blood had excited him.

“We’ve got work to do,” said Umpleby. He dispassionately regarded Swanson’s prone form. “Now, where’s the cameras controlled from?”

Swanson stumbled slowly to his feet. “Construction office. Over that way.” He didn’t look at Larkin, didn’t raise his eyes. He was beaten.

“Get a move on, then.”

The construction office consisted of two portakabins joined together. The first one was set up as a meeting and presentation room: whitewashed, chairs and a table, TV and VCR. The back room was clearly used as an on-site office; battered desks, phones,
old, chipped mugs in a dirty sink. On an end table sat two monitors hooked up to a VCR. The surveillance system.

Umpleby motioned to Grice, who crossed to the monitors, switched them off and removed the tape, thrusting it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll deal with that later,” he said.

Swanson crossed to the far wall and crouched down. Larkin realised he was examining a floor safe, cemented and bricked in, raised from ground level to the cabin’s floor.

“In here,” Swanson said, spinning the dial and opening the door. He pulled out a seemingly innocuous VHS tape in an anonymous white card slipcase. He straightened up and passed the tape to Umpleby.

“This the right one?” Umpleby asked.

Swanson nodded, eyes downcast.

“I wanna take a look at it.”

Swanson had expected Umpleby to say that. He moved through the other office and silently set up the TV and VCR. He took the tape from Umpleby and inserted it. The four men sat down in the dark to watch.

“Anybody got any popcorn?” asked Grice, sniggering.

Video static bounced off their faces. Then the tape began.

The first thing that appeared was a bare, brick wall, painted black. Larkin immediately recognised it: Harvey’s cellar. The sound was fuzzy; although the cellar was empty and silent, the atmospherics picked up by the cheap mic gave it a boomy ambience.

Suddenly the camera panned down, jerkily focusing on a young boy, naked. He was lying on the stained mattress Larkin had seen in the cellar. Jason Winship. He seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep; perhaps whatever they had plied him with was wearing off. He looked bruised, wasted.

The camera lurched back, was locked off. Into the frame came a hooded, naked man, middle-aged but in good shape, sporting an erection. He bent over Jason, caressing the boy’s cheek with the back of his hand. Jason’s eyes began to open, and his lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak. But he didn’t get the chance. His mouth was suddenly, and roughly, filled with the man’s penis.