Little Triggers (27 page)

Curling his arms around the horizontal beam, he slowly swung his legs backwards to gain momentum, then brought them quickly forward, wrapping them tightly round the upright girder. Once in position, he shuffled his arms along until he was able to grab the upright with first one arm then the other, clinging on for dear life.

Muscles screaming, palms slippery with sweat, he inched his way down. Once on the girder below, he chanced a glance upwards; Umpleby was edging his way round the side of the building, too
busy balancing to be waving his gun around. Good, thought Larkin. With any luck, the night and the shadows of the building would cover him. He looked round again. Of Grice there was no sign. Taking short deep breaths, he prepared himself for the next descent.

It wasn’t quite so painful this time; he managed to establish a rhythm. Even so, it still wasn’t something he would do from choice. Landing on the next level down, he looked around, checking he hadn’t been followed. But he was still alone.

He realised that this method of descent was too tiring and painful for him to make it all the way to the ground. His best bet would be to slide along to the ladders at the side of the building. Taking a few seconds to collect himself, to focus, he set off.

It was slow, agonising going. He made the first support, then the second. Then the third. One more, and he would have reached his target. He looked upwards. No one, nothing. That was beyond luck. That was unsettling. Still, he set out for the ladders.

He reached them without incident, grabbing the scaffolding and pulling himself onto the relative safety of the boards. He looked down. Nothing. He looked up. As if on cue, he saw a body being thrown, feet first, from a platform above. Even from this distance he could make out the figure of Swanson.

Larkin’s heart seemed to stop as he watched, waiting for the fall, knowing there would be nothing he could do to catch the body. But Swanson didn’t fall. He jerked to a sudden halt, arms stretched above him. It didn’t take Larkin long to work out that the politician had been tied to a scaffolding bar and left to hang there. Frantically thrashing, Swanson’s struggles showed Larkin that he was still alive.

Larkin knew he couldn’t leave him there. Even if he went to get help, Swanson would be dead when he returned. He was being used as bait, to entice Larkin upwards. Knowing he was walking into an ambush – but knowing also that there was nothing else he could do – he made his way grimly back up the ladders.

The nearer Larkin came to Swanson’s hanging platform, the slower his progress became. He was listening, trying to work out where the attack would come from. He heard nothing.

Larkin reached the platform, where Swanson was hanging over the side, secured to a scaff bar by a pair of regulation handcuffs.
Larkin could see that the force of the throw had dislocated both his arms. He was moaning quietly, his rational mind hiding somewhere beyond pain.

Larkin crossed to him, wrapping his arms round Swanson’s body, hauling him back onto the platform. Swanson’s legs came up easily enough, and Larkin tenderly laid the man out on the planking, leaving his useless arms still handcuffed to the bar. He cradled the man’s head. Swanson’s eyes were wide, glassy and completely empty.

“Hey! Fuckhead!”

Larkin turned at the voice, just in time to see Grice’s face peering through the hole leading to the platform above. In his hand he held his automatic, the barrel pointing towards Larkin, his finger squeezing tightly on the trigger —

Larkin quickly hurled his body out of the line of fire, rolling over, saved from toppling over the edge by a judiciously-placed scaffolding bar. There was a loud crack, and the side of Larkin’s head was hit with warmth and wetness. The air smelt of offal. But there was no pain, so … He looked round. Half of Swanson’s head was missing; he’d taken the bullet, full on. And Larkin was covered with Swanson’s blood and brains. He threw up over the side of the platform.

“Missed you!” the laughter was loud, uncontrolled.

Larkin pulled himself to his knees. Grice, his face a red mask from the earlier injury, was making his way down from above, grinning from ear to ear.

“Just like in the fuckin’ films! Fuckin’
great
!” Grice was wired; the killing had given him an all-time high. Larkin knew he would be hungry for more, so he swallowed his anger and fear, trying to calm himself down before he spoke, so he would choose the right words.

“You’ve got me now, Grice.” Larkin held his arms up. “You gonna shoot me too?”

Grice pointed his gun at Larkin, but stopped just short of pulling the trigger. “Naw,” he said, as a new thought struck him, “we’ve got unfinished business. Get climbing.”

Larkin saw he had no option. He cast a long, sad look at what was once Swanson, and started to climb.

It soon settled into the same pattern as before: Larkin climbing,
Grice’s gun sticking painfully into his spine at almost every step. They were nearing the top: one more set of ladders and they’d be there. Larkin resisted the temptation to look down.

“Where’s Umpleby?” asked Larkin, attempting to take the madness out of Grice with rational conversation.

“He’ll be here when he’s needed,” was Grice’s curt reply.

They climbed in silence until Larkin, hoping to make a last-ditch appeal to Grice’s conscience, spoke again. “So what about the children?”

“What children?”

“The ones whose photos you took out of Noble’s place. The abused ones. The missing ones. You ever wonder what happened to them?”

“Not really,” said Grice, disinterested. “Way I see it, they’re all little bastards anyway. Crooks in the making. Nothing you could do to them would make them any worse. McMahon said some of them ended up in Amsterdam – bloody good riddance, if you ask me.”

They carried on to the top platform. The view was magnificent, but Larkin wasn’t inclined to admire it. He’d never liked heights at the best of times, and this was far from the best of times. His heart pounding, he grabbed a girder for support and held on as tightly as he could. Grice emerged from the ladder and stood facing him, grinning.

“Now all you have to do,” Grice said with obvious glee, “is take three steps back. And then you’ll be gone. Or would you rather turn round and see where you’re goin’?”

Larkin remained silent, staring at Grice solemnly.

“You want my face to be the last thing you see?” Grice sounded like he hadn’t had so much fun in ages. “Fine by me. No last words? Nothin’ to be remembered by?”

Larkin kept staring. Suddenly, as he watched, a liquid shadow seemed to flow through the opening onto the platform behind Grice. It pulled itself up to its full height and Larkin was filled with unbelievable, wholly unexpected joy. Ezz. Larkin forced himself not to smile.

“I said,” Grice shouted, “have you got any last words?”

“Yeah,” said Larkin. “Look behind you.”

Grice emitted a short snort of a laugh. “Pathetic! Can’t you come up with someth — ”

The words were choked off in his throat as Ezz placed Grice’s
neck in an armlock. His other hand effortlessly relieved Grice of his gun.

“Do
you
have any last words?” he calmly asked Grice.

All Grice could manage were a few strangled expletives.

“Thought not,” said Ezz, and snapped his neck. The lifeless body crumpled to a heap on the platform as Ezz let go.

“Here,” said Ezz, throwing Grice’s gun to Larkin, “let’s make a quick exit.”

Larkin stood still, shaking. “Is he
dead
?” he heard his voice ask, like a child.

“Yeah.”

“You
killed
him!”

Ezz shrugged. “He killed that bloke downstairs. He killed Houchen an’ all. An’ Noble.”

“I thought that was you.”

“I know,” Ezz replied. “An’ it could have been me, I was all set to do it, but then they turned up an’ saved me the trouble. Don’t lose sleep over it. He was goin’ to kill you if I hadn’t got to him first.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Larkin asked. “You just happened to be passing and you thought you’d drop in?”

“I’ve been followin’ you all day. I was waiting for the right moment to make an appearance.” Ezz almost smiled. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?”

Larkin laughed, more to release tension than anything else. “That was almost a joke. I never thought I’d hear you make a joke, Ezz.”

“Yeah, well,” said Ezz, his usual icy detachment returning, “we’ll have to move. There’s another one still around somewhere.”

“Yeah. And we want him alive. He’s the only one who can prove McMahon murdered Jason Winship.”

“That policeman?” asked Ezz.

“Yeah. Come on – let’s get the hell out of here.”

They decided not to go straight down in case Umpleby was waiting for them; instead they made their tortuous way round the top of the building, searching for another set of ladders. As they were edging their way round, Larkin noticed the adjoining building. The two were due to be interconnected at some time during construction, and the space between them, at this point, was only about seven or eight feet.

“What d’you reckon, Ezz?” asked Larkin. “Put a plank across here and make it down the next one?”

Ezz stared at it, brow furrowed in concentration. “Might work. If we can find a plank long enough.”

“Let’s have a look.”

They scrutinised the planking. It all seemed to be of uniform length; two inches thick with metal-tipped ends. They pulled one up and, taking the weight on either side, brought it down to cover the gap. It made a reverberating, slapping sound as it connected with a scaff bar on the other side. But it held.

“Done it!” said Larkin. “I reckon we’ve got two inches at either side. I’ll hold it, you get across – you hold it, I’ll come. OK?”

Ezz nodded. Larkin held the plank firmly in place and Ezz stepped onto it.

Suddenly there was a zinging sound next to Larkin’s left ear, accompanied by a raising of dust and chips from the scaff pole. Larkin turned his head. Umpleby was making his way to where they were. He was throwing out his injured leg awkwardly as he walked, but there was no mistaking the gun held firmly in his hand.

“Hurry!” Larkin shouted. Ezz nonchalantly walked along the plank, not looking down, blithely indifferent, as if he were traversing someone’s living room Axminster. He neatly stepped off the other end, then knelt down to steady the plank.

“Your turn.”

Larkin gingerly stepped out, trying not to think of the space between him and the ground, or the armed maniac coming up behind him. His whole body was shivering with fear; his legs felt like they had diving boots attached.

“Come on,” said Ezz in his monotone.

Larkin edged his way out. From the corner of his eye he saw Umpleby getting nearer. The shakes increased. He felt like he was going to faint.

“Hold it together.” Ezz, trying to be reassuring.

Larkin shuffled his feet past the halfway point. His internal organs were flipping over so much, it felt as if they belonged to a family of circus acrobats.

Three quarters, then:

“Stay there, you bastard.” Umpleby had reached them. His gun was trained on Larkin.

Larkin froze. “Ignore him. Keep moving.” Ezz, more urgent now.

“I’ll shoot!” shouted Umpleby.

“You’re gonna shoot anyway,” Larkin shouted back.

Umpleby gave a brutal laugh. “Then I’ll have to make sure I get both of you.” He stepped onto the plank which bowed and creaked under the added weight. “Your mate’s not goin’ to move while I’m on this, is he?”

Larkin was rooted to the spot by terror. He could see the ends of the plank warping upwards, pulled away from their resting place by the extra bulk. Even iron-muscled Ezz wouldn’t be able to hold them in place. The slightest movement one way or the other – and it would be all over.

Larkin swallowed hard. If he stayed put, he was dead. If he walked he was dead. He had only one option.

He braced himself and locked his eyes on the scaff bar next to Ezz. Ezz gave a slight nod: he knew what Larkin was going to do.

Suddenly, taking a deep breath, Larkin tensed his legs and jumped.

As soon as Larkin bounced his weight off the plank, it spring-boarded in the air with him. Umpleby, taken by surprise, lost his balance. He tried desperately to remain upright, but his injured leg made him clumsy. Off he went. He dropped his gun, made one last, scrabbling attempt to reach the plank with his fingers. He failed. Plummeted. His face was a mask of terror and shock as he fell, emitting a shriek that dwindled the further he went. Eventually, it stopped altogether.

Larkin had a tentative hold on the protruding scaff bar, but the sweat on his fingers rendered the grip non-existent. He frantically scrambled to hold on, legs kicking furiously in the air, but it was no good. He felt himself start to follow Umpleby.

Then his arm was gripped firmly, pulled hard. And his whole body moved upwards as he was yanked over the edge onto the safety of the platform.

Larkin lay on his back, gasping in great lungfuls of air. He thought he’d never be able to move again. Ezz’s face and body loomed into view.

“Cheers, mate,” Larkin gasped, “I owe you one. In fact, I owe you fuckin’ loads.”

Ezz shrugged, but his lips almost twitched into a smile. “That’s OK.” He looked down. “There goes the last bit of evidence against McMahon. Shame about that.”

“Yeah,” gasped Larkin between ragged breaths, “bastard’s gonna get away with it.”

“We’ll see,” said Ezz vaguely. “There’s more than one kind of justice.” He looked down at Larkin, extended a hand. “Let’s get goin’.”

Larkin was tugged to his feet. He removed Grice’s gun from his pocket, wiped it carefully, and threw it after Umpleby.

They they made their way down and away.

Larkin sat in the small crematorium and stared at the coffin. The grim irony wasn’t lost on him: a man who had burnt to death was about to be burned in death.

The coffin containing Houchen’s already charred remains lay at the far end of the hall. Saltwell Crematorium wasn’t a huge place, which was just as well, since there weren’t that many mourners. Work colleagues made up the bulk, mostly seated towards the rear, with a smattering of family at the front. Larkin took a good look at Houchen’s ex-wife: a hard-faced woman who seemed to possess no grief to express; and her two children, a boy and girl, who appeared to be depressed beyond the loss of their father. Larkin knew the divorce had been acrimonious, and seeing the ex-Mrs Houchen he could understand why. So many unhappy families, he thought; such brief, sad lives.