Silvermeadow (49 page)

As she eased it off and handed it to him a hissing, gurgling noise came from the figure stretched out on the floor beside her. She glanced down and saw pink foam on Orr’s lips.

North backed over to the bed and emptied the pockets of Kathy’s coat without taking his eyes off her, spreading out the purse, handcuffs, wallet with warrant card. Then he told her to turn and stand over against the wall, hands and feet spread. She felt him come close against her back, the end of the silencer press against her temple, then his free hand feeling in the pockets of her jeans, then round under her sweater to the front of her shirt, unbuttoning it and feeling inside to her skin. The hand slid up to her breast, pausing there a moment, his breathing heavy in her ear, then continued feeling her front, her belly, then round to her back, tugging the shirt out of her jeans so that the fingers could feel over her skin, up to her shoulders, then through her hair.

The hand went round to her front again, to the belt and zip of her jeans, undoing them. She said, ‘No,’ and tried to twist round, but he grabbed her hair and banged her face against the concrete block wall, pressing the metal tube harder against her temple. Then he returned to what he had been doing, unfastening her jeans, pulling them down to her ankles and feeling up and down her legs. He pulled off her shoes, threw them aside, and stepped back.

‘Hands behind your back,’ he said.

She obeyed, and felt the handcuffs on her wrists.

‘Turn,’ he said. ‘Sit.’

She squatted against the wall, jeans still round her ankles. The blow to her head had dazed her; her brow throbbed painfully. She fought to control the trembling that threatened to take her over, and tried to concentrate on things outside herself—on Orr, lying a couple of yards away, wheezing and bubbling faintly.

North was sitting on the bed, examining her wallet again, when she heard something, a faint metallic clang, from outside the room. The metal door of louvres, she thought, and imagined someone making their way slowly along the connecting corridor to the door of this room. Please let it be Brock, not Sharon, she thought, staring transfixed at the door handle as it began to turn.

She glanced at North, still preoccupied with her wallet, then back at the door. It opened a few inches, then a few more, and she recognised Harry’s profile in the gap. She wanted desperately to call out to him, tell him to run, get help, but she guessed that North would start blazing away indiscriminately if she startled him, so she bit her lip and watched Harry in silence as he slowly took in the scene in the room, his eyes widening at the sight of Orr stretched out on the floor, Kathy against the wall.
Run!
she silently urged him, as he stood staring at her, then at North, seemingly unable to decide what to do.

Finally she couldn’t stand it any more. Terrified that he’d say something, she gave a little sharp warning shake of her head. But the movement registered with North, who looked up suddenly, first at Kathy, then at the doorway, and took in Harry.

‘Run, Harry!’ she finally blurted. ‘Get help!’

But instead of running, he began to walk slowly into the room.

Incredulously, Kathy watched him crouch beside Orr. Then she was aware of North picking up his gun at last. He waved it in the general direction of Harry and said simply, ‘He’s dead.’

Harry looked up, face grim, then got to his feet and stared at Kathy. He took in the livid mark on her forehead, the dishevelled clothes, bare legs. ‘Christ, Greg,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have to—’

‘What? You think I screwed her?’ North gave a short laugh. ‘I was looking for a wire. She’s clean. She doesn’t even have a gun.’

Jackson looked over at the contents of her pockets spread out on the bed at North’s feet, then in puzzlement at Kathy. ‘No radio? No phone? What do they teach you kids these days?’

Kathy felt a wave of panic and despair rise inside her as she finally understood. She saw that he was holding in his hand the note with Brock’s phone number that she had given Sharon, and wondered desperately if she had made the call.

She took a deep breath, trying to make her voice sound strong, in control. ‘We’ve got an operation going, Harry, searching for hidden rooms. It’s only a matter of time before the others move down here. I left my phone upstairs. I should have checked in ten minutes ago.’

He studied her thoughtfully, then shook his head. ‘That wasn’t what you told Sharon, Kathy. And it doesn’t make any sense to me. An operation? With this old geezer? And not even a can of capsicum spray on you?’

He turned back to North. ‘You been checking the radio traffic?’

‘Earlier, yeah. Nothing special.’ He reached down from the bed and switched on the radio on the floor nearby.

After a moment the unmistakable sound of a police radio exchange came through: ‘Oscar Lima, receiving seven one five,’ and the reply, ‘Seven one five, go ahead.’ The voices were flat and untroubled. ‘All quiet on Nelson Road, Oscar Lima . . .’

Harry Jackson turned back to Kathy. ‘Sounds more like you had one of your little brainstorms, Kathy. What, decide to crack the case single-handed, did you? Christ . . .’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do on Christmas Eve?’

‘She’s one of Brock’s,’ North said.

‘I know.’

‘So she’s not good to have around.’ He said this pointedly.

Kathy looked up at Jackson’s face, trying to read his reaction. He met her eye briefly, then turned away.

‘Let’s think about it.’

‘What’s to think about?’ North said. ‘Don’t worry, Harry. I’ll do it. My pleasure.’

‘We don’t know for sure what’s going on out there.’

Jackson went over to North and began speaking to him urgently in a low voice that Kathy couldn’t hear. She watched their expressions as the discussion went backwards and forwards. At the end of it, when Jackson got up from the bed and walked away, head lowered, hands in pockets, she couldn’t tell for sure which way it had gone, but it didn’t look encouraging.

‘I’m hungry,’ North said, casually picking up a magazine. ‘Get us something, will you, Harry? Nothing spicy; my gut’s playing up, stuck down here in this hole. Something with chips—fish or burger or something. And a decent bottle of plonk. It is Christmas Eve, after all.’

‘Sure,’ Jackson muttered. He turned to the door without looking in Kathy’s direction.

‘Don’t I get a last meal?’ she said.

North smiled, but said nothing.

Harry looked back reluctantly over his shoulder. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want you to get help for Orr,’ Kathy said. ‘Please, Harry. You can’t just let him die. Take him out of here and leave him somewhere and call an ambulance. If he survives he won’t be able to talk for days. Come on, Harry. It’s no risk to you.’

He smiled uncomfortably at her. ‘Nice try, Kathy.’ The tone of his voice chilled her. It was sympathetic, regretful, as if he didn’t expect to be talking to her again.

North said, ‘There’s some car keys in her bag, Harry. Maybe you’d better get rid of it.’

Jackson came back over to the bed and picked up her keys. ‘Yeah, I’ll bring it down beside mine, then I’ll close the service road for the night. Where is it?’ he asked her. ‘I know what you drive.’

‘Go fuck yourself, Harry,’ she said.

‘Suit yourself.’ He turned and made for the door.

As his footsteps faded away, North got to his feet and stretched, and for the second time Kathy braced herself, feeling sick in the pit of her stomach.

‘So, Kathy, is it?’ he said. ‘Your name?’ He began to stroll towards her, a little smile playing on his lips.

‘Yes, that’s right. A bit like Mandy.’

‘Eh?’ He stopped dead. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said my name is a bit like Mandy—two syllables, five letters—’

‘What do you know about Mandy?’

‘Which Mandy are we talking about? Mandy Rice-Davies? Or Mandy Bryant of twenty-three Tulip Court?’

‘Don’t get fucking smart with me, bitch. How do you know about Mandy?’

‘And Sophie. Well, how would we know? I mean, who do we know that knows about Mandy and Sophie? Now Sophie is two syllables and six letters. Like Connie. That’s a coincidence too, isn’t it?’

He was standing right over her now, glaring down, and Kathy smiled sweetly back up at him, feeling like a swimmer floundering through crocodile-infested waters. She watched him raise his hand and bring it down across her face once, twice. He seemed to like to work in twos, she thought: two bullets, two blows. One just wasn’t enough for Upper North. She heard his voice talking angrily, to her presumably, but she couldn’t make it out, what with the roaring in her ears and the shock of the pain where his rings had split her mouth.

He squatted down beside her and gripped her by the hair and spoke distinctly into her ear. ‘Tell me, you fucking bitch, or I’ll cut your fucking tits off. Who’s Connie?’

So he didn’t know about Connie. She wondered where the knife was. She hadn’t noticed one so far.

‘She’s Harry’s girlfriend, of course,’ she mumbled through lips that seemed to be inflating as she spoke. ‘Who also happens to be DS Lowry’s wife.’

‘And she told you about Sophie and Mandy?’ he hissed.

‘That’s what DS Lowry said.’

He pushed her head away so hard that she sprawled sideways onto the floor, arms trapped painfully behind her. From this position she watched his trainers stride away, then begin pacing backwards and forwards across the room. As they passed Orr, the prostrate figure groaned feebly and tried to raise a hand. North stopped, launched two vicious kicks at the old man, then continued on his way.

It seemed a very long time before they heard Harry Jackson’s footsteps again. Long enough for North to calm down and sit on the bed, and long enough too for Kathy’s hope that Sharon had phoned Brock to fade. At one point Kathy heard a faint rumble and creaking coming through the plywood ceiling of the room, and imagined Mount Mauna Loa erupting overhead for the benefit of the final shoppers, though the construction was sufficiently solid that they would never have heard any cry from her.

When Jackson came in, North waited while he put his burden of carrier bags down on the table, then got easily to his feet, walked over to Jackson and threw him against the wall. Jackson was a big man, six foot two and a couple of stones heavier than North, but he lacked the other’s violent energy, and was caught completely by surprise.

‘Wha—?’ he gasped, as North rammed a forearm across his throat and began haranguing him in a hoarse undertone. Kathy picked up the odd word, mainly obscenities and names: Connie, Sophie, Lowry . . .

Finally the angry monologue became a conversation, Jackson struggling to get the words out. She couldn’t hear exactly what was said, but the gradual shift of North’s tone, from fury to doubt to acceptance, was clear enough. She closed her eyes and waited for the retribution.

Footsteps—the click of Jackson’s boots coming towards her. She opened her eyes as he bent down and took hold of her by the arms and hauled her into a sitting position, then up onto her feet. He reached down and pulled up her jeans, yanked up the zip and stood in front of her with arms braced against the wall on each side of her head.

‘I don’t blame you for trying,’ he said, voice low, ‘but that was
really
stupid. Have you any idea what he’s like when he loses it?’

She looked past him at North, now ripping open the paper bags and taking handfuls of fish and chips while he fiddled with the controls of a small portable TV. It blared into life with the music of a cartoon programme.

‘How did you ever put your life in his hands, Harry? I did it by mistake. What’s your excuse?’

He held her eyes and said, ‘I got a letter today, Kathy, Christmas Eve. Me and Bo Seager, both. Our services are no longer required. The company would appreciate it if we would clear our desks and piss off.’

He glanced back over his shoulder at North, who was now humming to himself as he ate.

‘Now I’m a slow learner—it took me fifty years to figure it out—but I’m not so slow that I had to wait for them to tell me. You only get one shot at life, this is not a dress rehearsal, seize the day—all those old lines, they are
true
. You don’t understand because you’re young, Kathy. You think you have time to spare. Well, you don’t. None of us does. I finally understood that when Connie told me she wanted to leave Gavin for me, and I realised that this was my very last chance, and after this was nothing. And I looked back over my life, and saw it for how it had really been: fifty years fretting over pennies, stuffing around, making do. And I thought, No more,
no more
. I didn’t know what I was going to do about it, but I was going to do something.

‘That afternoon I walked through the mall, smiling at the shoppers, passing the time of day, and thinking, What a load of fucking zombies. Don’t you realise how utterly pointless you are? I’ve wasted most of my life trying to keep you safe—for what? And it was then I spotted Upper North.’

Perhaps North picked up his own name above the sound effects from the TV. He called over, mouth full of food, ‘What you talking to her about?’

‘I’m just putting this one straight on a few matters, Greg.’

‘What’s the point?’

Jackson eased back slowly from the wall. ‘Yeah, you’re right. There is no point.’

But there had been a hint of regret, and Kathy guessed he still wanted to tell her how it had happened.

‘Why didn’t you just go for the reward?’ she said quietly.

He looked her in the eye. ‘I checked that later. Ten thousand quid. About what I expected. Pennies.’

‘Honest pennies.’

He snorted and began to turn away.

She said quickly, ‘I can see how you were able to fool everyone else, Harry. I just can’t understand how you managed to fool yourself.’

He turned back, about to say something, but she cut in, ‘Murder isn’t like other crimes. You can’t balance a human life against cash.
He
can, but that’s what makes him different. You’ve persuaded yourself you can live with it, but you’re wrong.’

Jackson shook his head slowly. ‘No. We don’t have a choice between life and death, Kathy, only between death today and death tomorrow. Enough of my friends have passed away over the years for that to finally sink in— everybody dies. Once you really accept that, that it’s not a matter of
whethe
r but of
when
, it puts everything else into perspective. Him’—he nodded down at the figure on the ground—‘he’s dying a couple of days or a couple of months before he might have done. So what? He’d only have wasted the time anyway. I can make better use of it than him.’