The Mercy Seat (10 page)

And felt excitement at the thought of that, power. If he
wanted to he could just walk up to Caroline Huntley’s front door, buzz her flat and tell her everything. Give answers to all her questions.

If he wanted to. Which he didn’t.

He enjoyed that power. Conducting the orchestra of her despair.

He thrived on it.

The living room light went out. Shortly followed by the bedroom going on.

‘It’s no use trying to sleep,’ he whispered, voice gentle as if he were at her bedside. ‘Sleep won’t come until your mind is at rest. And your mind won’t be at rest for a long, long time …’

The bedroom light went out. The flat fell into darkness.

He smiled again, the streetlight glinting faintly off his blue-sapphire tooth, his shaved head. He inserted the earpieces of his iPod, pressed
PLAY
.

Mayhem:
De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas.

Pure Norwegian death metal.

‘Funeral Fog’, the first track, kicked in and his mind floated away. He rested his hands on the steering wheel, tapped along.

Mayhem: they sacrificed animals on stage. When their lead singer, Death, committed suicide, the drummer made a necklace from his skull fragments. The guitarist cooked and ate pieces of his brain and was then killed by the bassist.

Music as pure darkness. If he loved anything, he loved them. Loved the way they made him feel.

His mind floated away, but his eyes stayed locked on the flat.

He settled down for the night.

The phone rang. The noise startled Donovan.

He looked at it lying there on the sofa. Such a small
thing; such a big decision. He swallowed hard. Took a deep breath, then picked it up.

‘Joe Donovan,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation.

Silence on the other end of the line.

Donovan waited.

He heard breathing, experimental, as if trying out different phrasings, modulations, then: ‘Joe Donovan, yeah?’

The voice was young, hesitant.

‘That’s me.’

Donovan waited.

‘Got somethin’ for you, man. Took me bare trouble, yeah? So I think I should be well rewarded.’

Donovan smiled, felt a surge of excitement that had lain dormant within him for years.

‘Let’s talk,’ he said.

The housing estate was bleak to start with; the rain made it even worse.

Monolithic and crumbling, the remaining futurist 1960s urban parkland towers looked more like blocks of Soviet totalitarian prole containment. In their shadows, ground-level replacement community housing had degenerated into a maze of darkened walkways and alleyways, post-apocalyptic play areas, burned out and boarded-up shells. Now a quick-fix dumping ground for those consensually agreed to be socially undesirable. Thatcher’s twenty-year-old remark that there was no such thing as society used as both excuse and expiation for a forgotten area of the west end of Newcastle.

The west end of Newcastle. A land that spawned monsters.

The parents: poverty, bad housing, bad education, neglect. The offspring: crime, incest, hatred, nihilism. Drugs.

The bad magic badlands.

Keenyside stood in the back garden wasteland of a boarded-up and smoke-blackened house. As close to the wall as he could get in a vain attempt to avoid the rain. His overcoat, black and expensive-looking, was buttoned right up to his throat, collar up. Hands thrust deep into pockets.

He was being kept waiting. He didn’t like to be kept waiting.

It showed on his face.

From out of the rain, to his right, emerged a figure.
Short, poorly dressed and hurrying across the blasted mini-heath of stunted, skinny trees, sparse yellow grass, weeds, mud and animal shit that bordered the backs of the houses overlooking the Tyne.

Keenyside watched the man approach, fixing him with a baleful, unblinking stare. Eventually the man reached him. Stopped.

He was small, late thirties, aged more than his chronological years. Wearing leaking trainers, jeans and an overlarge overcoat pulled close, he shivered. The rain lent him a pathetic air.

‘You’re late.’ Keenyside’s voice was flat, uninflected, yet carried beneath it notes of rage and menace.

‘Sorry, Mr Keenyside.’ The man swallowed hard, flinched as if expecting a blow. ‘I’ve had to hurry from work …’

Keenyside stared at him, eyes boring like lasers.

‘Work?’ He gave a harsh, unpleasant laugh. ‘You work for me. First and foremost. Me. You’re only walking the street because I say so. Got that, Mikey?’

Mikey Blackmore dropped his head, nodded.

‘Good.’

Keenyside swept the area with his eyes, gave a swift, careful check for spies and eavesdroppers. Found none. Then back to Mikey Blackmore.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what you got for me?’

Mikey dug into his overcoat, hand trembling, brought out a badly wrapped bundle in a Co-op carrier bag. Keenyside gave it a disdainful look.

‘Can’t you wrap it better than this? Pathetic.’

‘It’s all there, Mr Keenyside. You can count it.’

‘Oh I will, Mikey. Later. For now I’ll have to take your word. Because you wouldn’t fuck me about, would you?’

His words, his voice, were morgue cold. Mikey looked away.

‘No, Mr Keenyside.’

‘Good. I know we understand each other.’

Keenyside pocketed the bundle in his overcoat, stared at the rain. Mikey waited, not daring to move until he’d been dismissed.

‘So,’ said Keenyside eventually, ‘what else you got for me? Talk.’

Mikey talked. He knew what Keenyside wanted. Information on the area drugs gangs. When new shipments were expected, how and where they were coming in, what local power struggles were taking place that could be exploited, who was on the way out, who was on the way up.

Mikey finished talking, waited.

Keenyside stood deep in thought. Eventually he nodded his approval.

‘Good stuff, Mikey. Very good stuff.’

Mikey couldn’t hide his relief. He sighed, noticed for the first time how much his legs were shaking.

Keenyside dug into his overcoat, brought out a bag containing several bundles, much better wrapped than Mikey’s had been, handed it over.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Coke to wash into rocks. Heroin. Make sure you stamp on it well. Some weed and some pills.’ He smiled. ‘Spread a little happiness. Now go and work your magic. Turn it into money.’

‘Thank you, Mr Keenyside.’

‘And remember.’ Keenyside stared at Mikey again. Hard. ‘Next time I want to see you, you’ll be on time. You’ll remember that it was me got you that job, that set you up in that flat and that allows you to go about your daily business unmolested. Remember.’

‘I do, Mr Keenyside.’

He grabbed hold of Mikey in one swift movement, pinned him up against the side of the house. The boards of
the window shook with the sudden force. Mikey looked terrified.

‘You’re well paid. For what you are. So have some fucking respect. And don’t be late.’

‘I … I … I … won’t … Mr Keenyside …’

Keenyside dropped his hand, loosened his grip, stepped back. Mikey almost collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Keenyside smiled. ‘Good. Now fuck off.’

Mikey turned and hurried away, almost running. He was soon lost in the dark maze of streets and shadowed walkways.

Keenyside watched him go, then turned and made his way back to the car. It was where he had left it, beside a row of garages, just off the road. A Jaguar X-type V6 looked out of place next to the old Mondeos, Astras and Peugeots that were parked nearby. It hadn’t befallen the same fate as the burned-out Nova next to it. But then it wouldn’t. Because people knew whom the car belonged to. And they wouldn’t dare touch it.

Because they knew what would happen to them if they did.

He climbed inside, checked he wasn’t being watched, opened the bag Mikey had handed him, counted the money. All notes, smoothed out like he had told Mikey to do. Nearly six thousand pounds. Not bad for a couple of days’ work. He sighed. But not enough. Never enough.

He placed the package of money in the glove compartment, locked it.

Drove away. Quickly.

He had been born there. But felt no love for it; nothing but contempt. Wanted to put as much distance between himself and his origins as possible.

But not far: only to the top of Westgate Road. Just past the General Hospital. Only a short geographical distance between where he had been and where he was now, but the
tree-lined streets and old Edwardian buildings marked a much bigger psychogeographical one.

Black-metal bars over all the Edwardian buildings’ windows. Keeping the bad magic badlands at bay.

He indicated, pulled off the main road and into a reserved parking space. He turned the engine off, checked once again that the glove compartment was secured and got out, centrally locking the car and activating the alarm as he did so.

Even though no one would dare break into it here.

Keenyside stopped, looked up at the building he was about to enter. Built in the late 1950s, tall and solid, it imposed itself on the surrounding area. Like a lighthouse, he thought, illuminating everything in its sweep.

Both lengthening and darkening the shadows.

He smiled, went inside. Past the front desk, where he exchanged pleasantries with a uniformed man sitting behind it, keying the number code into the pad by the inner door, gaining access to the building proper.

Then up to fourth, a few cheery hellos and exchanges concerning football and alcohol on the way, then into his office. His workroom. He looked at the open-plan desks, fed on the hum of activity. He made his way to the glass-walled office, throwing out greetings as he went.

Inside, and closed the door.

He took his overcoat off, shook excess water from it, placed it on its hanger, hung it in the cupboard. Sat down at his desk, smoothed his drying hair back, looked around to check he wasn’t about to be disturbed, picked up the phone, dialled a mobile number from heart.

He waited. It was answered.

‘It’s me,’ he said. Listened. ‘Line tapped? Only by me. Now, what you got for me?’

He listened to the answer. Smiled.

‘You’ve found him? Good. He got any word on our runner?’

He listened again. Was asked a question. Thought long and hard before answering. Thought of the six thousand pounds. How it was never enough. Thought of how much he stood to make. Chewed his lower lip. Smiled again. Decision made.

‘Do what you have to do. But do it well. Might just be some scummy fucking rent boy who won’t be missed, but I don’t want it coming back and biting me on the arse, right?’

He waited for a response, sighed again. ‘Yeah, I know how much a thing like that’ll cost. Don’t worry, you’ll get paid.’ Thought of how much money he would soon be making. ‘But no trail. Right?’ He listened. Nodded. ‘Good. Now what about the surveillance, anything there?’

The answer came.

He sighed again. ‘Good. Keep it up.’

He listened.

‘Right. When you’ve done that, I want you back up here. Time to step things up. Give proceedings a little push.’ He listened again. ‘Yeah, I know it’s difficult, backwards and forwards to Newcastle and London. But you’re the best, and that’s why I employ you.’

He hoped the flattery worked.

It did. ‘Later, then. You know when and where.’

He waited for the response, replaced the receiver. Expelled a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

He crossed his feet at the ankles, stretched back in his chair, the black leather creaking against his weight. He was aware of what he had just sanctioned. Aware that another line had been crossed.

He sighed, rubbed his face with his hands.

Had to be done, he told himself, had to be done. The rewards were worth the risks. And the risks would be great.

He smiled. Shook his head, tried to clear it.

Six thousand pounds. Not bad. Even with all the deductions.

All things considered, it had been a good morning’s work for Detective Inspector Alan Keenyside.

Si stood outside the door, thinking. He swallowed hard and, mind made up, knocked.

No reply. He knocked again.

‘Jack?’ he called.

Muffled, unhappy-sounding grumbling came through the door.

‘Fuck off,’ Jack called. ‘I’m asleep.’

Si waited. What he had to say was important, and Jack would want to hear it. But Jack was unpredictable, the line to be crossed changing by the hour. There weren’t many people or things Si had respect for, but Jack was one of them.

Respect. And fear. Mainly fear.

Si breathed heavily, knocked again.

‘Listen, man, it’s Si. I’ve got somethin’ for you.’

No reply.

‘It’s good. You’ll wanna hear this.’

From behind the door came a reluctant rumble of movement, a dragging of mass almost neo-tectonic in its heaviness, accompanied by a low, ominous growl. In contrast to this, the door was flung open so rapidly Si gasped and jumped back.

‘I’d fuckin’ better.’

Jack’s eyes were tiny rage-fuelled dots sunk into his pink, fat face. He looked like an angry pig. Si’s heart was beating rapidly.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said. ‘You’ll wanna hear this.’

‘Come in.’

Jack turned, walked back to the bed, sat down.

Si entered. The room was a tip. The detritus of Jack’s trade. Si didn’t flinch. He’d seen it all before. Been part of it before.

At first as the victim, the crying, snivelling new boy, broken in, broken down. He had been forced to enjoy it. And gradually he had been allowed to play the part of the aggressor. And he much preferred inflicting pain than taking it. Had learned to love it. So he had hung on to that, done everything Father Jack wanted, happy to please him. Because he knew the alternative. That the crying, snivelling boy was just below the surface and Jack could bring him out whenever the fancy took him.

Si tried to ensure the fancy never took Jack.

Jack sat on the bed, looked at him.

‘What?’ he said flatly. ‘This had better be good.’

Si swallowed. There seemed to be a stone lodged there. He spoke.

‘It’s the new boy, Jamal.’

‘What about him?’