The Mercy Seat (14 page)

Jamal nodded, wide-eyed.

‘Think there’s a connection?’

Jamal opened his mouth to reply, saw only the hotel room in King’s Cross. The shaven head, the blue-jewelled smile. FEAR, LOVE, muscle and leather. Death’s eyes locked on him like laser beams. The chase in cinematic black and white slo-mo: street noise pushed up, slowed down, like the howls of monsters.

Heard the words on the disc.

He shivered.

‘Dunno,’ he said, his voice pitifully small.

The other two exchanged glances, waited for him to speak further. He didn’t.

Donovan pulled out his mobile, looked at it, sighed, then began to punch in numbers.

‘Who are you calling?’ asked Maria.

‘The police,’ he said. ‘Out of our hands now. Up to them what happens.’ He looked at Jamal. ‘I’ll get them to come here. Listen to the disc. We just sit tight until then.’

Jamal stood up, looked at Donovan, his hands in front of him as if fending off blows. ‘Aw no, man, low it, low it …’

‘Sorry, Jamal, but there’s no sale. You’d better get your story ready for the boys in blue.’

Jamal looked around, his eyes staring, like a scared animal. ‘What about the money?’

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Donovan. ‘Police matter now.’

Fear crept into Jamal’s features. He thought of going back to Byker empty-handed. Of Father Jack’s reaction …

‘You all right?’ Donovan looked at him, genuine concern in his eyes.

Jamal’s throat was cold and dry. He swallowed hard. ‘What if,’ he said slowly, ‘what if I tell you about the other man?’

Donovan pressed a key on his phone, cut the call. He glanced at Maria, who frowned. ‘What other man?’

‘In the—’ He almost said room. ‘On the disc. If I tell you about him, will you keep the feds off, get me my money, yeah?’

Another exchanged glance. ‘Well,’ said Maria, ‘I’ll do my best. I’ll have to talk to—’

‘Money or no deal. But no feds.’

Donovan and Maria looked at each other.

‘Deal?’ Jamal was almost shouting.

Donovan sighed, looked at Maria, who shrugged, nodded.

Jamal looked around, as if someone was about to enter the room, drag him away. Without saying another word, he jumped for the door, twisted the handle, and, despite Donovan reaching out to stop him, was out of the room and gone. Donovan looked at a startled Maria, ran through the door and after him.

He saw Jamal disappearing round a corner at the far end of the corridor. Before he did, he turned to Donovan and, without slowing down, held his hand to his face, extending his thumb and little finger in the universally acknowledged sign of the phone.

‘Wait!’ shouted Donovan.

To no one. Jamal was gone.

Donovan stopped, panting, looked around, tried to pick up a trace. He saw double doors at the far end: the stairs. He made for them, thinking that was the route the boy would have taken. He banged through the double doors and down, trying to find a fast running rhythm that didn’t involve him jumping and perhaps falling. Trying to listen for some sign that Jamal was ahead of him.

He heard nothing but his own clumping feet, hard breathing.

Then out through the blond-wood doors on the ground floor, into the lobby. He scoped it: swaths of minimalist corporate fixtures and fittings. More blond wood, both real and laminate. Contrasting raspberry and orange chairs. Airport lounge lighting. People.

But no sign of Jamal.

He checked round corners, walls, drew curious glances from staff and customers, ignored them.

No Jamal.

He sighed and pushed through the double glass doors into the night. A sound behind him, he turned: Maria hurrying from the lift, joining him outside. He looked at her, shook his head.

‘Shit,’ she said.

Cold and rain hit them, making them immediately shiver. They looked around, saw only the streetlit, windswept northern night. Cars rushed past in blurs of light, like scurrying insects, carapaces slick and shiny with rain.

They ran to the end of the car park, looked up and down the street.

No Jamal.

‘What’s happening there?’ Maria pointed to the other side of the road. By the brick-walled entrance to a darkened
set of stone stairs stood a man and a woman. The man, suited and bullish, was gripping the woman’s arms, anger rising within him. The woman, blonde, wearing a black-leather jacket and jeans, was trying to pull away.

‘Domestic,’ said Donovan, eyes still sweeping the street. ‘Best not to get involved.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Maria. ‘Come on.’

She pulled him, running, across the road. They walked quickly up to the couple. In his anger, the suited man hadn’t noticed their approach.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Maria.

The man turned, ready to start on hearing another woman’s voice. Then he saw Donovan.

‘This whore,’ said the suited man, voice embittered by alcohol, ‘says she’s not working.’

‘I am not a whore,’ shouted the blonde woman, attempting to ready her hands and arms to strike him. ‘Now get off me, or I’ll—’

‘Just trying to give you a bit of business,’ said the man, not letting go. ‘What’s the matter? Putting the price up by playing hard to get?’

Donovan stepped forward, placed his hand on the man’s arm. ‘I think you’d better go now. Leave the lady alone.’

The suited man turned, looked down at Donovan’s hand. His red face, if anything, getting redder. ‘Get your hand off me,’ he spat. ‘What are you, her pimp?’ He gestured towards Maria. ‘This another one of yours?’ He gave a drunken, leering laugh. ‘I’ll have her as well. How much for them both?’

And that was it for Donovan. The night’s events had peaked. Broken.

With both hands he slammed the man up against the wall, winding him, then, while the man was still too surprised to retaliate, pinning him there by his neck. The man
gagged and spluttered as he attempted to breathe, arms flailing uselessly.

‘Now listen, needledick,’ said Donovan. ‘I’ve had a very bad night. And you’ve just capped it off. Leave the lady alone. And take your stinking, fucking self off somewhere else. Before I change my mind and fucking kill you. Got that?’

Donovan’s face was right in the other man’s; he was bellowing the words at him. Fear penetrated the man’s clouded bloodshot eyes.

‘I said, got that?’

The man swallowed hard, nodded.

Donovan didn’t loosen his grip.

‘Now, before you go, apologize. To my friend and this lady. For calling them whores.’

‘I’m … I’m sorry …’ he managed to choke out.

‘For?’ Donovan pushed harder.

‘… calling you … whores …’

‘That’s better.’

Donovan slackened his grip. The man began gasping for air.

‘Now, fuck off. And don’t let me see you here again.’

The man stumbled hurriedly off, then, when he had put enough space between himself and Donovan, bent double and retched all over the pavement. He looked back at Donovan, delivered some feeble and inaudible threat, then lurched slowly and unsteadily off. They watched until he was out of sight.

Donovan turned to Maria. ‘Welcome to Newcastle,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she said, looking into his eyes and trying a tentative smile to ease the tension. ‘My hero.’

Donovan wanted to return the look but didn’t trust himself. He looked at the blonde woman.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just wet.’

‘Can we do anything?’ said Maria. ‘Call you a cab?’

‘I … I was waiting for someone,’ the blonde woman replied. ‘Looks like he’s not going to show.’

‘Come into the hotel,’ said Donovan. ‘Out of the cold. We’ll call from there.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

They crossed the road, approached the hotel.

‘Oh by the way,’ said Donovan. ‘I’m Joe and this is Maria.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Peta,’ said the blonde woman. ‘Peta Knight.’

The hotel’s automatic glass doors admitted the three and closed silently behind them, shutting out the cold, the rain and the night.

Amar stirred his cappuccino slowly, letting the brown sugar dissolve at the bottom without disturbing the thick, foamy cap. Job done, he put his spoon in the saucer, took a sip. Perfect. The best cappuccino outside of Italy. Not that he had ever been to Italy. But certainly the best cappuccino outside of Bar Italia in Soho. And he had been to Soho many times. Particularly Old Compton Street.

The Intermezzo coffee bar fronted the Tyneside Cinema off Pilgrim Street in Newcastle. Once a run-down old Deco newsreel cinema, now restored as the premiere art house cinema in the north-east of England. Glass-fronted and glass-sided, the Intermezzo’s décor was modernist 1950s retro, the music mellow and Latin. Amar perched on a high, red-vinyl and chrome window stool watching the people ebb and flow along High Friar Lane, umbrellaed and damp, the Saturday-morning rain hitting the outdoor café tables and chairs. Around him, other drinkers separated sections from their morning broadsheets, read, drank and ate leisurely. He waited for Peta.

Another sip of coffee. His hand was shaking. Noticeably. He needed to stop, slow down, re-evaluate. He knew that. Surveillance with Peta during the day, acting as cameraman for a wealthy gay voyeur at night. Sustained by cocaine and caffeine, sleep snatched in odd moments or deposited and banked, ready to be withdrawn at some often postponed future date. Not a good way to live. He caught his reflection in the glass, tried to pretend the shadows and hollows
beneath his eyes and cheekbones were distortions cast by the overhanging clouds, the dark, grey day.

Last night had been intense. He had, not for the first time, become involved. Moved from paid observer to participant. Like nights previous, it had been fun, but the whole thing was starting to take its toll. He was coming down heavily, his body giving him payback for weeks of abuse.

But he wasn’t that bad, he told himself. He didn’t have that smell coming off him, that speed freak stink from the kidneys and liver not processing fast enough for the rest of the body. And his eyes weren’t reduced to pinwheeling pinpricks. He checked the glass again. Not yet, anyway.

‘Morning.’

Peta. Standing at the counter with coffee and pastry. Amar pushed his previous thoughts to the back of his mind, smiled, turning up the wattage.

She paid, walked over, sat on the stool next to him. Scrutinized his face, wrinkled her nose.

‘You’ve overdone the aftershave.’

Amar ignored her. ‘So how was last night?’ he said, voice slightly brittle and shrill.

‘How was yours?’ she said, still examining his face.

‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

She drew her concerned eyes from him, slipped into work mode, told him. About following the newbie and Creepy Si. About the newbie meeting someone.

‘Who?’ asked Amar. ‘A punter?’

‘No,’ replied Peta. She tore a strip off her croissant. ‘You should have some of this. Lovely.’

‘No, thanks. No carbs pass my lips. Only protein.’

‘I can imagine.’

Amar sighed. ‘Keep going.’

She told him about waiting outside the hotel in the rain, the businessman accosting her, mistaking her for a prostitute.

‘Why didn’t you use some of your Tae Kwon Do on him?’

‘I was about to, but then the newbie – whose name is Jamal, by the way – came running out right past me.’

‘And you went after him?’

‘No, he was straight off. And this guy was still badgering me, wouldn’t leave me alone. But then …’ She smiled. ‘My knight in shining armour rode to my rescue.’

‘What?’

‘Joe Donovan. He’s a journalist. From the
Herald
.’

Amar smiled. ‘Really? What’s he look like?’

‘Tall, long hair. Mid-thirties. Leather jacket and boots. Bit like that old cowboy actor from the 1970s. Sam Elliott? Yeah. But without the moustache.’ She smiled. ‘Not your type, I’m afraid.’

Amar made a face. ‘Too rugged. So when are you seeing him again?’

Peta shrugged. ‘Very soon, probably. He was the person Jamal went to meet.’

Amar frowned. ‘Personally or professionally?’

‘Professionally. And he was there with the paper’s editor, too. Maria Bennett.’

‘So what’s Creepy Si got to do with this? Is he selling out the fat man? What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know. I had a drink with them—’

‘Non-alcoholic, I hope.’

Peta sighed. ‘Yes, mum. Anyway, I tried to get them to talk, but they wouldn’t.’

Amar shook his head. ‘This is either very good or very bad news.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’ Peta took a sip of coffee, frowned. ‘If someone else is interested in Father Jack’s little enterprise and they get there before us, then everything we’ve done will be for nothing.’

‘And bye-bye Knight Security and Investigations.’

Peta sighed. ‘Exactly.’

They watched the rain through the glass. Behind them, love was declared in Spanish over a snake-hipped beat. The baristas discussed their Friday-night exploits in discreet/loud voices.

‘On the other hand,’ said Peta, turning to face Amar, ‘this could work to our advantage.’

Amar waited.

‘Think about it,’ she said. ‘They may be interested in the story but they don’t have any evidence. We do.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’

‘We keep an eye on Mr Donovan. We make sure that if and when he makes his move he does it with us.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

Peta’s gaze hardened. ‘I’ve come too far with this. I’m not having someone else just appear and beat us to it.’ She was breathing heavily.

Amar dug into his pocket, pulled out a roll of notes.

‘Speaking of which,’ he said, not keeping eye contact. He handed them to her. ‘Next month’s rent. For the office and the surveillance flat. I got paid last night.’

She looked at it like it would soil her hands to touch it.

‘Go on, take it.’

Reluctantly, she took it, pocketing it quickly with another sigh. ‘I just wish …’

‘I know. It won’t be for much longer.’

‘I’m not going to kiss goodbye to my business now, not after all the work we’ve done.
Herald
journalist or not.’

Amar nodded, tried not to yawn. He could feel his body beginning to grind to a halt. ‘Let’s have another coffee,’ he said.