The Mercy Seat (38 page)

Caroline shook her head.

‘I wanted Keenyside’s complicity.’ Colin’s eyes danced with electricity. ‘Photographic evidence of him breaking into NorTec and committing a criminal act. And thanks to Gary Myers, I got it.’

Caroline rubbed her forehead, her eyes. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this …’

‘Caroline …’ He stretched out a hand.

‘Don’t fucking Caroline me!’ She tried to stand up, pull away from him. The cuffs reminded her she couldn’t. ‘You’ve had an ex-boyfriend of mine seriously hurt, destroyed innocent people’s lives, and now you’re telling me you’re some kind of cross between a criminal mastermind and James fucking Bond!’

‘Please don’t swear, Caroline. You know I don’t like it when you swear.’

That sounded more like her father. Or one aspect of him: the picky, pedantic paternalist she tolerated until the warm, friendly one returned. Hearing that, she now didn’t know
which aspect represented her real father. The one she loved. Perhaps all of them.

Perhaps none.

Caroline tried to speak. The words were exasperatedly choked off in her throat. She fought for control. Regained it.

‘So what happened next? A car chase through the streets of Ponteland? A giant death ray aimed at Morpeth? What?’

Colin sighed. ‘I realize it must sound ridiculous …’

Caroline snorted.

‘But it’s true. Things like this happen all the time and we never get to hear about them. Secrets and lies. The way of the world. Real life isn’t what we see every day. Real life is what happens under the surface.’

‘I think I’m well aware of that now.’

Silence fell again. The lockup seemed especially cold.

‘So,’ said Caroline eventually, ‘where did it all go wrong?’

‘Well, Keenyside may be a fantasist, but he’s a dangerous one.’ Colin gave a sad little laugh. Looked around the lockup. ‘I didn’t realize how desperately he wanted to believe in it.’ Locked eyes with Caroline. ‘I misjudged him.’ He dropped his gaze. ‘Sorry.’

Caroline said nothing. They sat in silence for a while.

The light faded in Colin’s eyes. He began to resemble a sick old man once more. His voice was tired now.

‘Well, things came to a head. Gary Myers and I met regularly in the King’s Cross hotel room. Gary ran everything by the
Herald’s
lawyer, Francis Sharkey, to get a legal standpoint. He liked the sound of it. So much so that he wanted in. It made sense. Extra bit of security, avoiding entrapment. Gary and him would pose as buyers, have the meeting. Sharkey also wanted a full first-hand record of the plan. So I told the whole thing to Gary and he committed it to minidisc.’
Colin sighed. ‘Unfortunately, he never had a chance to do anything with it, poor bugger.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Keenyside was having me followed. Obviously didn’t want to lose his investment. Well, you’ve met Hammer. His barely house-trained psychopath.’

Caroline shivered from something more than cold.

Colin continued, his features in shadow. ‘Hammer … found me. Brought Gary and me here. We made a deal with each other. Don’t tell them about the sting. Make out I had an attack of conscience and talked to a journalist.’

He shook his head. ‘But then there was the disc … what Keenyside would do when he heard it.’ He sighed. ‘But that didn’t happen. The minidisc player with the disc inside it went missing from the hotel room.’

‘How?’

‘No idea. But it never turned up. If it had, I doubt we’d be alive.’

Caroline looked at her father. She wanted to tell him he was being melodramatic, but seeing his sad, old, tired eyes she knew he was telling her the truth. She looked away.

‘I was needed to make the call,’ said Colin. ‘And you were needed to make me make the call.’

Caroline’s voice was quiet. ‘But now you’ve done that.’

Colin nodded.

Silence, cold and hard, filled the room up to bursting.

‘And it was answered,’ said Colin, his voice lifting lightly. ‘I never expected that.’ He looked at his daughter, a faint glimmer of hope dancing behind his eyes. ‘If the call was answered, it means the meeting is set to go ahead. It means there’s a chance we’ll get out of this alive.’

Caroline sighed. ‘Our only chance.’

She drew her knees up to her body, wrapped her free arm
round them, lowered her forehead. Eventually there came the sounds of muffled sobbing.

Colin watched. Unable to approach her, unable to comfort her.

He turned away, looked at the floor, sighed.

Said nothing.

The bus pulled up to the stop, disgorged its passengers. Westerhope on the westernmost fringes of Newcastle. Late-autumn early-evening darkness. The threat of winter in the air.

Janine walked her usual route home. Over the pedestrian crossing, turning left off the main road, going further down, then left along the hedge-lined alleyway running by the side of the church. She always worried about that path. It was well lit but lonely, the hedges casting deep shadows into the churchyard.

But tonight she would walk it. Because she was feeling good. She was about to come into money.

She had to admit, she had taken some convincing. But Mikey had managed.

Mikey. She smiled.

Janine had found him creepy at first, the kind of person your parents tell you to avoid when you’re younger. But he wasn’t like that when you got to know him. He was a sad little man, really. Even sweet in his own kind of way.

But not that sweet. Not sweet enough.

Footsteps behind her. She took a sharp intake of breath, turned, quickly.

No one.

She breathed out. Berated herself for panicking.

Her recent experiences with Alan Keenyside had left her shaky. Another deep breath. She rationalized. Other people used this footpath. Plenty of them. It was just a normal commuter short cut.

Just in case, she quickened her step.

Heard footsteps behind her again.

Probably no one. Not a monster, at any rate. Just someone on their way home from work. Or Mikey.

She sighed. Sad though he was, she suspected he could become a nuisance. She would have to be firm with him. Tell him that she wasn’t interested in him. Perhaps they could be friends, but …

The footsteps got louder, came closer.

It would be Mikey. She knew it now.

She turned, ready to show him her irritation, hear what pretext he had followed her home on, see his morose little face drop further when she told him to go away.

But it wasn’t Mikey.

He was big, shaven-headed. Powerfully built. Violence emanated from him.

Her eyes showed fear. He smiled. Streetlight caught the blue-jewelled tooth in his mouth.

Her legs felt as if they had been set in concrete.

She screamed, but no sound came out.

He advanced, raised his hands.
FEAR
and
LOVE
.

Coming towards her at an unavoidable speed.

Those words the last thing she saw before darkness brutally, forcefully, claimed her.

Donovan stared at Sharkey. Sharkey looked around the room, saw Peta, Jamal and Amar staring at him, too. None of them smiled.

‘Well?’ said Donovan.

Sharkey ostentatiously cleared his throat. Pulled his silk dressing gown about him. ‘I tried to tell you …’ The words sounded weak.

Donovan said nothing. Remained unblinking.

Sharkey shifted uncomfortably on the hotel chair, as if his buttocks were hot. ‘You wouldn’t listen …’ Even weaker.

Sharkey’s hotel room. Nearly midnight.

Donovan had phoned Amar on the way back from Jaywick, told him to come to his room at the hotel, bring Jamal. An information-sharing session. Urgent.

Donovan was pleased to see Jamal. Surprised, in fact, at how pleased. Judging from the smile Jamal had given him, the feeling was evidently mutual. The boy looked relaxed, thought Donovan. Happy, even.

Then quickly down to business.

Peta and Donovan told of their meeting with Tosher. Amar went one better, played the recording of Jamal explaining what had been on the minidisc.

A sullen silence had followed. Broken when Donovan strode out of the room and down the hall. Banged frantically on Sharkey’s door, shouted his name.

Sharkey had let them in, complaining about the noise but shutting up when he saw Donovan’s expression. Donovan
pushed him back into the room, straight on to a chair, told him what he had just learned. The others followed.

Donovan stood over the sitting lawyer, crossed his arms. Sharkey flinched at the movement. Donovan said nothing, stared, allowed his brain to process the information he had just absorbed.

Outside, the final Metro train of the night crossed the bridge. Inside was silence.

‘Maria,’ said Donovan eventually, his voice controlled, ‘was sent to Newcastle by you because that’s where the story was. Or rather, was going to be.’

Sharkey raised his hands, tried to protest. ‘Ah. Now that’s not fair. I was—’

Donovan talked over him. ‘But you couldn’t tell her what was happening, could you? You wouldn’t even give her that respect, that decency.’

Sharkey tried again. Donovan ignored him.

‘You couldn’t. Because she might have called the whole thing off. Or gone to the police, spoken to someone.’ Donovan was breathing heavily. ‘And if she’d done that, she’d still be alive. And this little sting of yours wouldn’t have gone massively out of control.’

‘And why you, anyway?’ Donovan’s teeth were clenched tight. ‘Why were you so bothered about all this?’

‘Because,’ Sharkey said, ‘in my profession I’ve met a sickening amount of bent, amoral, even murderous coppers, and to have the opportunity to personally dispose of one was too good to miss.’

‘And grab the glory.’

Sharkey looked affronted. ‘I have more morality than you think.’

Donovan turned away from him, shaking with anger. And in that rage came another epiphany. He turned back to face Sharkey.

‘You never had any information for me, did you? Nothing that would lead me to David. Nothing that would help me find my son …’

Sharkey stood up, hands before him as if preparing to ward off blows. ‘Ah,’ he said, scrabbling for his courtroom identity. ‘In mitigation, I never said I did. If you remember, I quite distinctly said that we would give you access to as many resources and files as possible, plus the means to follow up any leads or sightings. My words were very specific.’

Donovan, breathing harder than an enraged bull: ‘Course they fucking were …’ He grabbed him by the front of his dressing gown, slamming him against the wall.

‘Bastard!’ shouted Donovan. ‘You fucking bastard!’

‘Look,’ gasped Sharkey, winded, ‘we needed you for this.’

‘We?’

‘All right, me. When Myers went missing and your name was reintroduced, I thought you’d be perfect for taking care of things instead, if needs be. When Gary turned up dead, I knew you had to be.’

‘What d’you mean?’

Sharkey sighed. ‘It had to be someone unknown to Keenyside but someone with comparable skills and talents to Gary Myers. Someone who knew the background. You were perfect.’

Donovan stared at him, eyes blazing. Too angry to speak.

‘Unfortunately,’ Sharkey continued, ‘you weren’t in quite the right frame of mind for the job. I needed something to sharpen you up.’ His voice dropped. ‘That’s why I made you the offer.’

Donovan stared at him, eyes aflame, teeth bared.

‘Look,’ said Sharkey, exasperation overtaking his voice, ‘I needed you to have your wits about you when the call came in.’ He risked a smile. ‘And it’s come. Colin Huntley
is alive and the deal is still on. All it needs is for you to front it.’

Sharkey raised his eyebrows: a question.

Donovan could no longer look at the man. He spun him round, threw him to the floor. Began kicking him.

‘Bastard! Was it worth it … was it … you fucking bastard …’

Sharkey rolled round, tried to avoid the kicks, stop them from doing too much damage. Donovan kept going, all his pent-up anger channelled into the attack.

Peta and Amar were on him. One on each side, dragging him back, forcing him to the far corner of the room, holding him against the wall until his anger had dissipated.

Jamal covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh my days …’

Sharkey lay still, tried to regain his breath. Slowly, he began to pull himself up. Pain lanced through his ribcage. He managed to prop himself up on his elbow, used the bed as leverage to reach his feet. Once upright, he felt his sides. They hurt.

He looked at Donovan; malevolent death beams lasered from his eyes.

‘So,’ said Sharkey, straightening his dressing gown, smoothing down his hair, ‘do I take that as a yes?’

It took three attempts, but Mikey finally got the key in the lock.

He pushed the door, lost it to his fingers, heard it slam back against the wall. A dog began barking further down the block. Mikey ignored it. Didn’t matter. He would be out of this place soon enough.

He closed the door, lurched down the hall.

Not drunk, he told himself, just merry.

A night in the pub. By himself. Mobile switched off. Planning. Plotting.

Keenyside’s death. Then his subsequent romance with a grateful and free Janine.

He had imagined his plans in exquisite detail, the situations so real, the other players so tangible they had been there with him, talking to him. Perhaps a little too loudly, if the looks from the bar staff and other drinkers were anything to go by.

At kicking-out time he had gone willingly. Basking in the warm glow of an imaginary happy future.

Now, a round of toast, a cup of tea and a good night’s sleep to top off a satisfactory evening.

He opened the living room door.

And froze.

In his old, threadbare armchair, head on one side, still. Already changing colour.

Janine.

Arm tied off, vein plumped up. Works on the floor beside her.

He sobered up immediately.

His heart was pounding fast, reaching bursting point. His chest felt like it was sucking air in through an eiderdown. His arms, legs, began to shake. Emotions flew at him fast, hit him hard like runaway trains.