The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) (38 page)

He followed the road and, as he turned onto Shoreditch High Street, he allowed his thoughts to drift. He had been thinking about the Ninth Step for several days. That stage of the program was always close to Milton’s thoughts, but he had been thinking about it more than he usually did. He couldn’t help but compare his own cursory attention to that requirement of the program against what Eddie had been prepared to risk in order to wipe his slate clean and fully embrace his sobriety. Milton knew that he would never have the courage to do the same thing himself, and the certainty of that had plunged him into a funk that had lasted for a week.

He kept going back to it: Eddie had been prepared to abandon his family to atone for the crime that had been committed ten years earlier. He must have known that would bring punishment upon himself, as well as the certainty of retribution for his brothers. Eddie had decided to take the step anyway, and his adopted family had killed him for it.

How could Milton follow that example? He could go to the police in a dozen countries around the world and hand himself in as the culprit of more than one hundred and fifty murders. Some of his crimes were so expert that the body had never been discovered. Homicides had been staged to look like suicides or deaths from natural causes, and crime had not been suspected at all. He could go to the local law enforcement and confess. Some would dismiss him as a crank. Others, perhaps, might look into his suggestions and, maybe, they would find that there was truth in his words. Perhaps they would take him seriously. Arrest him, even. None of it would matter. The British government would send out an emissary, one of Milton’s successors in Group Fifteen or whatever agency had replaced it, and Milton would be silenced before he could bring any more damage down on the national interest. Milton knew that that was what would happen. It was as certain as night following day.

There were other alternatives. If he wanted to broadcast his message more widely, he could try to find a journalist who would be willing to run with the story. Someone like Olivia. The stories Milton could tell would win Pulitzers, but the journalist would not be alive long enough to collect them. Speaking to Olivia would be the same as putting a gun to her head and pulling the trigger. It would be a death sentence, and Milton already had too much blood on his hands.

It was a problem that Milton didn’t know how to solve.

He had no sponsor to speak to, and he couldn’t share his thoughts in a meeting, so he had taken to deciphering his confusion himself. He had stayed in his flat and studied his copy of the Big Book, the bible of the fellowship.

The Eighth Step.

Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

Milton drew up a list, at least of the victims that he could remember. He had ended up with two pieces of paper.

The Ninth Step.

Made direct amends to such people, wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

That was where his progress stopped. He could not make amends to those who were dead.

THE SIGNAGE above the shop read TATTOO over a line of stained-glass windows and the business name—PRICK TATTOO & PIERCING—was advertised with a neon sign that glowed out of the window. The man behind the desk was large, with a shaven head and piercings through his ears and the bridge of his nose. His name was Henry. He looked over at Milton as he came inside.

“Mr. Smith,” he said, “right on time. Come through, please.”

Milton followed Henry into a room at the back of the shop.

“Take off the shirt, please.”

Milton started to unbutton.

“I can’t remember,” Henry said. “You had a tattoo before?”

Milton turned around to reveal the tattoo of the angel that stretched from shoulder to shoulder and all the way down to the small of his back.

“Very nice. Where’d you get that done?”

“Guatemala.”

“How long did it take?”

“Can’t remember,” Milton admitted. “I was very drunk.”

“Got to be four hours. Maybe five.” Henry nodded in appreciation. “Good work. It’s simple today, right? That’s what you said?”

Milton reached into his pocket and took out the design that he had sketched out himself: the number nine, represented in Roman numerals.

“All right. Easy. Won’t take long. Where’d you want it?”

Milton rested a finger on his left breast, above his heart. “Here.”

Henry said that would be fine and invited Milton to sit. He disappeared into another room to prepare the transfer, leaving Milton to regard his reflection in the long mirror opposite the chair. He looked at the pattern of scars that criss-crossed his torso. He could remember receiving some of the injuries, but the memories of others had been obscured by the frequent blackouts during his drinking days.

Henry returned with the transfer. He took out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured out a measure into a cloth. He wiped the area Milton had selected and then took a disposable razor and shaved the hair away.

Henry pointed at the puckered scar that marked a stabbing in Milton’s abdomen. “You’ve been in the wars.”

Milton shrugged. “Been knocked around a bit.”

“What do you do?”

“I was in the army.”

“What about now?”

“This and that.”

Henry took out a deodorant to moisten the skin. “You don’t talk much. Want me to get on with it?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Not a problem. Just settle back.”

Henry reached over and pressed play on an old-fashioned boom box, and Iron Maiden started up. He pressed the transfer over Milton’s skin and held it there for a couple of minutes until the outline of the image had been etched onto his skin. He pulled on his latex gloves and prepared his ink caps, decanting ink from jugs into the small cups. He took sterilised needles from a sealed bag and prepared his Vaseline and ointments. He put the needle into the machine and started to follow the outline. It felt like a scratching as he traced out the numbers, the needle pecking in and out and in and out.

“How’s that?”

“Fine,” Milton said.

The first stage took ten minutes. Henry pulled away and nodded at the fresh tattoo on Milton’s breast. Milton looked down at it. It was just the outline, but his work was excellent, the lines clean and neat. The flesh around the outline was inflamed from the needle, but that was of no consequence to Milton.

“Not too painful?”

“No.”

“Another twenty minutes and we’ll be done. It’s going to look good. Do you mind me asking? What’s it for? The nine, I mean.”

“Something very important to me,” Milton said.

THE STORY broke big, and seemed to get bigger every day. Olivia had crafted it with an expert hand, gradually drip-feeding the information and always ending with the promise of more. The first exposé was shocking, leading with one of the pictures of Leo Isaacs and the other men. The second day’s story focused on Eddie Fabian, explaining how the tragic victim of the piece had been murdered by his own family after he had threatened to go public with what had happened during an armed heist in Oxford years earlier. Eddie was the ingredient that held everything together. Milton was pleased with the sympathetic way in which Olivia had told his story. He emerged as a noble, honest and worthy man. He emerged as a man Milton recognised.

Olivia had placed the story with one of the national tabloids, and, once the shock had subsided, all of the other newspapers ran with it. Milton lay on his bed, a copy of today’s
Sun
held out before him. This was the third day of the story, and the focus was on the cover-up that had allowed the Westminster paedophiles to remain undetected and unpunished for so long. Olivia named Richard Higgins, and described how he had protected the conspirators for so long. The article finished with the suggestion that Higgins was on the run. Olivia had spoken to the senior detective who had been assigned the historic case; the woman suggested that the general was someone with whom the police would be very interested in speaking.

Milton took out his phone and fished out a crumpled business card from the pocket of his jeans.

He dialled.

“Hello?”

“Nice story.”

“Smith? Is that you?”

“Yes. I’m reading it now. Is it getting the reaction you wanted?”

She laughed drily. “More. You just caught me, actually—I’m on TV tonight talking about it. There’s a car outside now to take me to the studio.”

“That’s great. You sound happy.”

“I am.” She paused. “I… I just want to say thanks. For saving my arse. For everything. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you.”

“Forget it. Someone had to tell the story. I’m glad you’ve done right by Eddie.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

He could hear her hurrying about her apartment. “Could I buy you a drink?” she said. “To say thanks?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I’m probably going to move on. I don’t like to stay in one place for too long.”

“So I won’t see you again?”

“Probably not.” There was a moment of silence, and then Milton heard a knocking on the door. He thought for a moment that it was his door, but, as he took the phone away from his ear and listened, he realised that it was the door to the next-door flat.

“John?”

“I have to go,” he said. “Good luck, Olivia.”

The knocking came again, louder and with each knock closer to the last one, angry and imperative.

He heard a man’s voice, heavily accented. “Open door,” it said. “Open door now.”

Milton sat and swung around so that he could stand and then collected his laptop from the dresser. He booted it up, navigated to the camera app and switched the camera on. The screen was filled with a view of the hallway next door. The camera’s fisheye lens distorted the proportions a little, but it offered a clear and unobstructed view of the room. The microphone in the sitting room was working, too, and, as he switched it on, he heard the sound of conversation from the hallway. He set both sound and vision to record, the equipment transmitting the data remotely so that he could store it on his hard drive. He only had to wait a moment before he saw the two men he had observed before, and he stood clenching and unclenching his fists as they bustled by the mother and father to make their way inside.

“Have you got it?” the large, fat man said.

“Most,” the father said. He had a plastic carrier bag and he reached inside and withdrew a bundle of bank notes.

“I did not say I wanted most. I wanted all.”

“It was the best I could do,” the father protested. “I’ll have the rest next week, I swear.”

Milton stood and paced, his attention on the screen, but his thoughts concerned with what he would do if the collection turned nasty. The fat man took the bundle of money and riffled through it, held it up so that his partner could see it and then stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He turned to the father and, without warning, backhanded him across the face. The father staggered back, the back of his legs bumping into a low table and overbalancing him. He fell back, his arm reflexively raised in front of his face to ward off another blow.

Milton stopped as a fifth person came into the room. It was the boy, Ahmed. He went to his father and hugged him, putting himself in the way of the fat man and shielding his father from further violence.

Milton stopped pacing. He clenched his fists and left them closed, squeezing them into tight balls until his fingers ached. He closed his eyes and worked hard to control his breathing. All of his instincts told him to go and kick down the door to the opposite flat and punish the two goons.

“Ahmed,” the boy’s mother said.

He didn’t respond, and he stayed where he was, a shield to protect his father.

The rent collectors laughed uproariously.

“Your boy,” the fat man said, “we say he has
yáytsa
. Balls, more than his father.” The fat man turned to his partner and nodded to the door. “We go now, but we come back this time next week. We come for all of the money, plus interest. Understand?”

The two men walked out of sight of the camera. Milton navigated to the folder where he had recorded the data, quickly compressed it and emailed it to his Gmail account.

He heard the door slam shut and then the sound of raucous laughter from the vestibule outside his own front door.

He put on his jacket, collected two identical sports holdalls from the hall, went outside and locked the door to his flat. The door to the next-door flat was closed now, but Milton could hear the sound of sobbing from within. He didn’t need any persuasion that what he was about to do was the right thing but, had he, the sound of their misery and desperation would have been more than enough. It lit the fuse of his anger, too, and he allowed that little flame to flicker and grow. That would be useful.

The men were walking out of the building, heading down to the BMW 5-Series that Milton had seen them arrive in before.

He followed.

THE TWO MEN were very easy to trail. There was no reason for them to suspect that anyone would want to follow them. Milton had come across bullies like them on many previous occasions, and it wasn’t difficult to guess how they would think. They would have been so used to the timid and fearful tenants whom they shook down day after day that the notion that someone might be prepared to resist them would never have crossed their minds. Their arrogance would be their downfall.

The men were evidently in the middle of their weekly collection round. Milton had followed the 5-Series for only a short distance when it pulled over and parked. Milton drove on, turning a corner and parking in a slot that allowed him to still see the car. Milton noticed another car—a Nissan Note—as it went by and slotted into another space fifty feet up the road. Both men got out and went into another similar block to the one where Milton lived. They were absent for five minutes and, when they returned, they were laughing and joking with each other. Milton watched them coolly, stroking his fingertips against the raised stitching of the faux leather that covered the steering wheel.