Wasted Years (34 page)

“No, I suppose not.” He gestured with the gun. “Back over here.”

Reaching up to retrieve the bag and the money, Darren had his face close to hers. “Have to come round and see you some time. Easy now I know where you live.” He grinned and winked and blew her a kiss.

“Everyone stays where they are,” he called out at the door. “Less they want to get hurt.”

Pushing the pistol down from sight and switching the bin liner to the other hand he pushed his way through the door to where Keith was waiting in the car.

Except that Keith wasn’t waiting and nor was the car.

“Armed police,” said an amplified voice. “Put your hands behind your head and get down on the ground. Do it now.”

Darren could see four vehicles, angled across the road; behind each one were men in blue overalls, arms outstretched, weapons at the ends of those arms all pointing at him.

“Keith!” Darren screamed in anguish. “Keith!”

From the safety of the car where he was sitting with Resnick and Lynn Kellogg, a block away from the building society, Keith heard Darren’s voice calling his name and brought up both hands to his ears.

“Armed police,” the voice repeated. “You are surrounded. Raise your hands above your head now and then clasp them behind your neck. This is your final warning.”

Darren reached inside his jacket and pulled clear the pistol, bringing it round until it was held out in front of him, aiming in the direction of the nearest car.

The sergeant in charge of the tactical response team gave the order and Darren was hurled back and swayed like an off-balance skater, before falling forward with nothing to break his fall.

He had been hit once in the neck, twice in the chest and, to all intents and purposes, was dead before he struck the ground. The crash team from the ambulance did what they had to do but really it was for show. The officer who retrieved the unfired 9mm Walther PPK would testify in court that the safety catch was still on.

Inside the unmarked car at the far side of the disused home improvements store, Keith Rylands sobbed against Lynn’s shoulder till his throat was sore, while Resnick stared through the windscreen and tried to blot out the sound.

Fifty-One

The media thought it was Christmas come early: a young man, albeit armed and potentially dangerous, being shot down and killed by the police on an unremarkable city street in broad daylight was still an unusual enough occurrence not to pass unremarked. The Assistant Chief Constable gave a press conference and went into the news studios of both independent television and the BBC. The legal officer of Liberty issued a statement condemning the use of firearms in a public area as questionable and the police response as being excessive. The only one of the marksmen who had fired who could be persuaded to comment publicly, said he had simply done what he was trained to do. The dead man had aimed a weapon in his direction and he had felt his own life and that of his colleagues was in danger.

Not only the local but the national newspapers cleared the headlines, published photographs of both Darren and Keith; there were illustrators’ reconstructions of the events and several pictures showing the blood on the pavement as a dark, blurry newsprint mass, akin to an abstract painting.

Local radio spoke at length to Lorna Solomon—“brave and resourceful”—and Rebecca Astley—“cool and elegant under pressure.” Keith Rylands’s father—“former rock star with hit records to his name”—said that his son was under sedation and too distressed to comment.

In everything but the
Express
it was newsworthy enough to drive the constitutional problems caused by the rift between the Prince and Princess of Wales on to page two.

Resnick and Lynn Kellogg finished the afternoon at the market coffee stall, drinking strong espresso and saying very little. Earlier, Resnick had phoned Rylands to make sure that Keith was okay, giving what assurances he could that in the circumstances, Keith was unlikely to be charged.

He accepted a lift home from Lynn, eschewed his usual shower, and soaked in a hot bath until it was hot no longer. He was in the kitchen feeding the cats and beginning to wonder what he was going to feed himself when the front doorbell rang.

Afraid it might be a reporter chancing his arm, Resnick opened up cautiously; of all the people it was least likely to be, his visitor was in the top two or three.

“Now then, Charlie. Big day, eh?”

It was Rains.

Sitting across from him in the living room, watching him drink the beer he’d asked for and got, Resnick was surprised how little Rains had changed. The face was fleshier perhaps, especially around the jaw; his body generally was thicker, all in all he’d probably put on ten or twelve pounds, but he was still fit. Resnick guessed he played the occasional game of tennis or squash, swam, worked out. But then he also drank and smoked.

He lit up now, asking first as a matter of course and taking Resnick’s shrug as a yes.

“Anything to do with you, Charlie? That business today?”

“Something,” What the hell are you doing here, Resnick was thinking? Why have you come?

“Things’ve changed a bit, eh? Hardly open a paper nowadays without some poor bastard’s got himself shot by one of our lot. Your lot. Not before time, my way of thinking. That kid today, for instance, bit of a cowboy, wasn’t he? Not a real pro. Nothing to get worked up about.” Rains took a long swallow from his glass “Not a bad drop of beer that, Charlie. What did you say it was, German?”

“Czech.”

“Good anyway.”

Get to the point, Resnick thought; if there is a point.

“We used to put a few pints away, eh, Charlie? Back when we were mates.”

“We never were that.”

“What? I’ve closed more pubs and clubs with you and Reg Cossall than any of us’d like to remember.”

“We were never mates.”

Rains cocked his head to one side. “Have it your way.”

“What do you want?” Resnick asked, impatient with waiting.

“What?”

“You heard, what do you …”

“What do I want? Fine question, Charlie. Not seen hide nor hair of you in what? Eight, nine years. What’s wrong with a social call?”

“After this time.”

“Not been around, Charlie. Been living abroad.”

“I know.”

Rains grinned and set down his glass. “Better get me an ash tray, Charlie, or this is going to go all over the carpet.”

“Let it.”

“Elaine would never’ve let you get away with that.”

“Keep her out of it.”

“Like you did?”

Resnick was on his feet and for a moment Rains thought he was going to take a swing at him; he thought he might enjoy that. Instead Resnick walked past him to the square bay of the window and looked out through the partly drawn curtains into the shadows of the front garden.

“How much do you know, Charlie?”

Resnick turned slowly. Rains was lolling back in the comfortable chair, the one Resnick usually sat in himself, alone there in the evenings, thinking, listening to music. He hated the way Rains had arched his knee on to one of the arms of the chair; hated the smug expression on Rains’s face.

“Most of it,” he said.

“Such as?”

“I know that you and Churchill had a meeting yesterday; that, one way or another, the two of you have been associates since you persuaded him to grass up Prior.”

“Is that what I did?”

“Didn’t you?”

Rains smirked. “Maybe.”

“You got inside information from Churchill, enough to send Prior down for a long time, and so as to keep him in the clear, let on you’d got it from Prior’s wife.

“You wanted Churchill still smelling sweet because if his colleagues thought he was a grass they’d freeze him out, never work with him again, and that wouldn’t suit you because you wanted Churchill back in action passing on your share of the take.

“You wanted Prior out of the way because you were having an affair with his wife, probably because you hoped you’d get information out of her as well, but maybe because you genuinely liked her, fancied her at least.”

Rains made a sound which meant don’t be a fool. “That was work, Charlie. Diddling that slag, that was work. You don’t think I could have feelings for a woman like that?”

Resnick moved away from the window, closer to where Rains was sitting. “I don’t think you could have feelings for anyone outside of yourself.”

“No?” Rains laughed. “Never mind, eh, Charlie. Feelings enough for the both of us, you’ve got. Regular bleeding heart. Always were and I daresay you’ve got worse.”

“This is your last chance,” Resnick said. “Say what you’ve got to say and get going.”

“Told you, Charlie, needed to know if you really had anything or if you were just fishing. Thought if I came to you and asked straight, you’d find it hard to lie.” Rains smiled. “Not in your nature, never was.”

“I’m grateful.”

“Yes,” said Rains, getting to his feet. “For once, so am I.”

“What makes you think you can just walk out of here?” Resnick asked. “How do you know I won’t stop you?”

“Arrest me?”

“Why not?”

“What charge?”

Rains moved towards the living-room door and Resnick set himself in his way. More than anything else what Resnick wanted to do was tear the smirk from Rains’s face, do so with his own hands. He stepped to one side and allowed Rains to walk by. Heard the front door open and close. He stayed there, without moving, for a long time; until it was quite dark around him and the muscles of his legs were numb.

Perhaps the most pernicious thing about people like Rains was they had the power to make you behave like them.

Fifty-Two

The first thing Ruth saw when she looked through the window that morning was the car she had heard drive up, parked now down by the sea wall, close to the first of the lobster nets. One of those removable signs on the passenger door, a minicab, car and driver for hire.

Ruth threw a coat over her shoulders, told the dog to stay where it was. “You didn’t come all this way by taxi?”

Prior gestured, palms of his hands outwards. “I don’t have a license, Ruthie, don’t own a car. What else was I to do?”

Stay away? Ruth thought, the words catching on her lips. Christ, she thought, I would hardly have recognized him. For the first time she had some insight into what it must have been like for him inside, locked away all those years.

Prior stood before her, almost sheepish. “Aren’t we supposed to kiss or something?”

Despite herself, Ruth smiled. “Why break the habit of a lifetime?” she said.

Prior smiled back with his eyes. He wasn’t going to hurt her, she could tell that. “Why don’t you come inside?” she asked. “I’ll make some tea.”

Prior looked off towards the sea. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d sooner stay out here.”

“Fancy a walk, then?”

“Why not?”

“Wait a second,” Ruth said, turning back towards the house. “If I leave the dog behind, he won’t understand.”

She waited until they were on the hard, damp sand, heading south, before telling him of Resnick’s visit, telling him about Rains, the way he had got into her room at night, half-frightened her to death. Pretended to have killed the dog.

“Bastard!” Prior whispered.

“Rains,” Ruth said, “there’s more.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Yes, you do,” Ruth said. “It’s why you’re here.”

When she had felt married to him, living with him, imprisoned by him, Ruth had never been able to talk to him; now she had seen him again, this stranger, she could tell him anything.

She did: anything and everything.

Prior listened without interruption; said nothing for a long time. When he spoke it was almost wistful, distant—“Makes you think, what happened to you, me, Rains running free.” There was no disguising the hurt and anger in his eyes.

“D’you want to turn back?” Ruth asked when they reached a point where the dunes came down closer towards the sea. “We’ve come a long way.”

“Yes, all right. Best think about the taxi fare, eh?”

Several times walking back towards the cottages, Prior picked up a piece of driftwood, bleached white, and threw it for the dog to chase. At the sea wall, Ruth turned quickly towards him, kissed him on the face, and hurried across the green, just managing not to run, not looking back until she was inside and the car was puffing away on its long journey home.

Too late to cry now.

Prior remembered Churchill’s mum, how she always maintained he was a good son. When Prior called on her out of the blue, she was pleased to see him, invited him in.

“Frank never told me you was out.”

“Could be he doesn’t know.”

“He’ll be around soon. Always comes by of an evening when he can, likes to know I’m all right. Well, you can see I am. Come on in the lounge and put your feet up, some dreadful rubbish on telly, never mind. He’ll be right pleased to see you, will Frank.”

He was so pleased he tried a runner, but Prior had him by the throat, face pressed hard against the paintwork on his mum’s lounge door. “I always knew you weren’t worth the paper I shat on, Frank. Just give me where I can find Rains, that’s all I want with you. And don’t you try and warn him or I might be back.”

“Thanks, Mrs Churchill,” Prior said at the rear door. “Nice to see you looking so well.”

Rains had more or less finished his business here, one more plan to okay, another investment to be made on his way back through London, currency to be transferred into his bank in Spain as pesetas. It was as well he’d come out to talk to Frank himself, convince him of the wisdom of riding their luck less hard. When you’d kept a good thing going this long, criminal to see it come down, all because of a little local greed. But he was happy now. Frank would pass along the word, see it all sorted. Tomorrow he’d be back on the plane, leaving Resnick and the rest of his former colleagues still floundering.

Rains took the brandy bottle over to the bed, poured a good measure into the glass, and slid between the sheets. He had bought a Jeffrey Archer at the airport coming over and he read a couple more chapters now before finishing his drink and switching out the light.