Swann recognised the older man as Tony Pascoe. He’d aged plenty since Swann last saw him, painting a yard wall in 4 Division. It was just a moment, Swann on the way to interrogate an old crim in connection to a murder, but Swann had often pondered upon it. Pascoe was something of a legend when Swann was a kid, as both a notorious stick-up man and safe-breaker. Pascoe had the nerve to handle a timed confrontation but also the brains to execute an overnight payroll heist. But there was Pascoe, a few years into his latest stretch, working quietly alongside another man painting whitewash onto the yard wall. The next time Swann visited the division, the wall had already been painted over.
Swann glanced over the old man’s scarred knuckles, looking for the bulge of a concealed weapon in his jacket, but it didn’t look like he was carrying. Swann too was unarmed, and because of his neck injury was reluctant to get into it, even with an old stager. Swann knew from the newspapers that Pascoe had a terminal illness, and that he was on the run. Whatever he wanted from Tremain, he would be desperate to see it through.
‘I know who you are,’ said Pascoe. ‘Frank Swann. My apologies for trading on your name. Though it was him who brought it up, not me.’
Tony Pascoe surprised Swann by putting out his hand.
Swann ignored it. He turned to Tremain. ‘That true?’
Tremain wrung his hands, shrugged. ‘I dunno. Can’t remember. Does it matter?’
Swann stared evenly at Pascoe, but spoke to Tremain. ‘I don’t know what’s going on between you two, and I don’t care. But it ends here. I’m going to take Mr Pascoe outside, have a word. But you’ve got to do one thing for me, Tremain, in return. You’ve got to call Detective Sergeant Gooch and tell him I’ve got nothing to do with any of this. He’s all over me, and I can do without it.’
Swann saw the flare of anger in Pascoe’s eyes. Swann had just named him in front of a citizen. It didn’t take long for Tremain to understand.
‘You’re that bank robber, in the papers.’
Pascoe grimaced, little mutter of disgust.
‘You hear me, Tremain? You call Gooch. Soon as we leave. I hear that you’re using my name again, you’re going to cop it. Tell him whatever you want, but make sure you leave me clear.’
Swann heard the courtyard door open. He turned, and there was Gooch, aiming a Browning pistol at Swann’s belly. Not his service weapon, but a throwdown.
Swann looked to Tremain, who looked at his feet. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.’
Gooch smiled cruelly, looking at Frank Swann and Tony Pascoe. ‘Oh, this is just too good.’
Gooch kicked the courtyard door closed behind him. He pointed the gun at Pascoe, who was standing next to the front door. ‘Get over there beside Tremain.’
Swann saw how it was going to go. The room was sealed against the sound of a gunshot. ‘I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, Swann. This is for Don Casey. For Ben Hogan.’
It didn’t matter to Gooch that there were witnesses. Tremain would do what he was told. Pascoe lived by the code.
Gooch moved two steps to his left, which put Swann in the corner. Three metres to cover the speed of a bullet. Gooch raised the Browning, grinning, teeth like a kicked-in fence, cold light in his eyes, just as Pascoe got beside him, stabbed three fingers into the armpit of his gun-hand. Gooch grunted as the nerves in his arm died, tried to switch the gun to his other hand. Swann covered the space, but he wasn’t needed. Pascoe grabbed Gooch from behind, a bar chokehold, left hand gripping his forearm as the terrible weight drew against Gooch’s windpipe, his carotids. Gooch fired, the bullet passing through Swann’s shirt, the arm flailing as bullets sprayed into the wall, the ceiling, the noise deafening until five second passed and Gooch’s lights went out. Pascoe held the chokehold a few seconds more, dropped Gooch where he stood. Gooch’s head cracked on the floor. The three men stood around him, looking down.
Swann picked up the dropped Browning and aimed it at Pascoe while they waited for Gooch to come around. But he didn’t come around. A stirring behind his eyelids, then a terrible gurgling, and then nothing. Pascoe knelt down, felt at Gooch’s neck.
‘He’s dead.’
Swann dropped to his knees, took Gooch’s pulse. Tilted back his head, made sure the airway was clear.
‘It’s too late. Seen this before. I didn’t mean to crush his windpipe, break his hyoid. Oh, Christ.’
But Pascoe wasn’t talking about regret. Swann looked up and watched the blood rush from the old man’s face. Pascoe reached for his own neck, put a hand on the desk, then fell to his knees. Managed to whisper, ‘White painter’s van out front. Passenger seat. Oxygen bottle.’
Swann angled his head at Tremain, who hadn’t moved throughout. His eyes were big and his mouth was open. ‘Get moving,’ Swann hissed. ‘Oxygen bottle, and hurry.’
Tremain hustled out of the room. Swann knelt down. ‘If you go under, mouth to mouth work?’
Pascoe was beyond talking. Shook his head, panic in his eyes. Everything put into drawing breath, his chest heaving, little gurgles of air going in but nothing coming out. Swann heard Tremain in the hallway outside, the hiss of oxygen as he opened the cylinder into the mask. Swann took the bottle off Tremain and put the mask over Pascoe’s face, held it firm with his hand, began to pump the rubber valve-primer that forced gas into Pascoe’s lungs.