A knock on the door. Loud, demanding. Deana Burke is sitting bolt upright in bed. Looking at the clock. Five minutes past eleven. It won’t be someone she wants to see. Creeping to the window and looking down onto the street. There’s a red car parked two doors down that she doesn’t recognize. Can’t see anyone. She’s wearing a thin slip, so she’s grabbing a dressing gown from the wardrobe. Putting slippers on, thinking it’s a good idea in case she has to run outside. Run in slippers. Yeah, that’ll get you far. She’s cursing herself. She should be ready for the worst. She should have to hand everything she needs for a quick exit. So some thug tells you that Shug doesn’t see you as a target. That doesn’t mean you stop thinking for yourself. Plan. Plan for everything.
She’s standing at the top of the stairs. Another knock. Just as loud second time around. She hasn’t switched a light on. They can’t know for certain that she’s home. Unless they’ve been watching the house. Of course they bloody have. They’ll have been watching it for hours. They’ll have seen the lights on. They’ll know she hasn’t left, just gone to bed. She knows this is how they do it. Can’t remember now who told her. Not Kenny. Another boyfriend, years ago. She said something about people breaking doors down or sneaking in with lock-picks. Someone or other laughed and said no, gunmen mostly just ring the doorbell. You answer and they shoot. The gun’s going to make a noise anyway. Better it makes a noise when you’re standing on the doorstep ready to run, than upstairs in a dark house you don’t know. This person banging on her door could have the gun out already. Ready to fire on her the second she opens it. She never asked what happens when the person doesn’t answer.
Out the back. No. They’ll have that covered. This isn’t some halfwit organization. They got rid of Kenny. They’ve won round Nate Colgan. They’re lashing out at Peter Jamieson. They know better than to leave the back door unguarded. Face it–that’s what you do. You hold your head up and you face it. Like when Colgan turned up for Shug, she answered the door because the alternative was to hide in terror. That’s not her. She won’t let them turn her into that sort of person. She’s marching down the stairs–and marching is the word–flicking on two light switches at the bottom. One for the stairs, one for the hallway at the front door. It’s overkill, but she wants the place lit up. She wants people to see. She’s grabbing the door handle. Twisting the lock and yanking open the door. The man on the step has taken a sudden step backwards. Surprised by her aggression. She’s about to say something quite unladylike when she sees who it is. Now she’s saying something worse.
‘Bloody hell, what the fuck are you doing knocking on my door like that at this hour? I nearly had a heart attack.’
‘I’m sorry,’ DI Fisher’s saying, putting up a calming hand. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I knew you were in bed, so I had to knock loud.’
‘How the hell did you know I was in bed?’
‘I’ve been watching the house for the last couple of hours,’ he’s saying. ‘Checking up. You said someone came and threatened you. I wanted to see if they were watching you. See if they were keeping tabs. Might be that you’re a target too, no matter what anyone says. So I’ve been out here for the last couple of hours. Further down the street. I saw the lights going off in the house. Figured if they were going to change shifts, it would be then. Nothing. There’s nobody watching you.’
‘I don’t recognize that red car,’ she’s saying, nodding out towards the street. It’s a surly comeback, wanting to shoot a hole in his argument because he rattled her.
‘That’s mine,’ he’s saying. ‘I moved it up the street just now. Listen, Deana, can I come in? We still need to talk.’
They don’t need to talk. That’s what Deana’s thinking. But she knows you don’t send a copper away. You play along and let them say and do whatever makes them happy. She’s stepping aside and letting him pass. Glancing out into the street as she does so. What if one of Shug’s men is watching? She’s closing the door and turning to face him. Fisher’s standing politely in the hallway, waiting for her to decide where the conversation will take place. Politeness doesn’t seem a natural fit for him, from everything Kenny said. She’s seen pictures of the cop. Kenny pointed him out in a couple of newspaper articles. He looks older in real life. Shorter, less imposing. He does look tough, though, and Kenny said he was. Looks like he’s struggling with his politeness.
Deana’s decided that they’re going to have this conversation in the kitchen. Better to have a light on at the back of the house than the front, she’s figuring. Fisher’s sitting at the table. She hasn’t offered him a cup of tea, and she won’t. Nothing that encourages him to stay. He isn’t going to do anything for her. He’s not capable. She’s put all her eggs in Peter Jamieson’s basket, and she’s content with that. If anyone’s going to make sure Kenny’s killers see justice, it’ll be Jamieson. She’s making sure her dressing gown is pulled firmly shut. No hint of skin. Only a face with no make-up. Nothing that would make him want to stay.
‘Have you had any trouble since?’ Fisher’s asking. Opening the conversation, trying to keep it friendly. Hard to keep it friendly. He hates this woman. Can’t put it any simpler than that. She’s every bit as bad as Kenny. She knew everything he was up to. She turned a blind eye, because she liked the life it paid for. These gangster tarts make him sick. But he is better at hiding it than he was.
She can see the effort. The strain it puts on him just to make conversation. But she can’t see the loathing, or at least doesn’t recognize it. She just thinks he’s an arrogant, antisocial prick.
‘No trouble since,’ she’s saying with a shrug. ‘The thug who was here said there wouldn’t be. So long as I don’t talk to you, so thank you very much for coming.’
‘We need to have a conversation that you can’t hang up on,’ he’s saying. ‘I can’t find the people who took Kenny until I know what you know. I’m working on the assumption that Kenny is dead. I think that’s the common-sense approach to take. But I also have another missing person to try and find. Have you heard the name Richard Hardy?’
Thinking about it. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Is he involved?’
‘I don’t know for sure,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘He disappeared the same night Kenny did. Might have been a victim of the same manoeuvres. I’m just trying to get a clear picture.’
Never heard of Hardy. Feels like Fisher’s clutching at straws here. What does he expect to hear from her? If there was something worth hearing, she would have said it already. She’s beginning to suspect that Fisher has nothing to go on.
‘The job he did the night he went missing,’ Fisher’s saying. ‘He told you he had a job. What did he tell you about it?’
‘Nothing really,’ she’s saying. Relieved that she’s on safe ground here. Kenny didn’t go into much detail. He told her it was a big job. Told her he was nervous about it. Nothing else. ‘He didn’t say what it was. Just said it was a big job. Bigger than usual for him. I mean, he was a driver. That’s all. He drove Peter Jamieson home at night. That was it. He was never involved in anything that mattered.’
Fisher’s nodding. There’s some truth in that. But sometimes you need a driver for a big job. Hell of a coincidence if he’s working a big job for Jamieson and is then picked up by Shug. Everything else makes sense but that. Shug getting into bed with MacArthur. Getting rid of the man who knows all his financial secrets. Making a hit against Jamieson, just to show that he can. That all adds up. It’s this job of Kenny’s–it would be an obvious set-up by Jamieson. Tell your driver you have a big job for him. Get him somewhere secluded and kill him. Punishment for being a grass. That was the risk Kenny took.
‘But this was a bigger-than-usual job. He told you that,’ Fisher’s going on. ‘He must have said something else. I mean, presumably he didn’t go on this job alone. It can’t have been a driver-only job. He must have been driving someone. Did he hint who he was going with? More importantly, where they were going? I need to know where to look.’
How much does she tell him? She doesn’t want Fisher to know that she’s talking to John Young. That’ll get him back on his high horse.
‘He did say there would be someone with him. Someone he trusted. Didn’t say anything about what it was or where it would be.’
Fisher’s sighing. ‘You believe that Shug was behind this and not Jamieson?’ he’s asking her. A sincere question. Not trying to get at anything, genuinely interested.
A little shrug. ‘I believe it. I don’t think they know that Kenny was talking to you. I, er… John Young called. I went to the club. He asked if I knew where Kenny was. We discussed it. Discussed it a little. I didn’t tell him everything, obviously. I’m sure they don’t know. They think it was Shug. I’m convinced of that.’
Fisher’s grimacing. ‘Jesus!’ he’s muttering, and shaking his head. This was always going to mean war, but it’s moving faster than he expected.
Jamieson will strike against Shug. Has to. If Shug’s taken out one of Jamieson’s men, then he has to be seen to hit back. Fisher’s hope was that he could get an arrest made before retaliation. That could take the wind out of some sails, cool people down. Leave them without a target. But not if they know already.
‘What did Young say to you? Exactly what?’
‘Just that,’ she’s saying. ‘He wanted to know if I’d seen Kenny. Said that Kenny was the only one missing. I guess they heard a rumour or something. I think I confirmed what they were expecting.’
Fisher’s getting up. He’s heard all he’s going to hear. He’s not prepared to assume that Jamieson is innocent in this. Not yet. But it’s all pointing to Shug now. He’s out the front door and into the night. Knowing that he needs more. He has two or three days at the most to make an arrest, or there will be more blood.