Lenny dropped the widget-thingy-whatever-the-fuck-it-is for the third time, threw the plastic box on the warehouse floor and kicked the shelving. ‘Fuck!’ The metal shelves rattled and something fell off one end.
He took a calming breath. It was just a job, like normal people had. Real life.
‘Hey!’ One of his work colleagues bounced around the corner, impossibly cheerful. ‘You OK? Drop something?’
What does it fucking look like? Lenny swore again – under his breath this time – and picked up the box. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not really feeling the love for this, are you?’ The kid grinned.
Lenny wanted to hit him with the box. ‘Is it that obvious?’ Could they not have found him a job that didn’t involve the fiddly sorting of small objects? He simply didn’t have the dexterity for this sort of thing – not since wannabe gangster, hard-man, tosser Mick Carlotti crushed his hand in the door of a shipping container a year ago.
The terms of his prison licence required him to work how, where and when his offender manager dictated. He’d tried arguing with her and got precisely nowhere, so he was stuck in this crappy dead-end job quite possibly forever, until he could convince both her and DI Darwin that he was completely rehabilitated and reintegrated into the community. Like I was ever a part of the community in the first place? Jesus fucking Christ. And Darwin knew him far too well to fall for any bullshit.
He sighed. ‘I need a smoke.’
The kid shook his head. ‘Still ten minutes until lunch.’
Ryan, isn’t it? God, I hate the fucking Irish. And he could easily kill somebody in ten minutes – like the smug supervisor in this shitty warehouse, who kept creeping up on him and watching him as if he suspected he was about to start stuffing his pockets with car parts to sell down the docks later on. ‘Selling smack is far more lucrative,’ Lenny wanted to say to the tosser. Or maybe: ‘I could do you a nice line in used handguns.’ But he couldn’t. Up here in Liverpool, he was just another petty crook, with history including the six months he’d spent in HMP Risley. A compromise the Crown Prosecution Service had offered him, thanks to Darwin’s intervention – a rubber-stamped sentence, new identity and a relocation, albeit on licence, or he could go to trial. Lenny had chosen the former and done his time without complaint; considering he’d shot and killed the Irish nutter Carlotti – not to mention wounding Rich and that nasty little shit Charlie – he reckoned he’d come out of it all fairly well. Until Phillips finds me. And that would be another bastard bridge to cross. At the moment going on the run just wasn’t an option, not with an electronic tag around his ankle.
He was rubbing his hand unconsciously, feeling the faint scars. Ryan was watching him. Lenny rolled his eyes, checked the list on his clipboard and picked out another bolt from the dumper on the shelf. This time he got two together and while one successfully landed in his box, the other hit the floor, skittered across the concrete and came to rest by Ryan’s boot.
Focus.
Ryan picked it up easily, dropping it back in the dumper. ‘What’s up with your hand?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Only you’re holding it funny and dropping everything.’
Lenny snorted. ‘Trapped it in a door last year. Never been right since.’
‘You should get it looked at.’
D’you reckon? The thought never occurred to me. ‘I had three operations.’
‘Cool. You want to go for a pint after work?’
I’m twenty-fucking-nine. I don’t do cool. But the kid was only trying to be friendly. ‘Can’t,’ he said, pasting an artificial smile onto his face. ‘Sorry.’ What kind of after-work drink would that be, when he had to be back at his poky one-bedroom flat by seven or he’d trip the alarm on the fucking tag? Twelve hours a day under home curfew and he was bored shitless most evenings. Darwin had simply laughed and told him to join the library; Lenny had argued that he couldn’t even do that without any form of identification.
Ryan wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘You look like you could use a drink. We could get pissed.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I know where to get some weed.’
For fuck’s sake. ‘Really, I can’t. I have to go see a man about a dog.’ Woo. A hot date with his counsellor. Weekly sessions, the DI had ordered. No negotiation – yet another condition of his licence – so he played head-games with the girl for an hour one night a week after work. Truth be told, he was starting to enjoy the intellectual challenge; there wasn’t much other stimulation in his life right now and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a sensible conversation with anybody outside of Claire’s consulting room.
‘You’re getting a dog? It’s Tony, isn’t it?’ asked Ryan, taking the clipboard from him.
Is it? Oh, yeah. He kept forgetting his new name.
‘I’ll give you a hand. I’ve finished up my list. What you doing here anyway? This doesn’t seem like your kind of job?’
Tell me about it. ‘I have no fucking idea, mate,’ he said. Either the Met cops knew the owner of this dead-end car parts business, or else they were doing their bit for the community by employing ex-cons. Favours and back-handers; either way, he doubted the rest of the staff had a clue he was anyone other than the ex-benefits-junkie he was pretending to be. It pissed him off that they probably thought he was a lazy shit who’d never done an honest day’s work in his life. OK – so cut the word honest, but he was a grafter, he always had been since his teenage years, when Martin Reilly had him out shadowing the older guys until he had enough of a reputation to handle the deals by himself. And then he’d been on his own.
Lenny didn’t much care what people thought about him, but he did know that if word got out, it would filter back to whatever organised crime gang was running this part of Liverpool, and then they’d be looking to claim whatever reward money was still out for him. Pissing off both Phillips and Jackson meant he really would be looking over his shoulder forever.
Ryan was looking at him expectantly.
What?
‘Pass me your list.’
He handed it over and traipsed round after the kid while he did Lenny’s job, and Lenny realised he couldn’t do this for another day, never mind six months or more. They’d have to find him something else.
‘Hold that.’ Ryan shoved something at him and he grabbed at it instinctively. The glass bottle slipped through his fingers, bounced off a shelf, hit a metal strut and shattered, splashing him with blue liquid of some sort.
Lenny jumped back. ‘Fuck me!’
‘You were supposed to hold it. It’s only lubricant. It won’t hurt you.’
‘I’m just sodding wet, that’s all. Sorry,’ Lenny added. ‘My fault.’
Ryan shook his head, as if Lenny was a particularly stupid child. ‘I’ve got a spare T shirt you can borrow.’ He picked another bottle and put it in the box. ‘We’re done. Come on, I’ll fix you up, clear up the mess and you can buy me a pint tomorrow night.’
I don’t want to be your new best friend. He didn’t want to be anybody’s anything. Lenny wondered why Ryan would have spare clothes at work; it wasn’t like there was a uniform in this place. He followed the kid into the toilets where there was a small changing room and a few battered lockers. This place clearly hadn’t always been a car-parts warehouse.
Ryan opened a gym bag and handed him a white T shirt.
He works out? Lenny was interested now. He needed to start running again, keep up the fitness level he’d regained in prison. Maybe a partner would be useful. Yeah, and he gets to see the tag, and I spend the next six months with them all watching me like I’m about to nick their frigging teabags.
Ryan was watching him curiously. ‘It should fit you.’
Lenny glanced at the door.
‘You don’t want to change in front of me? Are you gay? Only you don’t look gay.’
‘No.’
Ryan reddened. ‘Not that it’d be a problem if you were. I mean I’ve got nothing against—’
‘I’m not. It’s fine.’
‘OK. I’ll go make a brew.’
Lenny sighed and turned his back on the kid. Why can’t I just do normal interaction with people? He stripped off his wet T shirt and dropped it on the floor. It stank of chemicals; he wiped his hands on his jeans.
‘Tony?’
Lenny swung round. ‘What?’
‘How many …’ Ryan trailed off. ‘Christ. What happened to you?’
He followed Ryan’s eyes and looked down at the long messy scar across his body. Fuck, how do I explain that? ‘An accident.’
‘You have a lot of accidents, don’t you?’
Yeah. You could say that.
‘What happened?’
‘It’s a long story.’ He pulled Ryan’s white T shirt over his head. It was too tight but it would have to do. ‘I’ll tell you sometime. When we have that pint.’
‘You’ve got a scar on your back as well. Underneath the tattoo.’
‘Have I?’ He’d forgotten that one, had no idea where it had come from.
‘Another accident?’
Jesus. Just drop it, will you?
Ryan looked suddenly horrified. ‘Oh, shit. It wasn’t your folks, or something, was it? I had a friend at school whose dad beat him up every night. Only—’
Lenny had had enough. He shook his head, touching the kid’s shoulder as he passed. ‘I was shot, mate. All right? With my own fucking gun. Now do us both a favour and shut the fuck up.’
‘There’s a woman at the front desk to see you.’
Steph doodled on the desk pad in front of her, the phone wedged between ear and shoulder. ‘Did she give a name?’
‘No. But she looks like it might be urgent.’
‘All right. Give me five.’ She put the phone down and doodled some more. It was ten minutes before the end of her shift and she was looking forward to going out for dinner with Rob later on. Having a life again was at least some compensation for being bounced back to a desk job on fixed shifts; it was a novelty being able to plan weekends away and know where she’d be at any given moment. After everything she’d done with Lenny and the civvy woman Samantha last year, the thing that had bitten hardest had been forging the guv’s signature to get another handgun from the armoury. If she hadn’t given it to Lenny and he hadn’t shot somebody with it – killed somebody with it – it might not have been quite so bad, but she wasn’t convinced that Darwin believed her version of events. She’d kept her rank, but was back behind a computer for the foreseeable future. If I wanted to work on a project team, I’d have joined a bloody IT company.
At least Rob understood, she thought, as she trekked down four flights of stairs to the front desk. One advantage to dating within the job meant at least you could talk about work at home, although the strain of both partners working shifts often broke up relationships quicker than you could say cancel that anniversary dinner. Except that she hadn’t even told Rob what really happened that night. And after three years together, they’d never yet managed an anniversary dinner.
She knew who the visitor was before she got anywhere near the reception area. Through the glass door she could see the blonde girl sitting on one of the plastic chairs and fidgeting nervously; for five o’clock in the afternoon the station was strangely quiet.
She buzzed her way through the door. ‘Hello, Becky.’
‘Steph?’ She jumped up, bag clutched in her hands. ‘You look … different.’
‘Yeah. Fetching uniform, isn’t it? Suits my colouring – not.’ It wasn’t meant to be demotion, but it sure as hell felt like it. ‘What can I do for you, Becky?’
‘I’ve been trying to contact Derek.’ She hesitated as the outside door opened and a youth appeared with an older woman. ‘Can we go somewhere private?’
‘Sure. Here or outside?’ Steph checked her watch. ‘Tell you what, give me ten and meet me in the Rose and Crown around the corner. It’s quite upmarket – you’ll be fine in there on your own.’
Becky nodded. ‘These places are beginning to make me feel uncomfortable.’
‘Me too,’ said Steph, though she wasn’t quite sure what the girl meant. Those who had nothing to hide shouldn’t be scared of a police station – and yet nothing was black and white, was it? Even Steph knew that.
She logged off the computer and sent Rob a quick text to let him know she might be half an hour late. Becky didn’t look that worried and Steph had no intention of letting the job take over her life again, not when the job had so clearly indicated it didn’t appreciate her efforts. She changed into a T shirt and jeans and left her uniform in her locker, before heading out. Too many terrorist warnings lately had meant they’d all been told to keep to plain clothes when off-duty.
It was a warm evening and many of the local wine bars had already spilled out onto the street with people starting their evening early. In the pub, she found Becky nursing what looked like an orange juice and playing with her mobile phone.
Steph bought herself a Coke and sat down opposite. ‘So how are you? It’s been over six months.’
‘Time flies,’ said Becky vaguely.
‘You were asking about Darwin?’
‘Yes. His mobile just goes to voicemail.’
Steph shrugged. ‘I don’t work for him anymore.’
‘But you can get hold of him?’
‘Not right now.’ She shook her head. ‘Last I heard he was off on extended leave somewhere. A honeymoon, I believe.’ She frowned. ‘He married Kate Redford. Weren’t you at the wedding with Michael?’
‘Michael and I split up a few months back.’ Becky hesitated, drawing patterns in the wet circle her glass had left on the table. ‘It wasn’t working out.’
‘Too much shared history?’
‘Something like that.’ Becky took a sip of orange juice. ‘But I didn’t come here to whine about my love-life. I wanted Derek.’
‘To do what? Is there a problem? Can I help?’ Do I even want to get involved?
‘No. I need a man.’
Don’t we all, honey?
‘I wanted Derek to talk to Danny.’ She looked up. ‘He’s my brother; he’s nearly sixteen and he has Asperger’s.’
And? Steph raised her eyebrows.
Becky sighed. ‘Last summer, when it all kicked off, when Michael went to meet Martin Reilly and I all but blackmailed Lenny to drive me out there …’
Steph stifled a giggle at the thought of anybody blackmailing Lenny Dixon, let alone a five-foot-nothing blonde reporter. But then she remembered the way he’d held her in the ambulance just before Christmas, the way he’d stormed Harper’s flat like a comic-strip hero the minute he’d thought she was in danger. The way he killed one man and wounded another without even hesitating. She still wondered whether she’d done the right thing in giving him a cover-story, an escape from the mess he’d got himself into and a way out of a life sentence for murder.
‘It was Danny who gave me the idea,’ Becky was saying. ‘He found Reilly’s address. He’s obsessed with the internet – he can find anything online.’ She bit her lip. ‘And I think he’s maybe finding things he shouldn’t.’
‘Such as?’ Steph wasn’t sure where this was going.
‘I’m not sure, not enough to say anything yet. I was hoping Derek could have a chat with him – engage him in some way. Once he gets an idea in his head he’s hard to distract, but I thought Derek could maybe give him something else to do and make him feel important, while keeping him away from the other stuff.’ She met Steph’s eyes. ‘He’s nearly sixteen, Steph. He looks like an adult but he isn’t; he’s frighteningly clever in a lot of ways, but he doesn’t have the social awareness that we do. He won’t know what’s dangerous and when to stop.’
So stop him accessing the net, Steph wanted to say. But if it was that easy, Becky would have done it already. ‘Would another man help?’
‘Maybe. He relates better to men.’
Steph pondered. ‘I could ask Rob – my boyfriend?’ she suggested. ‘He’s uniform and working on traffic right now. How about I get Danny a ride in a police car and then they go chat about computers? Rob’s quite computer-literate.’
‘Would you?’ Becky’s eyes lit up. ‘I’m running out of distraction techniques and I’d rather give him something positive to focus on.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Can I ask you something else?’
‘Sure.’ And Steph knew what was coming, could tell by the look on the girl’s face.
‘Where’s Lenny?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered honestly.
‘He went to prison.’
‘I know. I was there.’ I gave evidence for the prosecution. She’d had no choice. He’d looked at her from the dock, but given nothing away in his expression as she’d told the court her version of what had happened in Harper’s flat and how Mick Carlotti had died. And committed perjury. It would come back to bite her arse one day, she knew it would, but she was too far down that road to turn around.
‘So where is he now?’
‘I don’t know.’ She’d shut it from her mind. Accessing the details on the computers would have left an audit trail and that was a risk she wasn’t prepared to take. She needed to move on.
Becky let it go, perhaps sensing her unease. And Steph knew it wasn’t over, that Lenny Dixon was going to haunt the rest of her career one way or another.
There was a hierarchy – a pecking order – in prison, established and maintained by the supply of illicit goods, the ability to fight or the willingness to perform sexual favours. Since Lenny had no contacts left on the outside to indulge in the first, and no intention of getting involved in the last, it was left for him to establish his rank by fighting alone. He’d used his fists before and would have done it again if necessary, despite the old injury, but the opportunity to establish his position on the wing had come earlier than expected when six of them had caught him in the showers three days into his sentence. They’d got him down on his knees, hands held behind his back, and somebody had thrust a cock at his face and waited to see what he’d do next. He’d looked up, made eye-contact with the guy and licked his dick a couple of times – slowly and teasingly – until he felt the man relax. Then he bit down hard.
The man screamed, backing away and holding his cock with both hands.
Lenny spat blood into the shower and sat back on his heels, pulling his hands free. He wiped his mouth. ‘Anybody else?’ For a moment, he thought he’d gone too far, but maybe they’d seen something in his eyes – that he wasn’t intimidated, just determined to see it through, whatever it took. And they left him to puke in the loo and clean up the blood. Ten minutes later, he strode back out onto the wing with his head held high and Tony Roberts, who took no shit off anybody, had officially been born.
‘And how did you feel about that?’ asked Lenny’s counsellor, not seeming the slightest bit ruffled by his graphic description of events.
‘Biting some tosser’s cock?’ Lenny shrugged. ‘I thought we’d done the sexuality shit a while back. You were asking me about Risley and I was simply telling you how it was. Trust me, I have no sexual hang-ups, sweetheart.’ He smirked. ‘I do keep offering to prove it to you.’
‘You do,’ Claire agreed, crossing her legs and picking up her mug of tea. ‘Did you ask to be segregated again?’
‘On the rule?’ He shook his head, trying not to smile; for a counsellor, the woman seemed to have no awareness of her own body language. ‘Nah. It isn’t something you ask for; it’s something you get.’ But they’d not bothered him again after that incident and the rest of his sentence had been relatively uneventful and easily forgotten.
Claire was wearing a skirt today, with bare legs and sandals, and Lenny shifted position to get a better view. He daydreamed about fucking her throughout most of every visit – and in between appointments too – but she was never less than professional, even when it was obvious she could see where he was trying to steer a conversation and probably knew exactly what he was thinking. It was a game, but one he was enjoying playing and it brightened up the end of an afternoon before he headed back to the flat for another twelve-hour lockdown.
‘So,’ Claire said. ‘You’re self-obsessed, introverted, and you don’t play nicely with other people.’
He looked at her. ‘And what are my bad points, do you think?’
The corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly and he could see she was trying not to laugh.
‘Tell me about Amanda,’ she said, changing the subject again as she put her mug down and looked at him directly.
He held the eye contact, refusing to let her rattle him. Amanda? That wasn’t fair.
‘Talk to me?’
‘Amanda was just another woman. Fuck ’em and leave ’em.’
‘And you have no sexual hang-ups. Right.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Then tell me. That’s why we’re here. When was the last time you had sex?’
Yesterday, actually. Delia from the coffee shop where he sometimes bought breakfast on the way to work. Nineteen, with big tits, a cute smile and a tongue-stud. And the disabled toilet in the back had lots of space and a cabinet to sit on. God, he was hard just thinking about it now. But he had no intention of telling any of that to Claire, no matter how many buttons she pushed. It was none of her fucking business.
‘You’ve gone very quiet, Tony. Not like you at all.’
And what would you know? She knew nothing about him, other than what had been on his referral papers, which she’d refused to let him see. What did they have him down as? Abused child? Failed suicide? Murderer? Victim? No fucking way.
He stood up abruptly and stalked over to the window, folding his arms as he looked out at the view across the city. He could see the Liver Birds, and beyond that the Mersey ferry chugging its way across to the Wirral. It was a clear enough day that he could just make out the Welsh mountains on the horizon. And despite the vista out there, he still felt trapped, boxed into corners by a system he’d never wanted to be a part of.
He sighed. He was playing right into Claire’s hands by giving her these textbook reactions. Lenny unfolded his arms and let them drop by his side, making a conscious effort to slow his breathing. He forced a smile and turned around, sitting on the window ledge.
‘Sorry. I’m overreacting.’
‘Are you?’
Probably not. It was August, coming up a year since he’d let himself be talked into going out to Reilly’s estate. Becky hadn’t known what it had meant for him to go back there, but that was the moment his life had started unravelling and he’d never quite managed to knit it back together again. Given that he’d spent nine of the past twelve months in prison, it wasn’t that surprising. Now he just wanted a fresh start, but they weren’t going to let him do that, not for a long time yet. Fucking Darwin!
‘Am I dangerous?’ he asked, sitting back down in the armchair and picking up his own mug of tea. It was almost cold.
‘In what way?’
‘You tell me.’ He waved at the closed door. ‘Does your secretary outside have instructions on what to do if you scream? Is there a big red note on my file that says I carry – used to carry – a gun? That I was charged with cop-murder?’ That I didn’t fucking do it?
He was getting to her now. He could tell by the way she shifted position, the way her fingers twisted in the hem of her thin cotton cardigan. Let’s see how you like it, sweetheart. He felt a perverse sense of satisfaction in turning the conversation around on her.
‘You’re a client, Tony,’ she said after a moment. ‘Nothing more.’
So get out of my fucking head. They’d been confrontational before now, but not like this – this was uncomfortably personal. They’d crossed a line somewhere and he wasn’t quite sure where. Maybe she really did think he was dangerous. Once that would have been a good thing – reputation used to be everything – but now he just felt vaguely guilty.
‘You can say what you like in here,’ she said, trying to rescue the session. ‘You know you can.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘I don’t trust anybody. Don’t take it personally.’
‘Why not?’
Because it keeps me alive. He just shook his head.
‘This is …’ Claire sighed. ‘You win; we might as well call it a day. I’ll see you next week?’
He nodded and got as far as the door before he turned back, hand on the door handle. ‘Do you report back to Darwin? To anybody?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Patient confidentiality. If it helps, I don’t even know who Darwin is.’
Patient confidentiality? I’m not a fucking patient. Lenny clattered down the stairs and checked the time on his phone. He had forty-five minutes before he had to be back at the flat, which would give him just enough time to get across town to the tiny one-roomed office above a sewing-machine shop where his accountant was based. If he could remember where it was.
He’d been thinking about it for a few weeks now, but today’s session with Claire had cemented the decision. He needed money. To do what, he wasn’t quite sure yet, but he needed to be prepared – which was why he’d requested Liverpool in the first place, when Darwin had given him a choice of places to relocate to. It had to be a city as he was relying on public transport these days; with no money to buy a car, he couldn’t even hire one without a driving licence, and he’d never had one of them in his real name, never mind this new identity.
‘Driving without a licence or insurance. Is there anything else you want taken into consideration?’ the man had asked him somewhat sarcastically in a holding cell beneath the courtrooms. ‘Other things I should know about? Speak now.’
‘Do I look that stupid?’ Lenny had replied, raising his eyebrows. If he’d coughed to everything he could think of, they’d have locked him up forever – never mind all the stuff he couldn’t even remember.
But his accountant was in Liverpool. And Sohail was also the secretary for the company that Lenny had set up way back, the company that owned and managed his flat in London. With no identification in either name, he was hoping that visual recognition would be enough – although he hadn’t been up to the office in five years or more. Since there was no way he could get at bank accounts, Sohail was his only access to money, other than the shit weekly wages he got paid in cash at work. At least his rent and bills were paid for him – he wasn’t sure who by – and the flat had come fully-furnished. He even had a weekly cleaner, although he suspected that was the cops’ way of keeping an eye on him, rather than out of any concern for his health or wellbeing.
He’d have to sell the London flat. It didn’t bother him; he wasn’t attached to the place and he hadn’t been home in a year or more. But if he could get Sohail to put it on the market – low price for a quick sale – he’d have some capital, although he’d have to be careful how he spent it to avoid pinging the radar of the CPS, who were probably still hell-bent on asset-stripping him to within an inch of his life.
And with money, he could do anything.
This is stalking. Ryan knew what he was doing was wrong and worse still, he knew if Tony caught him, he’d go apeshit. Something told him that pissing the man off would so not be a good idea. But Tony had left for some appointment in town – to see a man about a dog? – Ryan had watched him get on the bus before heading back to the warehouse under the pretence of leaving his keys behind in the locker room.
It was quiet. He could hear the chatter of the girls in the office upstairs, getting ready to leave for the evening, and he had maybe ten minutes before old Joe would be ambling around closing up for the night. Ryan had got locked in deliberately one night a couple of years ago. He and Paulie had stocked up on Bull’s Blood, cheap cider and snacks and invited a couple of the office juniors to stay for the party; they’d lasted maybe a few hours before Ellie had got scared with all the horror stories – Alien-inspired monsters lurking in the dark store rooms, acid eating through the ceiling of the room above them, body parts stuffed into dusty filing cabinets – and she’d phoned her mum on her mobile. He’d been into her knickers by then, a finger up inside her and she’d called time on him just as his balls had been about to explode. So he’d not been altogether upset when her mother had allegedly called the police, who’d turned up and carted them all off down the station. The little prick-tease had dropped them all in it, but they’d got off with a warning. He’d have given her a damn sight more than a warning if they’d been in the warehouse any longer – she’d been coming onto him for weeks, brushing past him in the corridor with a hand lingering too long on his crotch, or pinching his arse when he wasn’t looking.
Ryan shook his head. The cow had long gone, Paulie too, and he’d been left with a written warning from the boss on his file. But he still knew his way around this place – knew where the master key was kept for the lockers and which one was Tony’s.
He closed the locker-room door carefully and opened Tony’s locker without hesitating. Now he’d see what the man kept in there. There was a secretive – furtive – look about him all the time, a don’t fuck with me attitude, and now he’d said he’d been shot? Yeah, right. Ryan didn’t believe a word of it and maybe the locker contents would give him a clue. Five weeks Tony had been working here, and none of them knew anything about him at all; he arrived on time, did the bare minimum of work and left on the dot of five. He ate lunch alone and stood apart from them at breaks, smoking a solitary cigarette under the fire escape. Maybe he was some kind of cop, working undercover? That would explain things. Perhaps Ryan was about to find a badge and a gun?
The locker was empty. Nothing at all. Not even a packet of cigarettes or a stash of porn mags like Joe kept at work, safely away from a wife who cleaned obsessively and had a habit of stacking spare magazines on the coffee table without looking at the titles – or so Joe had told him once after a particularly embarrassing coffee morning she’d hosted.
But nobody had an empty locker. Everybody had stuff, surely? Jars of coffee, secret supplies of biscuits, a couple of bottles of dodgy imported vodka that the sandwich van man supplied from under the seat every time he did a booze run to Calais. Come to think of it, Tony didn’t even make his own tea or coffee, did he? He bought a bottle of water and a sandwich off the van every day; the only brews he’d had were the couple that Ryan himself had made. And he kept his cigarettes in his pocket and watched his lighter with an intensity that bordered upon obsession when asked to lend it.
This guy is not normal.
Ryan closed the locker and checked it was secure. He had a few minutes left so he crept upstairs to the office. The girls had gone and the door was still unlocked. Ryan looked behind him, then slipped in and opened the big filing cabinet.
Roberts, A. There it was, near to the back – a new file with very little in it. He pulled it out and spread it on the desk. Antony Roberts (Tony), with an address out near Brunswick station. Very nice. How could he afford a place like that on a picker’s salary? There was no landline number – just a mobile.
A tuneless whistling. Ryan looked up. He was out of time. He folded the single piece of paper into quarters and stuffed it in his pocket, putting the empty file away and shutting the cabinet quickly as Joe came in. ‘Lost my keys,’ he explained to the man. ‘I was hoping Sarah would still be here.’
‘Nah. She’s long gone, mate.’
‘Never mind. It’ll keep. See ya.’ And he was out of the office, downstairs and on the street before he realised what he’d done. Being nosy was one thing, but this was – what? Theft? He could put it back tomorrow. Once I’ve copied the address and mobile number. But it was time to go get a look at Tony’s place and see if he could make the man out. If he left now, he could find somewhere close by and watch him returning from this appointment – whatever it was. He might be playing at being Mr Mysterious, but Ryan would find out what he was up to.
It was like being a detective and he was rather pleased with his progress so far.
Three days later and Lenny jumped off the bus a stop earlier than normal and strolled down to the riverfront. If he came at the flat from a different angle, he knew he’d be able to intercept Ryan, catch the kid red-handed. He’d have a hard time explaining why he was lurking around the area, waiting for somebody who wasn’t going to appear off the bus.
A little bit of interrogation was in order, Lenny felt. Find out what the fuck was going on, why Ryan had followed him home on three separate occasions so far. It had gone beyond mild concern to a real sense of unease now and he needed to put his mind at rest. He didn’t want to move – contacting his offender manager and asking to be relocated would be tantamount to giving in, and he didn’t want to go whinging every time he got nervous. Grow a pair, Dixon. Deal with it. Starting right now.
He could see Ryan up a side street as he watched the bus trundle past without stopping. Ryan looked confused, but he hurried across the road, not really aware of his surroundings at all. For fuck’s sake. Lenny wondered if the kid would notice him if he stood in the middle of the pavement and waved his arms around.
Lenny slipped behind one of the small garage blocks. The building muffled the traffic noise and he could hear seagulls and the faint sound of approaching footsteps. Better make sure I get the right guy! Assaulting the wrong person could land him in court again and he’d had enough legal crap to last for the rest of his life.
But it was definitely Ryan. There was a tell-tale sniff that Lenny hadn’t realised he recognised and as the lad came down the path past him, Lenny reached out an arm and yanked him hard, pulling him off-balance and out of view of the street.
‘Who are you working for?’ Lenny yanked his arm up behind his back and shoved him face-first into the side of one of the garages.
‘What?’ Ryan wriggled. ‘Let me go.’
Lenny relaxed slightly, just enough to let the kid speak. ‘Talk.’
‘You saw me?’
Lenny snorted. ‘I saw you three days ago. Tell your bosses your surveillance skills are shite. Who are you working for?’ he repeated, tightening his grip. ‘I will break your fucking arm, you know.’
‘Ow. Fuck. Why?’ The kid sounded terrified.
Lenny pulled him away from the wall, twisted him around and shoved him into the narrow gap between the garages, slamming him back against the bricks with an arm across his throat. ‘Come on, Ryan. If you’ve been following me, you must know I don’t piss around. Who’s paying you?’
Ryan’s eyes were wide. He had a graze across one cheek, blood starting to well up in beads. ‘Paying me? Why would anybody be paying me?’
Lenny frowned. The kid looked terrified too. Could he actually be telling the truth? There were people walking past the garages; sooner or later somebody would stop and interfere and Lenny couldn’t afford to get into trouble up here. And they couldn’t go anywhere public, not until he found out what Ryan knew.
‘Where do you live?’ he asked, releasing his hold on the kid’s throat and stepping back.
‘Aigburth,’ Ryan said. ‘Up near the park. Why?’
‘Shut up.’ He needed to think. If he took Ryan home, there was no way he’d be back before seven, not on public transport. And anyway, Ryan might have family – still living with parents, or even a wife and kids. Lenny sighed. Six weeks he’d lasted and now at least one of his secrets was going to be exposed. They’d have to go into his flat. There was no other option; he couldn’t let the kid walk until he knew for sure what this was about.
‘Right,’ he said, taking a quick look out in front of the garages. ‘You’re going to do exactly as I say, unless you want to end up at the bottom of the fucking Mersey. Got it?’
Ryan nodded.
‘You’re going to walk in front of me up to my flat – I assume you know where it is if you’ve been following me? Don’t run, don’t speak to anyone, don’t even look at anyone. And shut your mouth – you look like a frigging goldfish. Ready? Move.’ And he shoved him out of the gap and towards the flats.
Ryan walked like a zombie. Either he was a fucking good actor, or he was genuinely scared shitless and unaware of the implications of what he’d done. Lenny was leaning towards the latter now, but he had to be sure – one mistake could still cost him his life and if they’d found him up here, he’d have to run, sod the tag alarm and worry about the consequences later. Bugger. Why did I leave it so long to hook up with Sohail? It’d take at least a month or so to push the sale of the London flat through, though the man had said he’d loan Lenny cash if he needed it. With interest, of course. It was an option in an emergency, but not one he wanted to take.
His flat was on the top floor of a small block. Another smart warehouse conversion on the riverfront, although not one with much of a view. But it was relatively new, clean and secure – as secure as anything was in Liverpool, anyway. Lenny wasn’t entirely ungrateful as he could have ended up somewhere a lot worse, but presumably whatever relocation services they’d engaged had done their best to house him away from the local hangouts of whatever gangs worked the area.
Ryan looked impressed as they clattered up six flights of stairs to the top floor and Lenny opened a door at the end of a short corridor. Lenny pushed him straight towards the lounge, but there was no way the kid was going to miss the tag base unit on the table in the hall.
Maybe he won’t know what it is.
No such luck. Ryan stopped by the electronic box of tricks and looked at Lenny questioningly. Lenny closed his eyes, shook his head and led him towards the tiny kitchen instead. He tore a few sheets of kitchen roll, folded them and dampened them under the cold tap, handing them to Ryan. ‘Your face. Sorry about that. Can’t be too careful.’
While Ryan patted at his cheek and looked at the blood on the paper in surprise, Lenny filled the kettle and dumped two teabags in mugs. He pulled out a chair at the table in the corner and indicated the one opposite. ‘Sit down.’
Ryan did as he was told.
‘So,’ Lenny said after a moment. ‘Why were you following me? Apologies if I seem a little … paranoid … but I have my reasons.’
‘I …’ He trailed off. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘Are you working for somebody?’ Lenny tried again. ‘Did they ask you to follow me, maybe offer you money to find out where I live?’ he said, trying not to lose patience. Nobody can be this stupid, can they?
‘No. I was just—’
‘Nosy?’ Lenny finished for him. Fuck, he’s just a kid! He made two mugs of tea and brought them back to the table, forcing himself to relax. ‘Well, this is my place.’ He spread his arms out. ‘And yes – because you’re just itching to know, aren’t you? That is a tag monitor you saw in the hall. So if I tell you some stuff, will you back off?’
Ryan nodded. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.’
‘Yes,’ said Lenny. ‘I do. Because you’re not going to let it go otherwise, are you? I don’t need a fucking stalker; I have enough problems in my life.’ He kicked off his shoes and stuck his feet on the edge of the table, unconcerned now if Ryan saw the tell-tale bulge under his sock. It was a bit of a relief that someone knew – even if it was this dumb kid who probably thought getting arrested would be pretty cool.
He lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve been in prison,’ he said. ‘Three months on remand down south last year and now six months in Risley. Don’t ask what for.’
Ryan shook his head.
‘Right now I’m on licence,’ Lenny continued. ‘Twelve hour curfew in this place every night, plus working in that fucking warehouse five days a week.’ He tipped his head back, exhaling smoke. ‘It’s a wonder I’m still fucking sane.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Prison? Boring.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep.’ And you wouldn’t survive five minutes, kid.
‘Is it like on telly?’
‘Nope.’ Nobody would watch anything that boring. ‘So if you’re ever tempted to do anything illegal, Ryan, don’t be stupid enough to get caught.’
‘You were stupid?’ He caught his breath at the end as if he thought he’d said the wrong thing, but Lenny just grinned.
‘I’ve done some fucking stupid stuff, yes.’ He hesitated, more serious now. ‘I’ve also pissed off a lot of very dangerous people, which is why I get a bit stressed when I’m followed home from work. So do me a favour and let me know if there’s anybody sniffing around asking questions about me?’ Maybe it would be a good thing to have someone on his side, somebody looking out for him? Or maybe I’m just writing a big neon sign over Liverpool. Here I am, fuckers – come and get me!
‘Tony Roberts isn’t your real name, is it?’
Clever boy. ‘No,’ he admitted. He swung his feet down from the table. ‘So now you know why I can’t go out drinking with you, how about you nip out and grab some beers, and I’ll order in pizza by way of an apology for that?’ He indicated Ryan’s cheek.
‘You’re inviting me for dinner?’
Lenny shrugged. ‘Looks that way. Don’t go thinking we’re best buddies, though. I don’t do friends.’ It had occurred to him that Ryan could possibly report him for assault – there might even be CCTV cameras down in the car park. I need to be more careful. In the meantime, it wouldn’t kill him to be nice for once. Nice? Jesus, I’m slipping.
Steph wasn’t entirely sure how Becky expected to keep any of this a secret. Quite apart from the fact that her brother would doubtless tell all his friends at school about his ride in a police car, Steph had noticed the curtains twitching in several of the neighbours’ houses. They probably think he’s been arrested, Steph thought as she spooned coffee into mugs in Becky’s kitchen.
‘I really appreciate this,’ Becky said, taking milk from the fridge. ‘Danny will be talking about it for weeks.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ said Steph. ‘You did tell your parents we were coming?’
Becky nodded. ‘I said you were a friend of mine and you’d promised Dan a ride as a birthday present.’
‘Ah.’ Steph followed her up the stairs. Danny’s bedroom was showroom-tidy. Two cushions on the bed were arranged at exactly the same angle and the posters on the walls were all at exactly the same height. The books on the shelf were arranged by colour – reds at one end and greens at the other – with the taller books on the left hand side of each colour group.
‘Wow,’ said Steph. ‘This is a teenage boy’s bedroom?’
‘That’s Asperger’s,’ Becky switched on the computer. ‘Don’t touch anything, for God’s sake. He’ll know – he always knows.’
Steph put her mug on the desk, noticing how all the pens were lined up in the holder at precise angles and how both sides of the desk were symmetrical, right down to identical drink mats. ‘Won’t he know you’ve been looking on his computer?’
‘Probably,’ said Becky. ‘He’s caught me out before. So long as I delete the browsing history, I can probably come up with a reason. This is the only computer with hardwired internet – I often use it when the Wi-Fi is down. Dan doesn’t mind so long as I don’t touch anything.’
‘So what are you looking for?’
‘I don’t know.’ Becky opened the desk drawer, pulling out several notebooks. ‘He keeps lists – maybe there’s something in here.’
Steph looked at the tiny neat handwriting, every inch of the page used. She wasn’t close enough to read the words but she could see that a lot of the text was made up of web links. She wondered what a normal sixteen year-old boy looked at on the internet and how that might differ from one who was autistic. Somehow she couldn’t see a boy who kept his room this tidy spending hours playing World of Warcraft, or whatever kids were into these days.
Becky sighed in frustration. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for.’
‘So why not look at the browsing history?’ Steph suggested.
The girl nodded. ‘Good idea. Have a seat.’ She indicated the bed.
Steph watched as various websites came up on screen. News sites and articles, seemingly random. Or were they? Another link to a film site. Not a film site – a site about film-making. Was Danny into making films? Most mobile phones these days could record – maybe this was his way of expressing himself?
A news link flashed up next. Becky scrolled down it briefly.
And suddenly Steph knew what the link was. ‘Stop,’ she said, putting her hand on Becky’s arm. ‘Go back up a bit.’
‘What? Where?’ Becky scrolled up slowly. A news article covering a trial. The word film flashed up again. Aircraft hangars, underground studios and a name. Martin Reilly.
Becky saw it at the same time. She dropped the mouse.
‘It’s not his trial,’ said Steph.
‘No,’ Becky agreed. ‘He’s dead. I was at the inquest.’
Steph skim-read the article. It was more about the investigation culminating in the trial of a woman – June Armstrong. Steph had never heard of her and had no idea what her connection was, but then she still didn’t know that much about what had happened out at Reilly’s estate last summer. She’d been able to do legitimate research where it had touched on Lenny Dixon, but that was all.
‘Who’s June Armstrong?’
Becky frowned. ‘I think she was the cow that picked me up in her car. She’s the only woman I remember seeing there.’ She bit her lip. ‘Oh, and she was there when Nick was sewing Lenny up on the kitchen table.’
‘On the kitchen table?’ Steph remembered seeing the scar.
‘Mmm. But why does Danny have all this? He knows nothing about it.’
Steph had no idea. The only teenage boys she’d ever dealt with were the drug dealers, the off-the-rails kids living with parents who were barely grown-up themselves, wearing their ASBOs as a badge of honour. Worlds away from Becky’s middle-class family. Am I a snob? She supposed she might be.
But if Becky was seeing all this for the first time on Danny’s computer, then what was it that had first prompted her to want to speak to Darwin? And get Steph and Rob as second prize instead?
‘Paintball,’ said Becky. ‘That’s what started it. Dan loves paintball – when he wants to he can hide for hours. There’s a place about half an hour’s drive away where we used to take him, but it closed down in the spring; think they ran out of money and the land got sold for redevelopment. Danny went into meltdown when he saw the woods were fenced off and they were halfway through building the show-house. Honestly, you’d think we were murdering him, and if we’d stayed longer somebody would have called the police.’
‘Paintball?’ OK, but how did that fit?
Becky smiled slightly. ‘One of the first things Dan found out last year about Reilly’s estate was that there used to be paintball. There’s an old quarry with a lot of off-road driving tracks; maybe the place was once some kind of corporate events venue – I don’t know – but of course as soon as the local place closed, Danny’s looking for somewhere else. He started asking me about where I’d been, whether there was still paintball there.’ She hesitated. ‘I couldn’t tell him. It’s still hard to talk about – but Danny doesn’t get subtleties like that. It’s black and white to him, so of course he’s online, isn’t he? And my name is out there on news sites. I had to give evidence at the inquest – I’m connected to it all. He knows there’s stuff I’m not telling him.’
‘And even if you told him, he wouldn’t get it?’
‘No.’ Becky shook her head. ‘Films are films in Dan’s world.’
Steph watched her shiver unconsciously, maybe thinking about what films had been produced in the underground studios out at the old airfield at Reilly’s place. Lenny’s films. Well, some of them anyway – and she still wondered how he was dealing with all of that.
‘Mornin’!’
‘What?’ Lenny was barely awake. His mobile rang so infrequently, he’d all but forgotten he even had one. ‘Who is this?’ Nobody had this number – nobody except …
‘DS Trent. Merseyside intel.’
Cops? Lenny stumbled from the bedroom into the bathroom. ‘It’s seven o’clock in the frigging morning!’ There was the sound of loud snoring from the lounge. Shit – Ryan. Why the fuck had he let the kid stay over?
‘Best time to catch you in,’ said the voice cheerily in a broad Scouse accent, ‘what with the tag an’ all. And I didn’t want to disturb your evening.’
It’s a mobile phone. Why do I have to be in? ‘Yeah, I have such an exciting social life. What do you want?’
‘A nice chat, sometime soon?’
‘Oh, bugger off.’ Lenny flushed the toilet. The snoring stopped and there were sounds of movement from the other room. ‘I can’t talk now.’ I hate fucking Scousers almost as much as I hate the Irish.
‘Got company?’
‘Yes, but not what you think.’ He put the mobile down and washed his hands, before picking it up again and wandering through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. ‘Yes, I’m still here.’ He looked up as Ryan came into the room wearing just pants and T shirt. Oh, please! It’s way too early to be fucking sociable. ‘I’ll call you back later,’ he said into the phone.
‘Make sure you do. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Lenny disconnected and tossed the mobile onto the kitchen worktop. Fucking cops. He’d been half-expecting a call or visit from the local boys since he’d moved in; they’d left him alone in Risley, for which he’d been grateful. Passing intelligence – grassing – was dangerous enough on the outside. On the inside, his cohabitees would have killed him, and there were only so many legal visits before he’d have aroused suspicion. But now he was out, the cops would be wanting to pump him for information again – that would be the price for life on the outside, and this rent-and-bill-free flat – and it wasn’t going to be Darwin or his minions up here. Which was a shame; they’d had their disagreements, but at least Lenny knew where he was with Darwin.
‘Who was that?’ Ryan pulled last night’s pizza box across the table and started chewing on a leftover crust.
Jesus. That’s disgusting. ‘Nobody important. You want toast?’ he offered instead, dumping teabags into mugs.
‘No, I’m good, ta. Thanks for letting me kip on your sofa.’
I had a choice? It had been gone eleven last night and Lenny had had way too much to drink to make sensible decisions. Ryan had left his car nearby but he’d been drinking too, and it had been easier to agree to let him sleep on the sofa. They’d talked – well, Ryan had talked mostly – about women and beer and football, and Lenny had been so far out of his comfort zone, he’d just given in and drunk more beer.
But Ryan had a car. That was an unexpected bonus and another reason to cultivate this friendship. I really don’t do friends. But maybe he could make an exception here?
Ryan seemed to think so. ‘You want a lift into work? I can nip home, shower and change and pick you up on the way back in?’
‘That’d be good,’ Lenny admitted, biting back the sarcasm that was all too eager to jump into his mouth these days. He needed to at least pretend to get on with people.
Ryan dressed and left, still holding a crust of last night’s pizza. Lenny showered, feeling strangely calm, considering he’d just had company for the first evening in a long time. Made conversation. Engaged with somebody out of choice rather than from necessity. Even the thought of having the cops on his back again wasn’t bugging him half as much as he’d expected it would. Maybe living in the real world wouldn’t be as hard as he’d expected.
With a mug of tea, he fired up his laptop – his first present to himself since he’d started working up here. He’d figured if he was stuck in lockdown for fifty percent of his life, he needed some way to keep in contact with reality. Why am I justifying things to myself? He’d earned every fucking penny from this shit job so far and it wasn’t like he had anything else to spend money on, other than food and cigarettes. The cops, or whoever, had even provided him with internet access in the flat, although he suspected it was probably monitored. The flat itself was probably bugged as well; just because he hadn’t found any cameras or microphones didn’t mean there weren’t any.
Out of habit he checked the various email accounts he’d set up over the years – there was no point in abandoning his old life completely and it was important to keep an ear to the ground. There were doubtless still people out there who might let him know who had a hit out on him – if only to wind him up. It never hurt to be prepared.
He had several email accounts. All in random names and none connected to another. He never left anything logged in and never used the same password twice. It was about the limit of his technical ability, but he’d always tried to understand the fundamentals. Finding Michael from the internet photographs last year had been an eye-opener, and he’d been out of his depth in minutes with the hacker guy he’d paid to trawl the deep-web and analyse the catch he’d dredged up. But too many people he knew had been scammed while they themselves were ripping off a third party, and he had to at least look like he understood the techy stuff.
His mobile rang again. Same number as before. He ignored it. Trent could wait. And if he thought Lenny was talking out of the goodness of his heart, he had a lot to learn about the way things worked. Lenny had already decided he wanted the tag off – or at least the curfew reduced – before he was talking to anybody; a decent evening meal outside of these four walls would do for starters.
One of the email accounts had a message.
CarlReilly595. The Gmail account he’d set up when he’d been stuck on the scrapyard, when he’d tried to get in contact with Becky and get a message out that he hadn’t shot the cop in the hospital.
The message was from MartinPhillips861. Becky’s account that she’d set up to answer him.
Are you there? A simple question.
Becky? His fingers hovered over the keyboard. But he had to reply and he sent back yes, before he had chance to think about it. And he didn’t want to think about Becky, had tried very hard not to think about Becky over the last six months; she was his weak spot and he knew it. Thinking about Becky hurt.
Too many memories. The one time he’d ever really considered killing himself and she’d been there, talked him down. She’d blackmailed him, irritated him and got in his way – but she knew him like nobody else ever would.
The phone rang a third time and he switched it to silent without even bothering to look. Fucking cops! He played around on the net for another ten minutes or so, not really looking at anything but waiting for that tinny ping that announced an incoming email. And it came, just as he was about to give up and go outside to wait for Ryan.
Danny’s missing.
Danny? Who the fuck was Danny? Not a boyfriend – she was seeing Michael, wasn’t she? He glanced at the clock on the bottom of the screen. He’d have to go in a second. Who’s Danny? he asked, not really wanting to know.
This time, the answer came back immediately. My little brother. The one who found out all the details about Reilly’s estate. He’s autistic. I’m scared. Derek’s gone and the police won’t listen.
Oh, fuck. Becky had never said anybody else knew. She’d coerced him into helping her last summer, but he hadn’t known anyone else was involved.
He’d do anything for Becky. But go back? Give up this new identity and risk breaking the terms of his licence and being sent back to prison?
Give me an address and a phone number, he typed. I’m in Liverpool. Be with you as soon as I can.
Ryan has a car. Lenny shut the laptop and stuffed it into a drawer; he could pick up emails on his phone. In the bedroom, he took a Swiss army knife from a drawer and put it in his pocket, together with a wallet containing a few twenty-pound notes. Ryan has a car. Hopefully Ryan also has a credit card. What else did he need? What else did he have? Nothing anymore.
He made coffee in an insulated travel mug and took it downstairs with him, locking the door carefully and checking the stairwell more out of habit than necessity. But instead of Ryan, a pretty black woman was waiting for him in the car park. Lenny frowned – she looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place her.
‘You’re not answering your phone.’ She swung her car keys at him. ‘Get in. We need to talk.’
Lenny fished out his mobile. That last call hadn’t been from the cops at all; it was someone called Lisa. Lisa. Of course. Offender manager, probation officer – whatever they were called these days. She’d been the one who’d given him a talking-to like he was a naughty schoolboy, when she’d told him the way things were going to be in Liverpool. Lenny had sat in her office and mentally undressed her instead, missing most of what she’d said. It was all bollocks, anyway.
‘Lisa?’ she said hesitantly, almost as if she was scared of him. ‘From the Integrated Offender Management Team?’
‘Whatever.’ He managed to keep up the air of bored nonchalance. If you’re meant to be on my side, God help us all. But she wasn’t really, was she? Her team was somewhere on the scale between the cops and the Crown Prosecution Service – there were way too many fucking officials interfering in his life and he needed to get rid of them all.
‘You’re compromised.’
‘What?’ It came from out of the blue. How? ‘What the fuck?’ He glanced around, but nothing looked different. What was she talking about? He’d only told Becky he was in Liverpool a few minutes ago, for fuck’s sake – this couldn’t be anything to do with the emails.
‘Get in the car. I’ll have somebody clear out the flat.’
‘Where are we going?’ He didn’t trust anybody to manage his safety – except perhaps Steph or Darwin. Maybe Mr Merseyside Intel could help? ‘Can I call the cops?’ Why the hell didn’t the cops even know?
Lisa looked at him like he had Satan on speed-dial. ‘Just get in the car.’
‘Not until you tell me where we’re going.’ This was worrying him now. Looking after number one had always been his top priority – he’d certainly demonstrated that to Ryan yesterday – but if he was compromised, he wanted to know how, why and by who.
But Lisa wasn’t having any of it. ‘You’re on licence, Tony. That means you do as I say. Or else I can simply have them issue an arrest warrant and take you back to Risley.’ She grabbed hold of his arm.
Red rag to a bull. He shook her off and stepped back out of her reach. ‘Touch me again, sweetheart, and they’ll be taking you to fucking hospital.’ Lenny wondered what kind of people she was used to dealing with. Thieving little Scouse scrotes, probably – with half a brain cell between them. Liverpool bred its own unique brand of lowlife; he’d dealt with them in the past. And yet Lisa had come alone with no backup. It didn’t make sense. ‘Look,’ he tried again. ‘I just want to know what’s going on.’ And then I want Ryan’s car.
‘I’ll tell you back at the office.’
‘You’ll tell me now. This is my life we’re talking about.’ He didn’t have time for this shit. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock and it might still be possible to drive down to London, sort Becky out and be back before curfew. Oh get real, Dixon. Who are you trying to fool? He’d be blowing his probation sky-high, and he’d be back inside the minute they caught up with him.
Lisa wasn’t budging. Lenny weighed up his options. Making a scene here would achieve nothing other than a show for his neighbours. She had the law on her side – it wasn’t going to get him off on the right foot with Trent if he was arrested for not complying with the terms of his licence, or however the woman tried to twist it. And he needed a few hours head start before they started hunting him down.
He sighed and got into the back of the car, wondering what Ryan would think when he turned up to find Lenny already gone.
He rang Tony’s doorbell once, twice, then stuck his finger on it hard. Nobody answered. He looked for a tradesman’s button, but there wasn’t one. He twisted on one heel, eyes searching the car park and pathways and down to the riverfront, but he couldn’t see any sign of the man.
He’d wanted a lift, hadn’t he? Ryan tried to recall the conversation – Tony hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic about the offer, but Ryan was learning to read between the lines already; Tony didn’t have any mates and he was lonely, but too proud to say so.
But he’s a criminal! He’d said as much; he’d been inside, done time, although Ryan had no idea what for and didn’t like to ask – he doubted Tony would tell him anyway. Presumably something to do with guns since he’d said he’d been shot. And Tony wasn’t his real name either so he was hiding out too. Witness protection? In the arse-end of Liverpool? It wasn’t very likely.
Maybe he was in danger? Ryan wandered back to his car, trying to figure it out. He’d been looking forward to showing off a bit. Tony didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be easily impressed, but Ryan’s lovingly-restored, two-tone Ford Capri would surely break that casual I don’t give a shit about anything aura. All men liked cars, didn’t they? It had taken him years – from a good deal on a beat-up old wreck in the back-streets of Birkenhead three days after passing his driving test, through a complete engine rebuild to the immaculate paint job he’d done himself in a friend’s garage over many weekends.
He drove to work, pissed off that Tony hadn’t even bothered to let him know he wasn’t coming. He’d thought they’d got on OK last night, and while Tony had flatly refused to watch the football on television, he’d told Ryan some funny stories. Ryan wasn’t sure what was true and what wasn’t; he didn’t entirely believe the man had really attended some posh private boarding school and yet he was big on the detail. If he came from money, what the hell was he doing living in a rented flat in Liverpool and working in a warehouse?
He’s a bullshitter – you know that, don’t you? But he was unlike any of Ryan’s other mates, who couldn’t think further than the match on Saturday and a two-week shag-fest in Marbella every summer. Somehow, Ryan didn’t think things like that were important to Tony at all. He’d mentioned a flat in London and yet didn’t seem concerned he could never go back there – Ryan had an idea that Tony hadn’t intended to let that slip out, but he wasn’t about to tell tales on his new mate.
If he even was a mate. Doing a disappearing act without warning wasn’t a good start.
He spun into the car park at work, wheels churning up the gravel. Inside the building, he threw his sports bag into his locker and went into the kitchen to make a mug of tea. Dumping the teabag in the bin, he was about to go look for Tony, when one of the other guys stuck his head around the door.
‘What you been up to? Sarah wants to see you in the office. Said the minute you got in.’
‘What about?’
He shrugged. ‘Didn’t ask. She looked pretty pissed off, though. Been knocking stuff off, have you?’
‘No.’ What did she want? He’d asked for promotion a few weeks back. There was a supervisor post coming up when somebody retired next month and Ryan had reckoned he was in with a chance. Maybe she wanted to talk to him about that. He left the tea on the table and took the stairs up to the offices two at a time. Promotion would mean more money and he really, really wanted to start looking around for another car project.
Sarah’s tiny glass-walled office was crowded out with Joe and two strangers. Not promotion, then. So what did she want …
Flashback to when he’d been rifling through the personnel records in the filing cabinet a few days ago. Joe had found him up here but he was sure the old guy hadn’t seen what he was doing. So who are these two dudes? One was wearing jeans, T shirt and trainers and the other was more smartly-dressed in a suit, although the shirt was creased and the tie didn’t match. They were together – worked together – Ryan could tell that from the way they were making eye contact. A partnership of some sort.
Sarah didn’t stand up as Ryan strolled in with his hands in his pockets. ‘Thanks for your help, Joe – that’ll be all for now. Shut the door behind you, please.’
Ryan stood nervously as Joe left, wondering if he’d be listening from outside. ‘I’m already late.’
She shook her head dismissively. ‘Doesn’t matter. I was hoping you could help us out here, Ryan. We’ve had an intruder – at least I hope it was an intruder – and I’m thinking you might be able to shed some light on the situation?’
One of the strangers handed him a piece of paper. Tony’s personnel record. The one he’d stolen. Borrowed. How had they got hold of it? Ryan took it and opened it out, pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. ‘What is it?’
‘Tony Roberts,’ said Sarah. ‘The new guy. You’ve been talking to him recently – helping him out.’
‘Yes.’ So?
‘Joe said you were up here the other day, late in the afternoon, looking for me. Did you notice anything strange, anything moved or different?’
‘No. Why are you showing me this?’
Sarah leaned forward across the desk. ‘It was found on the street in Aigburth this morning.’
Shit! He’d been so obsessed with following Tony, he’d forgotten about the paper. He’d fully intended to put it back the next day, but couldn’t remember what he’d done with it and then it had slipped his mind completely. He’d dropped it, hadn’t he? Pulled it out of his pocket with something else by mistake. Idiot!
Promotion? Snooping about the offices would get him the sack. This was all Tony’s fault. If he hadn’t been acting strangely, Ryan would never have needed to investigate.
‘Sit down, son.’ One of the strangers pushed him into the chair opposite Sarah. The man’s mobile phone rang then and he turned away from Ryan, answering with a curt: ‘Yes?’ He frowned. ‘For God’s sake – you did what? Yes, bring him here. I’ll wait.’ He disconnected, slipped the mobile into the back pocket of his jeans and turned to Ryan. ‘So – anything you want to tell us?’
Not really, no. Ryan said nothing. This was worse than school. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been hauled in front of the headmaster – but at least the old fart had had the decency to tell him why he was there. Ryan wasn’t about to incriminate himself; he knew perfectly well they were waiting to see what he’d confess to – which meant they didn’t actually have any proof he’d done anything at all. Right now it was stalemate.
The man in jeans sat down on the edge of the table to one side and gave him a hard stare. The other man was now behind him, out of Ryan’s line of sight.
What is this – good cop, bad cop?
Police? Was that who they were? Maybe keeping quiet wasn’t such a good idea after all. But why were police involved, unless Tony really was under some kind of witness protection. And I’ve just blown his cover? Oh, fuck. Was it a crime to find out somebody’s identity? But I don’t know who he is!
‘I see lightbulbs firing,’ said the man in front of him. He shook his head, then pulled something from his pocket and held it up in front of Ryan’s face. ‘DS Trent.’ He nodded to other man blocking the door. ‘My boss, the DI. Start talking, Ryan Ashcroft, before you really do end up in trouble.’
Lisa took him to her office. It was still early; she led him into a small windowless interview room and left him with the insulated mug he was holding. Lenny said nothing, and drank the coffee he’d brought with him from the flat.
This was a fucking joke. Did they really expect him to sit around while they worked out where to shunt him next? And why the fuck do they even care, anyway? It wasn’t like anyone actually gave a shit; he was a statistic – a number to make up their success or failure rate for offender rehabilitation. Nothing more.
He sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs, tried to shuffle it back away from the table and realised it was bolted to the floor. Jesus. What kind of place is this? He pulled out his mobile. The last call was from Lisa, but there were two before that. At least it’s not an unknown number. Calling the cops was going to be the only way to get this moving and standing still was no longer an option.
‘Hey,’ he said, as soon as it was answered. ‘Trent? I seem to be in trouble.’
‘Six weeks, Roberts. Could you not have lasted any longer before chucking your teddy out of the pram? Who did you tell?’ Lenny heard the hesitation in the man’s voice as he almost stumbled over his new name.
‘This is nothing to do with me, mate. Trust me, I was enjoying the quiet life.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Trent, with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘Of course you were. Bit of a coincidence that I call you and then an hour later all hell breaks loose, don’t you think? So where the fuck are you and why aren’t you here?’
‘Where’s here? Give me a frigging clue?’ I’m not a mind reader.
‘At your work. I told the silly cow on the phone I wanted you here with me, where I can keep an eye on you.’
If he really was compromised, it wouldn’t matter who was keeping an eye on him – they’d get him anyway. One way or another. Lenny had always known it was coming. He sighed. ‘Send a car for me?’ And maybe I’ll just hang onto it, if that’s OK? Probably not.
‘Fuck that,’ came the reply. ‘What makes you think we have any more in the transport budget than the OMU? You’re not that important.’ He paused. ‘Get a taxi if you have to, but I want you here. Now.’
‘On my way.’ There was no point in arguing with cops. Not when they had the upper hand and knew it. Lenny stood up and debated whether to go looking for the lovely Lisa, or simply walk out and call a cab. Halfway down the corridor, the decision was taken out of his hands when the woman herself came bustling towards him.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
I bet you like to be on top. He flexed his hands, trying to stay calm. ‘Cops want me at the warehouse.’
‘They do. I was just coming to get you.’ She hesitated. ‘Who’ve you been speaking to?’
He could tell she hated having to ask, so he let it play out for a few seconds as they walked back towards the reception area. ‘DS Trent,’ he said eventually. ‘He called me this morning – woke me up actually.’
Lisa made a sound in the back of her throat. ‘I told them not to contact you directly.’
‘They’re cops. What do you expect?’ There was clearly no love lost between the different factions involved in his – what? Care? Supervision? What the fuck? Lenny stopped trying to figure it out, and decided to just go with the flow for the time being; the fact that Trent was involved made him inclined to take the whole incident a little more seriously. And Ryan was probably at work by now. With his car.
At the warehouse, there was a man waiting for him, leaning against the wall outside with folded arms. Jeans, T shirt, trainers – he was so obviously a cop, it was almost funny. But Lenny wasn’t laughing.
‘Mark Trent,’ the man said. ‘You must be Roberts.’
‘Say it like you mean it.’
‘What?’ He sounded annoyed as Lenny strode past him and into the warehouse.
‘My name,’ Lenny called out behind him. He waited for the cop to catch up, until they were out of earshot of anybody else. ‘At least try to sound convincing,’ he said, his face inches away from the DS. ‘Or I’m fucked. Mind you, it sounds like I’m already fucked.’
Trent took a step back. ‘Jesus, they said you were a pain in the arse.’
‘Oh, I’m worse than that. I have to look out for myself, since you guys are doing such a shit job of it. Where’s Ryan?’
‘Your mate? Picking up his P45 by now, I expect. What do you want him for?’
‘I need a favour. Not that it’s any of your business.’ Lenny hesitated. ‘What’s he done?’
Trent snorted. ‘Your mate’s a dickhead. He pinched your personnel records from the office and lost them. It appears that Liverpool is home to at least a few honest citizens as somebody picked it up and called Lisa Hanley’s number. She’s listed as your next of kin.’
‘Ah.’ That made sense. Lenny grinned at the thought of Ryan being so desperate to find out about him. That would buy him a few favours – like the use of his car. ‘So you can fuck off now, and I can go to work?’
‘Not yet. It’s still possible there’s more to it.’
‘Oh, come on. I assume you’ve spoken to the kid? He thinks he’s in a Marvel comic and I’m some kind of superhero.’ Lenny watched the DS fail to suppress a smile. ‘Look, meet me after work, take me for dinner, and we’ll talk about where we go from here. I’m a shit cook and I haven’t had a decent meal in over six months. And if you really want me to co-operate, get the home curfew lifted – or at least shortened. I need a fucking life.’
‘You might be right.’ Trent thought about it for a moment, then nodded. ‘OK. I’ll see what I can do. But don’t piss me around, Roberts. I’m not the fucking Met.’
‘No, I can see that.’ Because Darwin wouldn’t be stupid enough to fall for that one. Lenny had no intention of even being in Liverpool by five-thirty.
He strolled away, trying not to look like he was in a hurry, but he needed to find Ryan before he left. God knows what they must be thinking up in the office, having the cops here just because a piece of paper went missing – he wondered what the staff made of it. To them he was just Tony Roberts, on some kind of community-service job for those fresh out of prison. Every time that supercilious bitch Sarah looked at him like he was a turd on the bottom of her shoe, he wanted to tell her the truth.
Jesus. What a day. And it was still fucking early.
Like it or not, she was involved. Again. And probably in trouble. Again.
Steph was summoned into the inspector’s office and asked what – exactly – she and Rob had been doing out at the Adams house the other night. Public relations hadn’t cut it at all and she was forced to explain that she’d been reassuring Becky and trying to make sure that Danny didn’t get himself into trouble.
‘Daniel Adams is missing,’ the guv said. ‘What’s going on, Steph? And why didn’t I know about it?’
Oh shit. So much for making sure Danny didn’t get into trouble. Rob hadn’t mentioned anything – he hadn’t even known about the paintball connection; they’d chatted about cars and he’d been impressed with the boy’s knowledge of the inner workings of the combustion engine. At which point Steph had tuned out completely.
‘Come on, Steph. Talk. You know as well as I do that every hour – hell, every minute – counts in these situations. Daniel’s mother went to get him up for school this morning and he wasn’t there. Bed’s not been slept in and there’s no note. Mrs Adams told the family liaison officer that he’d been talking about a recent visit from the police, but her daughter Rebecca says you and she are just friends?’
So what had Becky said to her brother? Steph told the boss everything from how she’d first met Becky right down to the recent visit, wondering why he didn’t just call Darwin’s boss; the man himself might be out of the country and unavailable but he wasn’t the only police officer who’d been involved with Michael Redford, Lenny Dixon and everybody else.
Lenny Dixon? Did this have something to do with him? He was still in prison somewhere, wasn’t he? Or would he be out on licence by now? But there was something between him and Becky, and even if he was back working in organised crime again – doing what he did best – she suspected Becky Adams and her family would be off-limits, ring-fenced and protected. Lenny would kill anyone who laid a finger on Becky.
And maybe that was the problem. Becky had wanted to know where Lenny was and stirring up trouble with the people Lenny used to work for was not a good idea.
Steph went back to her own office, under strict instructions to let the guv know if she thought of anything else, or if – God forbid – anybody should contact her. She doubted they would. If Becky wanted to be in touch, she would have called by now – she had Steph’s mobile number, but Steph was fairly sure that she’d been a means to an end, that despite the visit and Danny’s police car ride, what Becky had really wanted was access to Lenny. And that was a step too far for Steph – she’d already lost her detective status, her place on the intelligence team, and they’d never let her handle human sources again. She could find out where Dixon was; it wasn’t impossible by any means, but it would leave a footprint, an audit trail in the computer systems and that would cost her her job.
Steph made a coffee. Time was ticking away. Should she involve Lenny? If anybody could find Danny, he probably could. Or was he so out of touch with his old life now?
He’s a child. A missing child. How long would it take her to track Lenny Dixon down?
Fuck it. She pulled the keyboard across the desk.
‘No.’
‘What do you mean – no?’ Lenny’s eyes widened.
Ryan wasn’t budging. ‘No – as in no, you are not borrowing my car.’
‘Why not?’ He was genuinely confused. It’s just a frigging car.
‘Do you know how long it took me to rebuild that car? How much money it cost?’
Do I look like I give a shit?
Ryan folded his arms. ‘You’ve already screwed up my job here. And now you want to screw up my car too? Not a chance, mate.’
The job was your fuck-up, mate – not mine. Ryan had been told to go home for a few days while they consulted with head office about his future. Lenny could sort of get why he might be pissed off, but never having had a regular job of any kind himself, the concept of getting sacked was alien to him and he really couldn’t see what the fuss was about.
But the kid had balls. Lenny admired him for standing up for himself. He tried a different tack. ‘I’ll make it worth your while, I promise. I’ll sort your job out—’
‘You’re not that bloody important—’
‘Oh, I am,’ Lenny argued. ‘Your job will be fine and your car will be perfect. I’ll even make a donation to the restoration fund. Maybe a respray?’ God knows, the heap of shite needs it.
He strolled across the car park, ignoring Sarah who was yelling at him from an upstairs window and telling him to come back inside right now, or he’d be looking at a P45 too. He was twenty-nine – not a school-kid in trouble with the teacher. ‘Who rattled her fucking cage?’ he asked Ryan conspiratorially. ‘She needs a bloody good shag, she does. Is she always like this when she’s not getting any?’
Ryan smirked and Lenny knew he’d won. He just had to get Ryan to realise it too.
‘Have you had her?’ Lenny asked, winking.
‘God, no. She’d eat me alive.’
‘Isn’t that the idea?’ They were at Ryan’s car – an old and hideous oddly-shaped vehicle with a bad paint-job. ‘Nice wheels,’ he lied, touching the windscreen reverently. ‘Can I drive?’
‘I don’t know.’ The hackles were up again. ‘Can you?’
‘Wanna watch?’ Lenny put on his best smile. ‘Come on, you know you want to let me.’ He didn’t recall ever having driven in Liverpool and wasn’t sure if he could find the start of the M62 without a sat-nav – but if he kept heading east, he’d hit the M6 eventually, surely? And then it was south to the M1 and London. He could be there by lunchtime.
Ryan still wasn’t convinced. ‘Where are we going, anyway? You’re supposed to be working.’
‘Ah, fuck the job. Let’s go on a road-trip.’
And that was enough. The kid didn’t resist when Lenny took the keys from his hand and climbed into the driver’s seat. Ryan got in the passenger side and Lenny started the engine before Ryan could change his mind, and had the car in reverse and moving before Ryan had even shut the door.
‘Scratch it and you pay for the damage,’ his passenger said.
‘Whatever.’ Lenny was out on the main road already.
‘I mean it. If you—’
‘Ryan, I will buy you a new frigging car. Now shut the fuck up and tell me how to get to the M62.’
‘What?’
‘The motorway? You know – big fast road?’ Lenny shifted up the gears. They weren’t quite out of the morning rush-hour yet, but if he could avoid the city centre, they should be OK. And Christ, it was good to feel like he was actually in control of something again.
Ryan was gripping the armrest on the door as if his life depended on it. ‘Slow down, mate. Where are we really going?’
‘London.’ Lenny shot through an amber light, undertook a white van and cut up a bus.
‘What?’
‘Big city down south? Capital of the country?’
‘What?’
Please stop saying ‘what’, before I twat you one. But he had to keep the kid sweet, or else he’d be hitting the 9s on his mobile. ‘Ryan, trust me on this one, please? I won’t damage your car and you won’t be in trouble.’
‘Why aren’t I convinced? You planned this all along, didn’t you?’
If I had, I’d have planned it a whole lot better. He slowed down a bit. He hadn’t been behind the wheel since December; fired up with adrenaline after driving up the embankment to dodge a stinger and then rolling the car, he’d smashed into the roadblock in spectacular style, crawled out of the wreckage, held four cops at gunpoint, and then jacked an unmarked cop car. He wondered whether Ryan might just piss his pants if he knew all that.
‘What are you grinning at?’
Am I? Lenny sneaked a sideways glance. The kid had loosened his hold on the armrest, but his knee was still bouncing up and down nervously. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘And no, I didn’t plan any of this. How could I plan your being stupid enough to nick my personnel file? And then fucking lose it? And the cops turning up …’ He hesitated. ‘I got an email this morning. From—’ he broke off as his mobile started ringing.
He took a hand off the wheel and fished the phone from his back pocket. ‘Fucking Trent again? Answer it, would you.’ He dropped it in Ryan’s lap. If he blanked the cops now, they’d have a car after him; he needed to play their game. I just have to be one round ahead of the fuckers. That shouldn’t be too hard – he’d been doing that most of his life and cops were inherently stupid creatures, bred to follow orders and not to think for themselves.
Ryan held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Put it on speakerphone,’ Lenny instructed.
The tinny voice sounded too loud for a small phone. ‘… are you, Roberts? Are you driving that thing?’
‘No,’ Lenny lied. Ryan gave him a look and he shrugged.
Trent: ‘Good. Because last time I looked, you didn’t have a licence. So what the fuck are you doing?’
‘Going somewhere; I’ll be back later. You owe me dinner, remember?’ I need to buy a bit of time. There was a signpost for the M62 coming up and he could do without the distraction.
‘I’ve got your registration. You’re going to ping every camera between here and Land’s End.’
‘Have fun with that.’ I hope this car is taxed and insured. He didn’t want to get his new pal into trouble. He can do that all by himself.
There was a short silence before Trent spoke again. ‘You break your curfew and there’ll be an arrest warrant out by ten past.’
‘Yeah, yeah. See ya.’ Lenny made a chopping motion against his neck and Ryan cut the connection. ‘Thanks. Fuck, I’ve missed the turning.’ He yanked the steering wheel hard, spun the car down a side street and did a U-turn. The tyres squealed. Ryan said nothing.
Five minutes later they were on the M62. Twenty minutes after that and they’d picked up the M6 and were heading south towards London. And Becky.
12 – RYAN
Licence or no licence, Tony seemed to be a competent driver, although he was pushing the Capri hard in the fast lane of the motorway. Ryan didn’t think that breaking the speed limit would bother him in the slightest and they were cruising at well over ninety, only slowing when another vehicle hogged the lane – at which point Tony flashed his lights and flipped a finger when he got chance to overtake. Ryan slid down in his seat in embarrassment and tried to pretend he wasn’t there; since Tony was ignoring him completely, it wasn’t difficult.
Eventually he had to speak. ‘Are we really going to London?’
There was a long pause. Tony glanced at him as if considering what to say. After a few moments, he sighed. ‘Ryan,’ he said, in a voice that sounded faintly patronising, ‘I appreciate you lending me your car. Really, I do. And if you want me to stop to let you out, I will, but yes – I’m driving this car to London. With or without you. Have you got that?’
‘Bastard.’
‘Yep.’
‘Who the fuck are you, anyway?’
‘Lenny Dixon. Excuse my not shaking your hand.’
‘And Tony Roberts?’
‘Witness protection. Or whatever they call it for ex-cons. Too many people want me dead, but right now the cops have a vested interest in keeping me alive.’
‘You’re a grass?’
‘Yep.’
Ryan shut up for a minute, processing this information. ‘And you don’t have a driving licence?’
‘Nope. Is that a problem? If it helps, I’ve been driving on and off-road since I was twelve and I do know what I’m doing. But without a licence, I can’t hire a car, which is why I’m really grateful you’re helping me out here. Otherwise I’d have to nick one and I don’t need any more trouble.’
Do I have a choice? Ryan wasn’t sure he did. And if he did, would he choose not to help? This was way more fun than filling picklists. Although he wasn’t sure whether fun would be the word if the police caught up with them. Maybe he’d now be an accessory to whatever Tony – Lenny? – was up to; maybe he’d end up in trouble with the police. Fuck, his mum would kill him if he ended up with a criminal record; since their dad had left when Ryan was just a toddler, his mum had worked hard to keep the family together – to keep Ryan and his two brothers in school and out of trouble. It hadn’t entirely worked and his elder brother Liam was currently doing time for arson. In Risley. He’d not mentioned that last night, figuring that his new mate might not want any competition in the who’s-the-hardest-criminal stakes. Liam was all mouth, but Ryan suspected that the real bad guys were about actions, not words.
On his phone, he googled Lenny Dixon, trying not to let the man see what he was doing. The signal was flaky at best, but he pulled up a BBC news site, hit the link without thinking and got a video clip of somebody asking the general public to look out for a man suspected of murdering a police officer. The audio was loud and clear, and the police mugshot in the corner of the tiny screen was unmistakably the same person as the man sitting next to him, driving his car. Lenny Dixon.
I think Lenny beats Liam.
Lenny shot him an odd look and Ryan switched the phone off, suddenly scared for the first time. Nobody had said anything about murder.
‘I didn’t do it,’ Lenny said after a few moments.
‘No.’ Of course you didn’t. That’s why it was all over the fucking news.
‘Do you think I’d be out on licence if I’d killed a cop?’
‘Even murderers get let out eventually.’
‘After only six months? Christ, I’ll tell you all about it, I promise, but don’t wimp out on me now, Ryan. I need you.’
You need my car. ‘So why Liverpool?’ he asked.
‘Because my accountant is based there.’
‘Your accountant?’ What the fuck?
‘Mmm. If I don’t look after my own interests, nobody else will.’ Lenny flipped the indicator and swerved across three lanes and onto the slip road for the motorway services. ‘I think we need a brew.’
‘I thought we were in a hurry.’ Or do you always drive this fast?
‘Never too rushed for tea. Besides, we need to talk and I need to make some … modifications … to the car. Don’t worry – I’m not going to damage it, I promise.’
Ryan frowned as Lenny drove around the car park several times. There were plenty of empty spaces, but he reversed carefully next to a people-carrier; Ryan could see the occupants struggling across the tarmac to the service building – two parents with toddlers and an elder child dragging her feet, earbuds plugged in and pretending she wasn’t part of the family.
There was method in what Lenny was doing, but Ryan couldn’t fathom it.
‘Toolkit?’
‘What? In the boot. Why?’
Lenny flipped the boot, ignoring the question. He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and threw it. ‘Catch. Plug my number into your mobile and then go get some tea – and whatever else you fancy. Watch that family. If they’re about to leave, call me. And bring me back tea as well, please, if I haven’t caught up with you by then. Oh, and I need a black marker pen if you can find one.’
‘What are you going to do to my car?’ Why am I even here?
‘Nothing. Just take my number and go.’
‘But—’
‘Ryan. The number. Get a fucking move on.’
‘Ryan sent the number across and handed Lenny his mobile. ‘Tea, you said?’
‘Go!’
Ryan went, wondering why he was letting himself be bossed around like this. Last night he’d got pissed with Tony Roberts; today he’d discovered that Tony Roberts didn’t exist. And Lenny Dixon appeared to be a more complex – and dangerous – person than Tony Roberts had ever been. Ryan wasn’t sure whether he liked that.
Inside the service station he could see the family queuing for food in the restaurant. He ducked into the shop and found a black Sharpie, the closest thing he could find to a marker pen. What the hell did Lenny want this for? He strolled into the restaurant and bought two cups of tea and a bag of crisps, then sat at a table close to the exit where he could observe the family.
He’s going to do something to their car. Shit. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Because I don’t spend much time with ex-con murderers. He pulled up the BBC link on his phone again, turning the volume right down. It was the police, talking about a manhunt – for Lenny Dixon – how he was armed and dangerous and shouldn’t be approached. Fuck me! Yet Lenny had said he didn’t do it. Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? Gunshot wounds, news clips, an electronic tag. Just who was this guy? If he was going to steal a car, Ryan didn’t want to be a part of it. Maybe he should just call the police now. Three nines and they’d take Lenny away; Ryan could say he’d stolen the car and forced him to go along for the ride – and then it would be over and he could go home, and hopefully get back to his boring and safe job. His fingers hovered over the keypad.
The family were sitting down now. Sandwiches in colourful cardboard boxes for the little ones, lasagne and chips for mum and dad, while stroppy teenager was picking at a salad and more interested in her phone. She looked up, meeting Ryan’s eyes and he dropped his stare instantly, feeling guilty and not knowing why. He ate the crisps and drank his tea. Maybe Lenny had just dumped him – given him a mission to make him feel important and even now he was back on the M6 and not giving a shit.
He’s nicked my car! Ryan jumped up. Fuck. How stupid could he be? He left the tea on the table and ran for the door, not caring if anybody saw him now. Outside, he collided with a coach party – several thousand elderly people ambled through the foyer and he couldn’t dodge them. By the time half the population of a small city had meandered into the restaurant, he’d calmed down a little. Of course Lenny would be outside – he’d said so, hadn’t he? Ryan strolled casually back across the car park, but his beloved Ford Capri was nowhere to be seen.
13 – LENNY
Lenny washed his hands and sauntered back out of the toilets. The mass invasion of pensioners had passed and the target family was still sitting in the corner.
There was no sign of Ryan. For fuck’s sake. Lenny shook his head. He really wanted a cup of tea but the queue was way too long now and they needed to be moving, well away before the family returned to their vehicle. With luck they wouldn’t even notice the registration plates, especially as it was starting to rain; they’d be hurrying back, trying to keep the kids dry, eager to get on with their journey.
Lenny spotted Ryan across the tarmac, hands in pockets and looking forlornly at the space where his car used to be. Christ. Put a fucking neon sign over your head, why don’t you? Lenny came up behind him and took his arm firmly. ‘Walk.’
‘What?’ Ryan jumped, trying to spin around, but Lenny wasn’t letting go. ‘Where’s the car?’
‘I moved it. Shut the fuck up and walk.’
‘I thought you’d gone without me. I want to know what’s going on.’
‘Not here.’ Lenny almost had to drag him across several rows of parked cars. ‘Don’t make a scene. And where’s my tea? I told you to stay inside and keep watch for me. It was a simple enough task.’
‘Fuck you.’ Ryan yanked his arm out of Lenny’s grip but kept walking.
The Capri was around the side of the building, neatly sandwiched between a minibus and a Land Rover – both big enough to almost completely hide the car. Lenny heard Ryan sigh and he shook his head in disbelief that anyone could be so attached to a pile of metal and an engine.
‘Did you at least get a marker pen?’
Ryan slapped something into his hand and Lenny realised he was pushing the kid too hard. How old is he? Early twenties, maybe? Hardly a kid at all, but after last night Lenny couldn’t help but think of him as an enthusiastic puppy, which was probably rather unfair. This car was his pride and joy; no doubt he spent every weekend lovingly working on it and expected everybody else to be suitably impressed. Wasn’t that what normal people did at weekends? Fuck, I’m never going to be normal, am I?
‘Want to watch?’ He shifted his tone to more co-conspiratorial. If he could involve Ryan more, make him feel a part of all this – a big adventure – the kid might feel happier. Jesus. I’m not a fucking nanny. Maybe he should have left Ryan in Liverpool. Maybe I should just leave him here? He could hitch a ride back up north easily enough.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Ryan hesitantly.
Lenny grinned. ‘Just a little cosmetic surgery.’
He squatted down at the back of the car, ripping the Sharpie out of its packaging. He’d chosen the restaurant family’s car specifically – because of where it was parked, because of the number and type of occupants – who’d be less likely to notice any changes – and because of the registration plate itself. Carefully, he inked in parts of the letters, changing an F to an E and a 3 to an 8. It wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny but might confuse the automatic number plate recognition systems. Up yours, Trent.
He heard Ryan gasp. ‘That’s not mine!’
‘Nope.’ Clever boy. Two plus two equals—
‘You switched them, didn’t you? With that family’s car?’
—four. He stood up. ‘Yep. We’ll do the front plate at the next services. Where I’ll eventually get a cup of tea.’ He stood up. ‘Come on. It’s raining and we need to get out of here. Do you want to drive?’
Ryan shook his head. ‘We’re really going to London?’
‘Yes, mate. We really are.’
‘You going to tell me why?’
‘Not yet.’ How could he? How could he explain about Becky? How he owed her everything, but couldn’t tell her. Memories were personal and not for sharing.
‘What about your tag?’ Ryan asked as they pulled onto the slip road and drove back towards the motorway.
‘What about it?’
‘If you’re not back, you’ll get arrested. Happened last year to a guy I know – they sent a car for him and nicked him in the pub in front of all his mates. I swear they did it on purpose to humiliate him. Three police officers, handcuffs – the works – and he still put up a fight. Tried to bottle one of them and they had him on the floor in seconds.’
‘Don’t mix with crims, Ryan,’ said Lenny. ‘They’ll just drag you down with them. Even me – especially me.’ It was raining hard now and he switched on the headlights and windscreen wipers, which made little difference to the visibility. ‘Fuck me. Ever thought of some new wiper blades?’
‘I wasn’t planning on driving at ninety on the M6.’
‘Point taken,’ said Lenny. ‘I’ll buy them at the next services.’
‘I wasn’t planning on mixing with criminals, either. But I don’t seem to have a choice. What have you done, anyway?’
‘You don’t really want to know.’ How long have you got?
‘Murder?’
‘No comment.’ Shut up.
‘You said you didn’t kill the cop.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then—’
‘Give it a rest, Ryan.’ Hang around me long enough and you’ll find out. ‘Fuck, I need a cup of tea. And a smoke.’
‘You’re not smoking in my car.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Lenny sighed. Was Ryan going to be this much of a twat all the way to London and back? Maybe he should ditch him at the next services? But he’d call the cops, and that was an added complication Lenny didn’t need. If he wasn’t home by seven, his mobile would be ringing and then he’d either have to give himself up and throw himself on Trent’s mercy, or else he’d be on the run again – and this time they really would throw away the key.
So if he was stuck with the kid, he might as well give him an education. At the next services, Lenny pulled in, inked the front registration to match the back and switched both plates with a truck that looked like it hadn’t moved in a while. He fudged an L to an E this time – front and back – grabbed a tea-to-go, smoked a quick ciggie, then refuelled and they were back on the road in less than fifteen minutes. Ryan didn’t say much throughout the whole stop.
I’m losing him. Lenny pulled his mobile out of his pocket again and handed it over. ‘Check my emails?’
Ryan took the phone. ‘Pin?’
‘Two-Nine-Four-Five.’ The second of September and the fourth of May. His and Caro’s birthdays. He’d not been with Amanda long enough for a birthday. Lenny wondered if Caro ever thought about him these days – if she was clean now and had a life again. Sometimes he still missed her. ‘Go look at the CarlReilly595 account.’
‘The Gmail one? There’s a message from MartinPhillips861.’
Becky. ‘Read it out, if you don’t mind?’
There was silence for a minute. ‘It’s just an address in London. Is that where we’re going?’
‘Yes. Anything else?’
‘A phone number. That’s all.’
So she hadn’t tried to talk him out of it. But then she didn’t know he was on licence, or anything about the curfew. So what did she think? Did she even know – or care – that he’d gone to prison? That the way things were going, he’d be on his way back there very soon?
He couldn’t do it, couldn’t think about Becky. Not while he was driving, with Ryan next to him. He’d crash the car and that wouldn’t help anybody. Get a fucking grip, Dixon.
But he couldn’t. And that was the problem.
Early afternoon and they were no closer to finding Daniel Adams. Not that Steph had any official knowledge of what was happening – the inspector had made it perfectly clear that it wasn’t her job. And she didn’t dare look on the computers; her access would be recorded and noted, and she couldn’t afford to mess up her career any further. It was bad enough that she’d spent the entire morning failing to locate Lenny Dixon.
And that was as far as she was prepared to go. If anyone could find Danny, Lenny could, but he didn’t work for the police. He’d been in prison up in Risley in Cheshire. Released a couple of months back, and there the trail went cold. There was nothing – no licence records, no notification of where he was living or who was monitoring him. Steph wondered what he was doing now. He’d disappeared completely off the radar. Maybe Darwin knew where he was – but her old boss was out of the country and uncontactable.
Her phone rang. Steph sighed. She was bored shitless with this crappy project, looking at how the Force’s crime systems integrated with their intelligence records. They’d chosen her especially, they said, since she’d been a source-handler and was best-placed to advise on how it all worked on the ground. But desk-jobs were always seen as a punishment; despite the better hours and the near-guaranteed weekends off, nobody wanted to be stuck indoors. I didn’t join the police to drive a desk.
It was an external number calling. ‘Riordan,’ she answered. She knew her voice sounded curt, but she was past caring today.
‘Stephanie Riordan?’
‘Yes. Who wants to know?’
‘Mark Trent. Merseyside Intelligence.’
Pause. So get on with it. Steph really wasn’t in the mood for twenty questions. ‘So how can I help you, Mark?’ She didn’t recall Merseyside being involved in this project.
She could hear the hesitation in his voice. ‘You had a CHIS last year. Leonard Dixon. D’you want the PNC number?’
He had her attention now. Coincidence? Yeah, right. ‘I know him. What’s he done?’
‘I think he might be one of mine. If I’m right, I need some advice on how to handle him.’
Steph snorted with sudden laughter. ‘You don’t handle Lenny Dixon. You just try to contain the situation as best you can, and manage the fallout.’
‘Yeah, well, I think he’s headed in your direction. Pinged several cameras, then it looks like he switched plates—’
‘That sounds like Lenny.’
‘He’s not alone, either. Some young kid, Ryan Ashcroft – barely in his twenties – phoned his mother and told her he was going to London and didn’t know when he’d be back.’
‘Why?’ As if I didn’t know? Somehow Becky had found him, called him, and he’d gone running. Again. Last time he’d pulled a knight-in-shining-armour stunt, he’d killed a man. Self-defence, maybe, but Mick Carlotti was still dead.
‘I was hoping you’d know where he’s going,’ said Mark.
Steph thought about it for a second. ‘How about I tell you what I think, and you give me Dixon’s mobile number, if you have it?’
‘Deal. And you handle it your end?’
‘I don’t know about that.’ She explained what had happened last year – the edited version – omitting the fact that Carlotti had been holding nothing more than a television remote control when Lenny had shot him. Only she and Lenny knew that bit, and Steph was fairly sure it had been her statement that had prevented him being charged with murder and getting life. She wasn’t entirely convinced that killing the man hadn’t been on his agenda somewhere, in whatever warped area of reality his brain inhabited.
‘So you’ll arrest him for me, then?’ Mark asked after he’d given her Lenny’s mobile number.
‘What? When did that come into the equation?’
‘He’s on a tag curfew,’ Mark said. ‘Come seven o’clock and he’s in breach. Arrest him.’
‘And how is that going to help?’ Apart from pissing Lenny off, which would not make things easier for anybody.
‘It’s not designed to help. I just want my source back. Christ – I only met him this morning!’
‘So what did you say to make him do a runner?’ Steph didn’t like the guy on the other end of the phone. Sources were people too. Even Lenny Dixon.
‘Oh, don’t you start. I’m getting enough grief from my guv. Just nick the bastard and get him back up here pronto, will you, love?’
Aren’t you even curious to know why he’s running? And where he’s running to? Obviously not. ‘I’ll do what needs to be done,’ she said abruptly. Love. She scrawled the phone number from the display onto her desk pad.
She hung up and looked at the number she’d written above it. Lenny’s number. She tapped her pen on the desk and doodled absently. Should she phone him? It was better she knew where he was, surely? If he’d tell her.
She keyed the number into her mobile and stored it, then hit call. The landline would display as a blocked number at the other end and if she was Lenny, she wouldn’t answer it.
It rang a couple of times; there was silence before a voice simply said ‘Yes?’
‘Lenny?’
‘That depends,’ he said.
‘On what?’
‘Why you’re calling.’ He wasn’t giving anything away.
‘Let’s just say I’ve just had an interesting conversation with a certain Mark Trent in Liverpool.’
‘Cunt.’
Steph smiled to herself. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s right.’
There was a long pause. ‘Hello, Steph. It’s been a while.’
‘Hasn’t it just? Where are you?’
‘Right now? Eating a very late lunch in Tesco.’
‘Don’t play word games. You’re up shit creek and you know it. Why?’
He hesitated. ‘Becky.’
‘Because of Danny?’
‘Yep. She wanted me—’
‘So you just took off? For God’s sake, Lenny. Trent wants me to arrest you for breaking the terms of your licence.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Yet. And you’re dragging this Ashcroft kid down with you. You can’t keep doing this.’
‘Then help me.’
She said nothing. Had he planned this or was he just turning the conversation around? She knew perfectly well he’d say anything – do anything – twist things any which way he could to his advantage. He’d lie to her face, cheat, steal, maybe even kill if he thought it would get him what he wanted. And yet she’d seen another side to him last year, seen him confront his past and deal with it, albeit with a good measure of alcohol. It hadn’t been easy, not for either of them.
Lenny’s tone changed. ‘Come on, Steph. Help me out here? I need you to keep this fucking arse-part Trent off my case. If I can say I’m with you, that’s got to be as good as being trapped in my flat all bloody night. You’ll vouch for me, won’t you? Tell them I’m being good?’
‘I can’t!’
‘Why not? Fuck, I just came to see Becky. I’m not looking for trouble.’
But it will find you just the same. She said nothing.
‘Steph, please. I don’t want to go back to prison. Where’s Darwin?’
‘Out of the country.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Where are you, Lenny?’
‘I told you: Tesco.’ He sighed. ‘Ilford. I think there’s only one really big one.’
‘Stay there.’ He was trusting her with the information, trusting her not to abuse it. She owed it to him to at least talk face-to-face. ‘Don’t even think about leaving. I’m on my way.’
‘Ah, fuck.’ He’d blown it now. Lenny pushed the empty plate away, folded his arms across the table and put his head on them. Idiot! He should know better than to trust cops. Any cops. Trent was clearly a wanker and if Darwin wasn’t around, there’d be nobody to fight his corner except Steph – and he rather suspected he’d used up all of Steph’s goodwill last year.
‘What’s up with you?’ Ryan slid into the seat opposite.
‘Nothing.’ Lenny raised his head and sat back. ‘It’s fine.’ It was anything but fine. Becky wasn’t answering her phone and when they’d driven past her house, the police car parked on the drive had meant there was no way Lenny could simply walk up and knock on the door.
‘So what are we going to do? There’s no way we can be back in Liverpool by seven, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Then—’
‘Shut up, Ryan. Let me think.’ He tried Becky’s number again, but it still rang out. It wasn’t even going to voicemail so he couldn’t leave a message. He’d already sent three texts.
Ryan hesitated. ‘Well, I’m guessing you don’t want to break your licence, so this must be important.’
‘She is.’ He watched Ryan’s face for a reaction, but got none. ‘Her name is Becky Adams. She’s …’ He twisted the corner of a paper napkin. ‘She’s the girlfriend of somebody I used to work with.’ Not that he cared that much about upsetting Michael. ‘I promised to look out for her.’
‘She’s in trouble?’ Ryan pushed a mug of tea across the table. ‘Drink. You look like you need it.’
I need more than fucking tea. He wrapped both hands around the mug. ‘Her brother is. Maybe. And it might be down to me.’ Really? Was he suddenly responsible for everybody? Danny was not his problem. But Becky is. Like it or not, he was tied to Becky now and that wasn’t fair on either of them. Thinking about it didn’t help. Claire had made him think too much about his relationships with women. Fucking counsellors!
Ryan was looking at him curiously. ‘So why didn’t you go to her?’
‘You saw the cop car?’
‘So? You’ve done your time, haven’t you?’ He looked at his watch. ‘And you’ve got a few hours left before they’ll be looking for you. They’ve nothing on you right now, have they? At this moment, today. Apart from nicking a few car number plates, that is.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It just is.’ He was never stuck for words. He always had an answer for everything. Get a fucking grip! He should go back to Liverpool, fall on Trent’s mercy – maybe give him a few juicy nuggets of intelligence to keep him sweet – and forget all this. Becky didn’t need or want him messing up her life again. Not really. The best thing he could do for her would be to forget she ever existed.
But Ryan wouldn’t leave it there. ‘So what are we hanging around here for, Tony, Lenny – or whatever your name is? Either you’re going to see this girl or you’re not.’ He snorted with sudden laughter. ‘Fuck, you’ve got it bad, haven’t you?’
‘What?’ Lenny snapped, wishing he’d dumped the tosser when he’d had chance.
‘I can see it in your eyes. You’re in love.’
‘Fuck off.’ Lenny didn’t do love. There’d been women he’d cared about, sure. But love? Not a fucking chance. Caro would have laughed in his face if he’d declared love. Caro was a heroin addict. And Amanda? He’d been prepared to move abroad with Amanda, start a new life with her – but once she’d found the passport with her photograph and a new name, and realised he’d dumped a quarter of a million in a joint bank account, she’d run for home and never looked back.
Becky was the only person who’d seen him and not turned away.
Becky is Michael’s.
He didn’t give a shit about Michael. But Becky did, and if Michael was who she wanted, Lenny would give her that. But Michael was a fucked-up ex-addict and he couldn’t protect her from the world.
I can.
Yeah, right. That’s why he was sitting in fucking Tesco, five hours from an arrest warrant. He wasn’t going to protect Becky from inside a cell, was he? He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. What the fuck am I doing? Ryan was right – he couldn’t get back up north in time now, so the only chance he had was with Steph.
‘We’re waiting for someone,’ he said to Ryan, trying to keep up the front. It was getting harder to do lately.
Ryan raised his eyebrows. ‘Who’s that, then? You had an idea while I was getting the brews in?’
‘Something like that. Bear with me, Ryan. I’m sorry if I’m fucking up your day.’
Three more mugs of tea and a scone later, half an hour had passed and Lenny knew he couldn’t sit here forever. Across the café, he could see into the rest of the store and a flash of colour down near the entrance. Fluorescent yellow jackets. Cops. Lenny closed his eyes. Come on, Steph. You know me better than that?
He took a mouthful of tea and pushed his mobile across the table. ‘Do me a favour? Keep trying to call Becky and tell her what happened?’
‘Why?’ Ryan twisted in his seat, following Lenny’s gaze as he watched two uniformed officers striding down the aisle towards them, a couple of store security guards tight behind them. ‘Are they coming for us?’
‘I expect so. Me, anyway.’ He couldn’t take on four of them. I haven’t done anything. Like that would make any fucking difference?
There were shoppers all around, looking up as the police entered the café.
Lenny took a last mouthful of tea and got to his feet. ‘Afternoon, gentlemen. I assume you’re looking for me?’ He let his arms drop to his sides, palms forward and open; experience had taught him that anything else was a bad idea where cops were concerned. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ryan slide his hand over the phone and pull it towards him, slipping it into his pocket.
‘Tony Roberts?’
Why ask? You’ve clearly seen pictures. He nodded. ‘Yep.’ The security guards were standing sentry – one by the café entrance and one by the fire door. There was no point in being difficult.
‘Can you come with us, please?’
He didn’t move. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked, keeping his voice polite and carefully neutral.
‘Hands on your head.’
‘What?’ said Lenny. ‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Just do it.’
Lenny shrugged and complied, turning around when instructed. His wrists were pulled down and secured behind his back. So much for the unthreatening approach. What the fuck was the point in staying on the right side of the law if he still got treated like shit? He glanced at the elderly couple sitting at the next table. The woman was looking at him like he had the fucking plague; she dropped her gaze and shifted her chair to the side, but before she could carry on eating, her husband picked up both their plates and moved to another table on the other side of the café. The woman followed him, shopping bag over her arm and a cup of tea in each hand.
Very public-spirited. Lenny wriggled slightly, but couldn’t move. The lead cop put a hand on his arm and he looked down at it and glared at the man. ‘It’s fucking Tesco,’ he said softly. ‘There’s no need for this. I’m clean; search me.’
‘I intend to,’ said the cop, ‘just as soon as we’re out of here. Now you.’ He nodded at Ryan. ‘Ryan Ashcroft, isn’t it?’
Lenny twisted to look at the kid. He was white, hand trembling where it rested on the table. This wasn’t fair.
‘Stand up, son,’ said the second cop.
‘I haven’t done anything.’ Ryan’s voice wobbled. ‘You’re not putting handcuffs on me? Jesus, my mum’s going to kill me.’
Don’t beg. The bastards get off on it. ‘Shut up, Ryan,’ said Lenny. ‘It’s me they want. I suspect that little Scouse turd Trent has been shit-stirring. If he thinks I’m co-operating after this, he can—’
‘That’s enough, Roberts,’ said the lead cop. ‘Let’s go. Ashcroft’s not going to give you any trouble,’ he added to his colleague. ‘Are you, kid?’
‘Neither was I,’ said Lenny, trying and failing to pull out of his grip, ‘but I’m rapidly changing my mind.’ The red mist was rising, and he was suddenly glad of the handcuffs or he’d be tempted to hit out. He’s not Mick Carlotti. This wasn’t going to be another beating like he’d taken on the scrapyard. This was just an over-zealous cop scoring brownie points with his boss.
Lenny sighed and looked longingly at the half-drunk tea.
Five fucking hours.
Ryan needed to piss. Badly. He’d never been arrested before, although he thought he’d come close once, when Liam had hidden a bag under his bed. Fourteen year-old Ryan had pulled it out one night and examined the contents by torchlight; five mobile phones and a sat-nav had fallen out onto the duvet. He switched one of the phones on and the wallpaper was a picture of a pretty teenage blonde; he’d tried to guess the pin, locked the phone and then realised what he’d been doing. Handling stolen goods. He’d said as much to Liam the next day, and his brother had smacked him round the head and told him if his fingerprints were on them, he’d be arrested if anybody found out. Ryan had never said a word.
But the two policemen hadn’t arrested him – or Lenny for that matter. Could the police even do this when they weren’t under arrest? Surely they had rights? He wondered what kind of reputation Lenny had when they not only cuffed him, but also had tight hold of one arm. Ryan could see the anger smouldering under the surface of Lenny’s tight-lipped expression and didn’t think it would take much to ignite – he wondered what would happen when it did.
Outside the store, they were taken over to a waiting car parked across three disabled spaces with lights flashing.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Lenny stopped dead. ‘Is this really necessary?’
The officer pulled his arm and half-dragged him closer to the vehicle. ‘Got anything on you that you want to tell me about?’
‘No.’
‘Any drugs? Sharps? Weapons? I’m sure you know the drill.’
‘I’m a fucking expert. And the answer is still no.’
‘Stand still. I’m going to search you.’
‘Be my guest. Like I said – I’m clean.’
Ryan watched as the officer ran his hands lightly over Lenny’s body, removing a wallet, a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and two sets of keys.
Not my car keys! How was he supposed to get home if the police took his car?
‘See?’ said Lenny impatiently. ‘I told you I was …oh fuck, I forgot about the knife. Sorry about that.’
What? Ryan saw the officer take a Swiss army knife from Lenny’s back pocket, shake his head and drop it on top of the wallet on the bonnet of the police car.
‘Anything else I should know about?’
‘You want me to strip?’ There was no humour in the voice. Ryan thought he’d probably do it too – just to prove a point.
‘What about you, Ashcroft?’
‘Leave him out of it,’ Lenny snapped. ‘He just gave me a lift.’
‘Then we’d better search his car.’
‘What is it you want?’ Lenny leaned back against the car awkwardly. ‘Light me a cig, would you, Ryan? Then take your car keys and go. Associating with me is not a reasonable excuse to search you or your car – no matter what they might tell you.’
The two officers hesitated, like it was all some kind of giant conspiracy. Maybe Lenny really had murdered a police officer and that was why they were taking no chances. Ryan wondered if perhaps he’d escaped from prison and was on the run when the Merseyside guy Trent had discovered his real identity – perhaps Tony Roberts was Lenny’s own fabrication.
Fuck. Perhaps he’d been well and truly conned by Tony or Lenny, or whatever the fuck his name really was.
‘Ryan, no.’ Lenny half-closed his eyes. ‘I’m no saint – I’d be the first to admit it. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’m willing to bet you’re so far off base that—’ He broke off, head snapping to the side as another marked police car screeched to a halt beside them. Ryan saw a flicker of recognition cross Lenny’s face as he looked at the driver, but he said nothing.
‘What the hell is going on?’ A policewoman scrambled out of the driver’s seat, pushing through the small crowd of curious shoppers that was forming around them. Her shoulder stripes said sergeant, but Ryan was more taken with the pillar-box-red streak in her jet-black short hair. He’d never seen anyone who looked less like a police officer and yet she exuded authority. And impatience.
‘Ma’am?’ said the lead cop. ‘We were told to take him in. Some arrest warrant for Merseyside – breach of licence, I think.’
‘Not until seven o’clock.’ The woman shook her head, reaching for Lenny’s shoulder. ‘Get in my car right now. Both of you. I’m taking over – I’ll deal with Merseyside.’
Surprisingly, Lenny didn’t resist or say a word as Ryan followed him into the back of the woman’s car. He was about to close the door when she stuck her hand in and gave him Lenny’s possessions; he held on to them, not knowing quite what to do with them while their owner was still restrained. He pocketed his own car keys; he could see the Capri parked up in the far corner as they drove towards the exit. It’d probably get locked in tonight and he’d end up with a huge fine. And it has false plates.
This morning, he’d woken on Tony’s sofa after an evening drinking. Less than twelve hours later and he was in the back of a police car in London with his new friend in handcuffs. His mum would probably throw him out of the house once she knew he was in trouble with the police. She’d already told Liam he’d have to find somewhere else to live when he got out of prison.
There was silence in the car. Ryan thought Lenny knew the woman – he seemed comfortable in her presence and he wasn’t arguing as they drove into London. She’s who he was waiting for. It was obvious really by Lenny’s lack of protest, but why had he called the police for help? It didn’t make sense. But then nothing had made much sense since he’d woken up this morning; the day was out of control and the best he could do was hang on for the ride.
Twenty minutes later, they drove through a set of electronic gates into a small car park and their driver jumped out and opened Lenny’s door. She unlocked his handcuffs and gave him a hard stare.
‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘Would I?’ he answered cryptically, shrugging his shoulders and rolling his head.
‘Probably,’ she replied. ‘But I don’t carry a gun these days. I’m tied to a desk now.’
‘Was that down to me? I’m sorry.’ He had the grace to look embarrassed as she led them up a flight of steps. A numeric code on a keypad gave them access to a narrow corridor inside the building. ‘Nice uniform,’ Lenny added as she took them into a tiny kitchen. ‘I love a fit woman in uniform.’
She pulled three mugs from a cupboard. ‘Don’t think you can sweet-talk me, Lenny Dixon. You should know by now I’m immune to your charm.’
‘No, really.’ He sat down at a small table. ‘You look great. And I love the hair.’
‘Oh, give it a rest. I knew you were going to be trouble again from the minute Mark sodding Trent called me.’ She added teabags and filled the mugs with boiling water. ‘Sorry about the idiots in Tesco. Not really their fault, though – they’re just following orders.’
Ryan sat down opposite Lenny and took a mug of tea from the woman.
She smiled at him. ‘Sorry, Ryan. It is Ryan, isn’t it? How did Lenny manage to con you into getting involved in all this? Not that I blame you in any way – he’s the most manipulative person I have ever had the dubious pleasure of knowing. I’m Steph, by the way.’
‘He’s nothing to do with me,’ said Lenny indignantly. ‘He stole my fucking personnel file at work. My probation officer is listed as my next of kin and she thought I’d been compromised and hit the panic button. So to atone for completely fucking up my life, Ryan kindly lent me his car to come down here. Only he insisted on coming with it.’
That smouldering anger was there again, and on the verge of erupting – Ryan could sense it – and it sounded like he was in the direct path of the volcano. Which was hardly fair. How was he supposed to know of Lenny’s unique circumstances? He was tired of letting the man boss him around and intimidate him. You messed up my car. How could he drive it home when it was showing stolen plates? His own registration plates were God-knows-where and had probably been seized as evidence by now – evidence that his car had been used on some stupid and probably illegal crusade. His entire car would probably be seized as evidence.
But Steph must have seen the way he frowned. She shook her head slightly and something in her eyes said she understood exactly how he was feeling. Lenny treated everybody like shit unless he got what he wanted.
‘Ryan lent you his car, did he?’ Steph raised her eyebrows. ‘Somehow I doubt that. I should be shipping you straight back up north, not listening to your bullshit. But – don’t interrupt me, Lenny, or I’ll call Trent myself and hand you over personally – but I know why you’re here, and it’s just possible you might know something that could help. So drink your tea, cut the smartarse crap, and maybe we can salvage something from this offender-management suicide path you’re on.’
Anybody else and he’d have reacted. Stuck a gun in their face – if he had one – or come up with some other threat, physical or otherwise. He was good at improvising, thinking on his feet, conjuring something from nothing. Nobody spoke to him like that and got away with it.
Lenny met Steph’s eyes but she wasn’t backing down. She’d done this before, when he’d gone off on one last time he went charging in to rescue Becky. He’d been waving a gun around then, too – Jesus Christ, I really am losing it – and Steph had handcuffed him for everybody’s protection. And then she’d gone along with his plan, stepped in and saved the day. Covered for him – lied for him.
He owed her.
So he bit back the reply, swallowed his pride and turned to Ryan. It wasn’t the kid’s fault, after all. He blew my cover! Maybe if he’d embraced his new life a bit more…
‘Ignore me, Ryan. I apologise. I can be a bit of a dick.’ Play the game.
‘There’s an understatement.’ Steph drained her mug and stood up. ‘OK. This is what’s going to happen. You two are going to come with me to an interview room, where you’re going to stay until I say otherwise. I’m looking at you, Lenny. Fuck me around and I will back out of this – it’s not my case – and I’ll hand you over to Trent. Ryan, give me your keys and I’ll have someone fetch your car. Write your registration down and I’ll get some new plates made up for you so at least you’ll be legal. And tell me now if you’re not taxed or insured; I don’t want to find out later.’
‘I’m good,’ Ryan said, passing his car keys across the table. ‘Thanks.’
‘And then— Shut up, Lenny.’ Steph held up a hand as he was about to speak.
He glared at her, but said nothing.
‘And then we will talk about Danny. And Becky.’
Lenny stood up. ‘So where is Darwin?’ he asked, calmer now. He really did need to get – and keep – his temper under control. ‘Out of the country, you said. Work or play?’ For all their disagreements, the DI had always played straight with him. Apart from the compulsory counselling sessions, of course – Lenny still hadn’t forgiven him for that.
‘Honeymoon,’ said Steph.
‘The bastard got married?’ Lenny snorted. ‘Really?’
‘We’re not all chained to the job, you know. Some of us have lives.’
‘Yeah, I used to have one of them,’ said Lenny, not sure it was true. It had seemed like real life at the time, but he was older now, wiser, and he wasn’t sure whether any of it had been worth it.
Steph showed them into a tiny interview room. As soon as she’d gone, Lenny tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Should he go? Police stations still made him nervous. He was aware of time passing and that magic deadline of seven o’clock creeping up on him; Trent would have half the Met after him as soon as the hour passed and if he was still here then, he’d be in a cell by ten past. Since there wasn’t a chance of him being back in Liverpool by seven, he’d be on the run if he left. So he needed to prepare, get Sohail to sort him some cash – enough to source a passport, or find somebody with a boat who could get him across the channel. I’m fucked in this country now. Ryan could drive him down to the coast; he could even borrow money off the kid if necessary.
But none of that would help Becky, would it? And that was why he’d come, why he’d put his new freedom at risk – why he needed to stay here, fight all his instincts to run. And he needed Steph to get him to Becky. After that they could all fuck off.
‘You OK?’ Ryan asked him. He sounded scared.
Lenny shut the door. ‘Fine.’ Oh, grow a pair, Ashcroft. I don’t have the time nor inclination to babysit you. Ryan had served his purpose in getting him down to London; Lenny didn’t particularly care what he did now. He wondered whether he could sweet-talk Steph into getting him a car. Fat chance. She probably knew that he didn’t have a driving licence and she’d never let him behind the wheel again, unless he took the keys off her by force. He couldn’t do that in the cop-shop, though. Outside – maybe. Or he’d have to borrow Ryan’s heap of shite again.
Steph came back into the room and before she had chance to speak, Lenny was in her face.
‘Come on, Steph. I don’t have much time. I need to see Becky.’
‘You need to sit down.’
He didn’t budge. ‘Don’t push me.’ Stop fucking me about! Sitting around having endless discussions wasn’t the way he operated.
‘Oh get over yourself, Lenny.’ She stepped around him. ‘We do this my way or not at all.’
He pulled out a chair and sat down in it pointedly, leaning back and folding his arms. Maybe speaking to Steph hadn’t been a good idea after all. Last year she’d been on his side, bent the rules, helped him do what needed to be done; this year she was all procedure and formality. I fucked up her career big-time. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting a repeat performance.
‘Becky’s at home with her parents,’ said Steph, not looking at him. ‘There’s a family liaison officer with them.’
‘And Danny?’
‘How much do you know about Danny? Have you met him?’
Lenny shrugged. He wasn’t interested in Becky’s family.
‘Danny is fifteen,’ Steph continued. ‘He has Asperger’s syndrome – a form of autism. From what I can gather he leads a fairly normal life – mainstream schooling, after-school club, started Duke of Edinburgh Award. Into computers in a big way. And paintball.’ She stared at him pointedly. ‘Anything you want to say about that?’
Lenny unfolded his arms and picked at a scab on his knuckle. He’d grazed his hand on the prefab pebble-dash of the garages yesterday, when he’d pulled Ryan out of sight and threatened him. It seemed a lifetime ago. ‘Becky emailed me this morning,’ he said. ‘There’s an old account I still have – one I set up when I was working with Carlotti on the scrapyard. She said that Danny was the one who found out Martin Reilly’s address last year. It was linked to paintball online.’ He hesitated. ‘Reilly used to lease parts of the estate for corporate events. They were sitting tenants when he bought the place and it took the lawyers years to get them out – I think he paid them off eventually.’
‘Danny’s paintball club closed down recently. He’s been pulling up the estate details on his computer.’
Lenny closed his eyes. Every time he thought back to Martin Reilly, his stomach churned. He thought he’d dealt with it all, compartmentalised the past and locked it away, but he’d gone back with Becky, and the memories of teenage summers learning the business from the ground up had started leaking through. Dealing with Jackson Porter and the snuff films had blown the lid off completely, and he still had nightmares of the underground film studio masquerading as a tropical beach. Claire wouldn’t be able to counsel him out of this, even if he could bring himself to tell her. It was none of her fucking business anyway.
He was fingering the ridges on his wrists, razorblade cuts they’d made – just special effects, it won’t hurt – and he’d all but forgotten until he’d watched the evidence last year.
Reilly’s dead.
It didn’t help.
‘Hey.’ Steph laid a hand on his arm. ‘You were a kid.’
He jerked away. ‘Don’t!’ What the fuck did she know? She’d not seen the films – at least she said she hadn’t. Fuck. What if she had watched his involuntary film debut? He’d been thirteen and off his head on drugs and alcohol, trying to please Reilly and scared – so scared – of dying.
Lenny glared at Ryan, daring him to say a word. He pulled his hands apart with difficulty. Focus! ‘I didn’t know Becky even had a brother. Have they sent people out there?’
‘Of course. But it’s a big estate. And he might not be there at all.’
‘Will you take me to see Becky?’
Steph raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t think that’s wise.’
‘Do I give a shit what you think?’
‘Stop fighting me, Lenny. I’m on your side.’
He looked at the clock on the wall above Steph’s head.
Four hours.
‘You said that last time,’ he retorted. ‘It didn’t help then, either.’
She wondered if she was doing the right thing. Lenny was outside his comfort zone; bringing up the past clearly unsettled him, and that made him dangerous in Steph’s eyes. He was volatile at the best of times. And yet he cared about Becky. He’s in love with the girl, if only he’d admit it. If Danny had gone out to Reilly’s estate, it was entirely possible that Lenny would have insider knowledge that might help.
But they were up against the clock. In just over four hours, she’d need to persuade Mark Trent not to issue an arrest warrant; if she failed, she’d have to take Lenny into custody.
She wondered how he’d react to that. He’d changed since she’d first met him – when she’d picked him up from prison after an unexpected change in circumstances meant he’d been granted bail pending the trial. That had been Darwin, of course – engineering his release to persuade him to help them bring in Jackson Porter in exchange for more lenient treatment by the courts. He’d done it too, but he’d still spent much of the last twelve months inside and it showed; he looked older, harder and he’d lost that mercurial edge she’d found both endearing and irritating in equal measure. Even the quip about her uniform had seemed forced somehow – like he was playing to what he thought she expected of him.
At the Adams house, she rang the bell. The door was opened by a middle-aged police constable – the family liaison officer – who looked stressed and tired. She’d been fielding media questions from the gutter press who’d already made the connection between Danny’s disappearance and Becky’s evidence at Reilly’s inquest. Steph knew she’d done the right thing in not bringing Lenny – his appearance would have thrown more fuel on the fire and taken the focus off finding Danny.
Steph took Becky into the kitchen. ‘You OK?’
‘I’ll cope,’ she said, ‘but I’m surprised to see you here. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to get you into trouble by saying you and Rob had been round that night, but I had to tell them.’
‘I know.’ Steph patted her arm. There was a silence. ‘Lenny’s here,’ she said after a moment.
Becky had her back turned, but Steph saw the stiffening of the shoulders, the way her hand stopped while she was pouring milk into a coffee mug.
‘He told me you emailed him,’ Steph added, pushing the kitchen door closed with one foot as the younger girl turned around.
‘I never thought he’d actually get it,’ she said. ‘I thought he was still in prison.’
‘Out on licence these past six weeks. He’s been up north with a new identity – working in some car spares warehouse.’ She saw Becky try and fail to hide the slight smile. ‘Yeah, I was the same. Doesn’t fit the image, does it? But he’s been doing OK – keeping out of trouble and having counselling apparently.’
‘You’re kidding me?’ Becky shrugged. ‘I suppose it worked for Michael.’
‘Lenny’s not Michael.’
‘No.’ Becky bit her lip. ‘Where is he?’
‘In an interview room back at the station. Came tanking down the motorway in answer to your distress call.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s tagged and he’s broken his licence – at least he will have in a few hours.’
‘Shit. I don’t need this.’
‘He might know where Danny is. You should talk to him.’
‘You don’t think—?’
‘No.’ Steph shook her head. ‘For what it’s worth, I think he really has turned his back on it all. But there’s still an awful lot of intelligence – stuff in his head that we need to pick out. Now they’ve shunted him away from London, he’s been passed over to Merseyside Police and I don’t think his new handler has a clue how to deal with him.’
‘And you do?’
‘Yes. I do.’ She was certain of it. He’d like as not feed Trent a load of bullshit just for the sheer hell of it, and Trent wouldn’t have a clue. Whereas she could read him now – unpick any web of lies as fast as he could spin it. ‘Come with me, Becky. Talk to him. He thinks you and Michael are still together and he still came to help.’
‘All right. It can’t hurt, can it?’
I hope not. Steph wondered if Becky had any clue how Lenny felt about her. Did it even matter anyway? She wasn’t running a dating agency and they were all adults. But if she doesn’t live up to his ideals, we’ll lose him as a source. And he was too valuable to lose.
So much for this IT project. Her new boss was going to kill her. She had a report to finish by next week and system testing to organise – he’d slap her down and tell her she wasn’t in CID anymore. She’d have to earn back detective status and she wasn’t going to do that by staring at a computer screen.
‘Come on,’ she said to Becky. ‘I’ll have a word with the FLO – you tell your folks you’ll be out for a few hours.’ After that, Lenny would be history anyway.
Would she come? Maybe she was regretting having emailed him at all. What on earth would Michael think when she told him what she’d done? Do I even fucking care?
Lenny paced up and down the tiny windowless interview room, aware that he was winding himself up, but unable to do anything about it. Up in the corner of the ceiling, a red light blinked on a CCTV camera; he flipped a finger at it and wondered if he was being filmed. He was tempted to drop his trousers, but there was no sense in antagonising the cops. He suspected half of them would welcome any excuse to lock him up again, and they’d be queuing up for the privilege come seven o’clock.
Ryan had gone off with one of the office managers to get some plates made up for his car and pick it up. He’d seemed relieved to get away from Lenny and the feeling was mutual; Lenny was wishing he’d never let his guard down with the kid. But he was tired of going home alone every night, tired of the highlight of his week being the chance to bait Claire. Even the cute and generously-endowed Delia was no more than a distraction, and only marginally better than a date with his right hand – they didn’t speak beyond exchanging the necessary pleasantries and only then for appearance’s sake.
Maybe he could do a deal with Trent. He’d sensed the possibility that morning. The DS was desperate to produce some good intelligence and Lenny was happy to oblige, provided that he got something in return. Tit-for-tat. He wasn’t sure much of what he knew was even relevant anymore; so much had changed over the past year.
The door opened and he spun on one heel. And she stood there. Becky. Exactly how he remembered her, in jeans and a pink T shirt with blonde hair tied up on her head and little wispy bits escaping down the side of her face. And nothing had really changed at all, had it?
Shut your mouth.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Hey,’ he said back. Idiot. But Steph was there too and he couldn’t say any of the things he wanted to say, so he stuffed his hands in his pockets instead and felt like a guilty schoolboy caught doing something he shouldn’t.
‘You came,’ said Becky, walking across the room.
‘Of course I came.’ He looked at Steph, hoping she’d get the message. Give us a minute? Alone. ‘Can we get some tea? And some cigs – I think Ryan still has my stuff. Pretty please?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Steph nodded, and he could tell by the look on her face that she knew tea was the last thing he wanted. She backed out, shut the door and left them alone.
Becky sat down. ‘I didn’t know you were out,’ she said, fiddling with a ring on her right hand.
Did he give you that? Michael? ‘You weren’t supposed to know.’ Lenny sat down opposite. Now there was a whole table between them. ‘Nobody was supposed to know. That’s how witness protection works.’
‘That bad?’ She looked at him directly and he dropped his gaze, self-conscious.
‘Not really. It wasn’t as if there was anything in my old life worth sticking around for.’ Except you.
‘Do you …’ She stopped, as if choosing her words carefully. ‘Do you know where Danny is?’
‘No.’
‘I had to ask.’
No. You didn’t. But he couldn’t blame her – not really. Michael had doubtless told her all sorts of stories and they were probably true.
‘Do you know where he might be?’
‘No.’ How could I?
‘Then why did you come?’ She stood up again, moving around to his side of the table. ‘This isn’t you, Lenny. Stop bullshitting.’
‘Jesus. I’ve been locked up for most of the past year. How would I know where your brother is? I didn’t even know you had a brother until this morning.’
‘That’s more like it. I need you to help me, not sit there feeling sorry for yourself for some reason I doubt you’ll tell me about.’
The last time he’d had any kind of real conversation with Becky had been the previous autumn, just before they’d banged him up on remand; they’d been holed up above a row of shops, with police marksmen covering the exits and he’d held a gun to his own head and threatened to pull the trigger. And now he couldn’t put on an act with her, and yet he didn’t know how to do anything else – how to be anybody else.
‘Come on, Lenny. Don’t fuck me about,’ said Becky, grabbing his hand. ‘If anybody can find Dan, you can.’
He snatched his hand away, feeling the contact throughout his body. I can’t go back there again. Which was fucking stupid, since the likelihood of the kid being there was small, bordering on utterly-frigging-non-existent.
Get a grip! If she touched him again, he’d implode. ‘Why do you think he’d go to Reilly’s place? The paintball connection?’
‘Yes. It came up again at the inquest—’
‘You went to Martin Reilly’s inquest?’ Fucking hell. The man had been shot; of course there’d have been an inquest. Becky had been there when he died. So had Lenny. Except I was unconscious for most of that bit. They’d kicked him down the stairs, broken his arm – he’d been a fucking mess.
He was still a fucking mess.
‘So Danny knew about the inquest?’ he asked, desperately trying to focus.
‘Yes. He read all about it online; he lives on the internet – he can be whoever he wants to be on the web. And he chats to people.’
‘People?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We try to monitor him, but he knows more than we do. He just doesn’t get normal social interaction.’
I know how he feels.
‘We have an instinctive knowledge of right from wrong – what’s safe, I mean.’ Becky corrected herself quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘I’ve been in prison. I have dubious moral values – whatever … yeah, yeah. Let’s get on with it.’ Why couldn’t she see it? Why couldn’t she understand?
She looked hurt by that. ‘Danny doesn’t have that mindset. He lives in the moment – takes people at face value. Gullible is the wrong word – naïve, maybe? Tell him something and if there isn’t a good reason to disbelieve it, then it must be true.’
Steph came back into the room with a tray. Three mugs and a packet of biscuits. Lenny had never felt less like eating.
‘Steph – what’s happening at Reilly’s place? There’s a team out there?’
‘This morning.’ She sat on the edge of the table and handed him an unopened packet of cigarettes. ‘The house has been closed up since last summer, after the search teams had finished with it.’
‘Thanks. They’ve opened it up again? What about the rest of the estate?’ The hangars? The rooms below? He didn’t want to say it aloud.
‘The house, yes. As I said, there’s a team there – or at least, there was this morning. The hangars are still a crime scene, as far as I know.’ Steph cradled her mug of tea. ‘It’s not my case anymore. I got … bounced.’
Don’t pile any more shit on me. ‘But they’ve found nothing?’ He thought about it. ‘Social media, Becky?’
‘Danny? He’s not interested in Facebook or anything like that. Gaming forums, maybe. The police took his computer. He’ll have a meltdown over that.’
‘I used to know people who were good at that sort of thing – finding out stuff online.’ He hesitated. ‘But I suspect there’s still a reward out for me. Those very same people could probably sniff me out in minutes.’
‘This isn’t the Wild West, Lenny,’ said Steph. ‘I can get you untraceable net access if you need it.’
‘And pay for information?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m all out of favours and I doubt you could rustle up the kind of ready cash I’d need.’ The security didn’t really bother him and neither did the money. But the cops would never let him do things the way they needed to be done. He needed fast reactions and instant decisions – not paperwork, approvals and authorities.
Three hours. He sighed. ‘I’m going to have to go out there, aren’t I?’
Ryan drove through East London, following the directions of the man next to him. He wasn’t in uniform and Ryan didn’t think he was CID – maybe a civilian police worker or something? It was hardly a good use of police resources to fudge some kind of approval by phone for Ryan to get new plates made up for the Capri without any kind of paperwork, and then drive across London to some backstreet motor shop to collect them. But at least he was road-legal again and away from the irritating and manipulative Lenny. He’d been far nicer as Tony, getting drunk in a small flat in Liverpool, rather than as some kind of wannabe gangster wanted by police and the criminal underworld in equal measure. Far too pissed on his own self-importance.
Ryan thought he might just drive home. Drop his passenger off back at the police station and hit the road. He could be back in Liverpool by early evening and call in at work to see if he still had a job; Joe was usually there until about eight. Blaming Lenny – Tony – for it all would probably work, especially if he got that police officer Trent to intervene on his behalf. He liked his job – it wasn’t exactly a career opportunity, but it was a secure and steady income and didn’t require him to use much brain-power; he could pick car parts on auto-pilot. It was a dream job for a petrol-head, surrounded by interesting bits and pieces which all had their place and function in a vehicle.
But he still had Lenny’s mobile phone, wallet and keys. And the pen-knife and cigarettes. Steph had given them to him while Lenny was still handcuffed and he’d stuffed them in his pocket and Lenny had ignored him to the extent that he’d forgotten about them completely. Maybe he could give the items to the guy next to him now? He’d done the right thing – made up for the mistake at work – and now Lenny was on his own.
Much as he hated to admit it, though, he was getting a kick out of the adrenaline rush of tanking down the M6, of being complicit in something that was borderline illegal. What do you mean – borderline? Nicking car registration plates is still theft, you muppet. Not to mention aiding and abetting a convicted criminal. He was way too similar to Liam sometimes; his mum had been saying the same thing for years, and she’d been almost grateful when Liam had finally got put inside, as Ryan would be away from the big-brother influence. It had worked too – he’d knuckled down at school, scraped through his GCSEs and got himself a series of car-themed jobs. He was making something of his life and he wasn’t about to let Lenny trash it all.
Back at the police station, Ryan managed to reverse the Capri into a gap next to a couple of squad cars; the guy with him assured him it would be fine and it wouldn’t get clamped or towed away. Inside, he discovered that Lenny and Steph had gone off out to Essex somewhere and he hadn’t been invited. Since Lenny clearly wasn’t bothered about him in the slightest, Ryan decided he might as well have a cup of tea, leave Lenny’s stuff with the front desk officer and make his own way back up to Liverpool. He could call Trent tomorrow.
21 – LENNY
If he’d been driving, he’d have stopped in the lay-by a few miles before the gates, where he’d waited for Becky last summer and where Baz had shot him. He could still remember the incredulity – realising he’d been hit – the impact of the bullet, followed by the slow burn of pain along his side and the sharp sting of gravel as he hit the ground face-first.
He’d have stopped to remember everything that had happened afterwards: almost passing out on the sofa, getting an eyeful of Becky’s cleavage as she pulled a tissue from her bra to wipe blood off his face, hearing voices from the past – Nick’s voice – as they dumped him on the kitchen table and sewed him up like a dog at the vet’s.
He’d have stopped to avoid letting the past suffocate him again.
But Steph refused to let him drive. Instead he gripped the armrest more tightly as she punched a code into the electronic keypad – how did she know? – and the gates swung open silently, swallowing the three of them into the estate; he couldn’t resist angling his head to catch a glimpse in the wing mirror of them closing again with a finality that scared him.
Fuck, Claire. You’re shit. He was rubbing his wrists again. How many hours had he spent in the woman’s office? He should be able to deal with this. Reilly was dead.
‘You all right?’ Steph’s voice was sharp next to him, but soft enough that he doubted Becky had heard in the back.
‘Fine,’ he answered, pulling his hands apart and chewing a thumbnail instead as the car swept around in front of the huge wooden front door. One step at a time. ‘Do you have keys?’
Steph stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out one small mortice-lock key.
‘That’s it?’ He’d never had keys – never needed them. He didn’t recall the house ever having been unoccupied.
Steph shrugged. ‘That’s all I have. Back door apparently, although this place looks like it might have a lot of back doors.’
Danny wasn’t going to be here. This was a complete waste of time. But he took the key from Steph’s hand without a word and scrambled out of the car before Steph had switched off the engine, crunching across the gravel without looking back to see if they were following.
It had taken them the best part of two hours to get out here in the afternoon traffic. Now it was close on six, and the seven o’clock curfew was hanging over him. Rules had never bothered him before, but this time was different somehow; this time it had been working – he’d been putting his life back together and moving on. And now he’d almost certainly be arrested in an hour’s time and end up back in prison. They’ll never let me out again. The temptation to run was almost overwhelming, but he had to see this through for Becky.
Through a door in a rear wall, he strode through the kitchen garden, fairly certain that the key would be for the door into the utility room behind the kitchen. ‘When were the cops here?’ he asked, unlocking the door easily.
‘This morning, I’m told.’ Steph was close behind him, Becky hanging back. Becky looked nervous, but Steph’s eyes were wide and Lenny remembered how impressed he’d first been as a child.
‘Where did they search?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because this isn’t my case,’ Steph snapped. ‘I’ve been pulled into this just as much as you have. I know you don’t want to be here, Lenny, so just do whatever you need to do and let’s go.’
I wish it was that easy. He was running on instinct, trying to think like his fifteen-year-old self. Where would he go?
‘You know this place well.’ It was a statement rather than a question. Becky trailed a hand across thick granite worktops.
‘Used to.’ Lenny hesitated. ‘I spent most school holidays here as a child.’ He turned away, not wanting to answer more questions. They’d had this conversation last year, before she knew – before she’d guessed at the circumstances of his childhood.
Becky touched his arm. An electric shock sparked through his body but he didn’t react – couldn’t react. The slightest step from this narrow path and he’d tip into the crevasse below. Instead he focused ahead and walked through into one of several interior halls with a confidence that was entirely manufactured.
There were galleried landings above, stairs curving elegantly up to a cupola three storeys higher; a coloured-glass roof illuminated millions of dust particles disturbed by their feet and threw kaleidoscope patterns across the parquet floor. This place was dead. But it felt haunted somehow. Last summer he’d been more concerned with staying upright and conscious than worrying about the atmosphere, but now Claire had him primed to react to anything and everything. So much for fucking counselling.
Even Steph seemed impressed as she tipped her head back and gazed upwards. Lenny felt like he was conducting some kind of guided tour, so he left them oohing and aahing and slipped through a doorway into a corridor that led back behind the kitchens to what would have been the old scullery and housekeeper’s rooms. They could open this place up to the public – maybe they would, eventually – as so many of the original fixtures and fittings were still here. The old bell system probably still worked; Lenny could remember tracing every cable through the house and annoying the hell out of Nick by making them ring.
In a small stone-flagged room, there were built-in wooden cupboards, some with glass panels and one with a solid door. Lenny crouched down, running a hand underneath a low shelf and making a face as he felt cobwebs and something scurried away from his fingers. But it was still there, the key he was searching for, stuck to the underneath of the shelf with a lump of blu-tack. Police search team? Yeah, right. To be fair, there was no reason to search the underneath of a shelf and no need to pull open locked cupboards – not when they were looking for a child. Danny was still a runaway, not an abductee, and there was no evidence to suggest foul play. Not yet. There was no evidence to suggest the kid was even here.
He unlocked the cupboard. Several shelves of junk lay in front of him. Electrical extension leads, screwdrivers, an unopened pack of domestic batteries – just like the drawer everybody had in their house and a place for things that had no home. A good place for a fourteen year-old boy to hide things he didn’t want to be found. Lenny was confident that since the key under the shelf had been undisturbed, nobody would have found what he was looking for, either.
Back then, he’d been good at hiding things – especially himself. When Martin Reilly had been too … demanding … he’d simply taken himself off somewhere private, somewhere secret. On an estate this size, there were enough places to hide, especially when you were a child; he’d start with the ones closest to the house and work outwards.
A voice behind him. ‘Why didn’t you just leave?’
He jumped, but didn’t turn around, not wanting to see Becky’s face. ‘Because I didn’t want to,’ he answered honestly, rooting through the junk as he spoke. ‘You should ask your boyfriend.’ Maybe she’d understand then.
There was a slight pause. ‘Michael and I aren’t together anymore,’ she said. And then she was gone – he felt her absence like an itch he couldn’t scratch. An itch that he didn’t know how to scratch. For fuck’s sake, Dixon! Now was not the time.
In his hands was a small brass tin – a souvenir from the war. Christmas 1914, it said on it; Reilly had given it to him as a present the first Christmas he’d spent here. He’d been nine or ten, the year the abuse had started, but Lenny remembered the presents far more clearly than the abuse. He didn’t even consider it as abuse, if he was honest with himself and that was what he hated about the hours he was forced to spend with Claire – that she was rewriting his childhood into ways it had never been, chopping up his memories and squeezing them into boxes they were never meant to fit. It wasn’t fair on anybody and raking up the past certainly wasn’t helping.
Becky had gone, spooked by his reactions – lack of reaction? – and he could hear her and Steph out in the hall, which was good as he wanted to be alone for this. He fingered the tin, tracing the embossed writing. His ten-year-old self had been impressed by the gift and he’d continued to use it to store various treasures over the years, including what he was looking for now. Another key. It was strange how his life seemed ruled by keys these days – keys to his apartment hidden with his neighbour, a key to a secure storage unit kept safe for fifteen years. Prison keys locking him away from the world. Or the world away from me. And now yet another key.
From the edge of the hall, he could hear the girls talking about the bloodstains on the sofa in one of the sitting rooms. His blood. Lenny shook his head – just more irrelevant history – and slipped back out through the kitchens and the door through which they’d entered the house. Around the side, he followed the perimeter of the building to the much newer pool-house extension, where there was a door in the garden wall leading into a paved courtyard. Around another corner and he pushed aside a curtain of wisteria foliage to reveal a half-hidden door in the wall of the building.
This place had been his and his alone. He wasn’t sure Reilly – or anybody else – had even known of its existence. Even in winter it was hard to see, obscured by a stone buttress which shored up the wall of the oldest part of the house.
He opened the tin box. He’d feel pretty stupid now if the key wasn’t there, but he doubted the cops had searched here and if he’d found it as a child, then perhaps Danny might have too and maybe found a way in; there was a window somewhere, he recalled, half-recessed in what might have once been an old coal hole further round the building. It was worth a look and now he was here, he might as well lay a few ghosts to rest too. Fucking flatten the bastards, maybe. It had to be done.
Of course the key was there, together with an old signet ring, a collection of pre-decimal coins and some lead fishing weights he remembered finding with a metal-detector out at the gravel pits one winter. So he unlocked the door – if he was quick he could be in and out, and back in the kitchen before Steph and Becky even realised he was missing.
‘Keep walking.’ A voice right behind him.
What the fuck? Lenny tried to turn and nearly fell down the narrow stone steps. A hand steadied him, holding his elbow and steering him downwards, whether he wanted to go or not. At the bottom, the hand flicked the light switch and a naked low-wattage bulb illuminated a small cellar-cum-storeroom with a couple of wooden doors leading off.
The hand released his elbow and he turned around, uncomfortably aware of his heels touching the brick wall behind him; there wasn’t much room to manoeuvre down here.
‘Hello, Len. How did the needlework hold up?’
‘Nick?’ What the fuck was Nick doing here? He watched the man scoot back up the steps, and shut and lock the outer door. Nick had been Reilly’s man-Friday for many years and the teenage Lenny’s friend, confidant and sometime-protector. This was way too weird.
‘Shut your mouth, Len. Did you really think I never knew about this little bolt-hole of yours? God knows you needed somewhere to escape to. He almost found you on more than one occasion, you know, but I managed to divert him.’
‘Thank you.’ Small mercies. But Lenny wasn’t sure what was going on. Why was Nick even here? He didn’t remember much from last summer, and he’d never had the chance nor inclination to speak to either Becky or Michael about what had happened out at the hangars – but as far as he’d been aware, Nick had got away before the police had arrived. Lenny had thought that Nick had been on their side, but with the locked door, he was beginning to wonder if things had changed. If he’d been on your side, he’d have called the cops when you were ten. But he was in at least one of the snuff films, wasn’t he? Calling the cops would have meant implicating himself.
‘You’re wondering why I just locked the door,’ said Nick.
Yep. There was a look to the man that Lenny didn’t feel comfortable with. Too much water under the bridge. More like a bastard river.
‘We need to talk.’
‘Do we?’ Lenny found his voice. ‘I thought we did all our talking last summer.’ What he really wanted to ask was: Did you ever fuck me? On or off camera – it didn’t really matter – but he needed to know. The images he’d seen on-screen were indelibly imprinted on his mind and no amount of Claire talking at him would ever erase that.
‘Yeah.’ Nick looked stressed for a moment. ‘You see, there’s this kid called Danny.’
‘Where’s Lenny?’ Steph spun on one foot. The hallway was ghost-quiet – and Lenny was the ghost.
‘He was back in a room off the kitchens just now,’ said Becky.
Steph couldn’t decide if the look on her face was concern, or simply that she wasn’t enjoying whatever memories she had of this place. Or maybe both. Becky led her back the way they’d come and through a series of small inter-connected rooms behind the kitchen. Servants’ quarters. But there was no sign of the man, just an open door on a cupboard full of junk.
‘Lenny?’ she called out, then again, louder. Her voice was swallowed by the empty rooms. ‘This isn’t the time for games.’ But he already knew that, didn’t he? And that was one thing about Lenny – he didn’t play games. Ever. She wasn’t sure he knew how.
‘Upstairs?’ suggested Becky.
‘He’d have had to go past us.’ Were there other stairs? Of course there would be. Servants’ stairs – maybe more than one flight. He could be anywhere. Reliving the past? Not through choice, she was sure about that.
I should call this in. But it was almost certainly just Lenny being Lenny – doing exactly what he wanted with no thought for anybody else. Almost certainly. Almost.
No, she couldn’t call it in. Not yet. She wasn’t even supposed to be here. A few favours owed and she’d borrowed the key, because without Derek Darwin’s influence, nobody in the Met was going to give Lenny Dixon anything other than an extended prison sentence. And the DI had made it perfectly clear to everybody that for once in his life, his new wife was taking priority over his job. He’d left his mobile in the office and said he didn’t care who died or what got blown up, that he was uncontactable. End of. Steph had to admire him for that resolve and hoped that his wife – Kate, isn’t it? Michael Redford’s sister – would take that into account when he finally came back to work and she didn’t see him for weeks on end. Any kind of relationship with somebody who was non-job was doomed from the start.
‘Are you OK on your own?’ she asked Becky. ‘I’ll go look upstairs.’ Steph had never thought to find out if Becky herself was having any counselling over events last year; she’d been involved in Reilly’s death – murder? – and if she hadn’t come back for Michael, he’d likely be dead too. How was she dealing with that? Christ, I’m an insensitive bitch, aren’t I? But involving Becky had inevitably brought Lenny running; Steph wasn’t yet sure whether that was a good or a bad thing.
‘Hey,’ she said, touching the younger girl’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. Bringing you here wasn’t the smartest of moves was it?’
Becky sighed. ‘It’s certainly not somewhere I’d choose to be. But it’s all wrapped up together – Michael and Lenny and now Danny, too. I don’t know how to separate any of it.’
‘You do know he cares about you, don’t you?’
‘Lenny? Yes. I’m not completely blind.’
‘He’d do anything for you.’
‘That’s what worries me. I’m not sure I can deal with that level of responsibility for someone’s life.’
‘So tell him to back off. He will, if you ask him.’ And he’ll watch over you from a distance for however long it takes to get you out of his system. Which might be a long time.
‘You think?’ Becky frowned. Steph knew there was a fine line between love and obsession – how many times could Lenny play the white knight before rescue became stalking?
‘Do you need me to have a word?’ she said in all seriousness. ‘In an official capacity?’
‘No, but thanks. I can talk to him if I need to. I know him.’
‘So let’s find him. You keep looking down here and I’ll try upstairs. How many floors are there?’
‘No idea. I’ll be fine. Don’t get lost – it’s a big house.’
Steph tracked back to the hall and took the stairs two at a time; the thick carpet puffed up dust from her shoes and she felt like she was trespassing.
There were several corridors leading off the first-floor landing. Steph called out Lenny’s name again and opened doors at random; bedrooms, offices and store-rooms hadn’t been touched and she wondered if the police had bothered to search up here at all. It was a tenuous link anyway – assuming that just because they’d found this place in Danny’s browsing history meant he’d actually come here. Steph browsed all kinds of places online but that didn’t mean she had any intention of visiting; her favourite right now was looking at photographs of old and abandoned tube stations – there were stations that had barely changed since the London underground first came into being in the late nineteenth century and were now used as occasional film sets.
Film set? Maybe they’d be better off looking for both Danny and Lenny out at the hangars, not that she had the slightest idea where they were, but Becky might know. She opened the door in front of her and decided this was completely pointless anyway. Danny wasn’t here, and Lenny wouldn’t be found until he chose to be.
In front of her was what appeared to be a bank of television screens, showing various monochrome images of the inside and outside of the house. Twenty or more screens showed what looked like live images as she saw a rabbit run across the grass in front of a new extension. Huge windows made her think it was probably a swimming pool or a gym. This place should be a hotel. Maybe it would be in time.
CCTV. A security system of some kind. There was even a screen showing the main gates to the estate, so presumably the access was controlled from here too if the visitor didn’t have the code for the entry system. But why was all this stuff active? Steph hadn’t expected the electricity to be switched off, but what was the point of an active CCTV system in an empty house? All it needed was a burglar alarm.
There were fingerprints in the dust here. She looked at the console, carefully not touching, and then took out her mobile phone and snapped a couple of shots – if nothing else, it might persuade the CSIs to come out later, if she needed them. Steph sat down in the large leather chair and watched the screens for a moment; feet underneath the unit, she knocked what felt like a waste-paper bin over and pulled her feet back to see a half-eaten apple land between her shoes.
The security system was live because someone was using it. Not her police colleagues – they’d have switched it off – and they wouldn’t be eating on duty. There’d been somebody here recently, who either wasn’t here now, or was hiding from them and watching.
She stood up abruptly. It was time to be leaving, with or without Lenny. Danny wasn’t here. But somebody else might be. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to meet them.
‘This is down to you, you know?’
‘What?’ Lenny wriggled, but there was no way he was going to get his hand through the circle of rusty metal at his wrist. It was attached to the cellar wall by a long chain, leaving him enough room to move around, but not to actually reach anything. He wondered whose blood it was on the cuff, remembering the times he’d seen Martin use these as film props. Some of the actors had been less-than-willing participants and while Lenny himself had been doped up most of the time, a few of the customers preferred their victims to fight back. Restraints apparently added to the thrill. But he didn’t remember the chain being down here – which meant that this was new, that Nick had done this for a reason.
It was bad enough with Claire messing with the memories of his childhood. Nick had been his friend. It hurt. But then so did everything else. Every other relationship in my life is fucked-up – why should this one be any different?
‘I never knew you had films,’ said Nick. ‘You kept that quiet for a long time.’
‘And you weren’t involved? Yeah, right.’ Lenny sighed. ‘I watched them, Nick. But I don’t care; it’s all in the past. I moved on.’
‘You certainly did that. You gave them to the police – how much credit did that buy you with the CPS?’
‘I didn’t give them your name. Why would I?’ Lenny pulled on the chain, then tried unscrewing the metal loop from the wall. It didn’t work.
‘You’ve given every other bloody name to them.’
How would you know? ‘But not yours. I didn’t think you were even in the country.’
‘I didn’t dare leave. And there was stuff here at the house I needed to find. I wasn’t sure you’d even survived last summer until you started talking.’
‘I wasn’t sure I would either.’ Lenny sighed again. ‘Never mind me, Nick. I’m not a threat to you; I came looking for Danny. Where is he, anyway? What have you done with him?’ Becky would never forgive him if Danny got hurt.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Nick, lowering his voice. ‘Danny. He’s safe enough. So who is he and how the fuck does he have anything to do with you? I found him wandering in the grounds – saw him on the cameras – pretending to shoot people. I thought he actually had a gun, and when I came up behind him to disarm him, he screamed like a fucking banshee. Couldn’t get him to shut up until I gave him some of your old comics I found down here.’
‘He’s Becky’s brother.’ At least I assume we’re talking about the same boy. There couldn’t be more than one teenager roaming the estate, surely? Lenny explained about the paintball and Reilly’s inquest. ‘You remember Becky? Come on, Nick – surely you weren’t planning on using this?’ He rattled the chain, feeling faintly silly.
‘Me? Christ, no. Reilly put it in a few years back – long after you’d left. I’m not sure what he intended to do with it; it’s not something I really want to think about, to be honest.’
‘Me neither. So fetch Danny, let us both go and we’ll be out of here.’
‘Can’t,’ said Nick. ‘I needed somewhere to hide out.’
‘You’ve been living down here? For a whole year?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve been back a few times – like I said, there was stuff I needed to find. The electric’s still on so it’s easy enough to keep an eye on the gates for visitors. There was a lot of activity up at the hangars way back but the house was surprisingly quiet until yesterday.’
‘What stuff?’ Lenny was genuinely curious. He’d assumed Nick was well-paid and with no living expenses for the past twenty-odd years, he couldn’t be short of money. Why would he want to come back? ‘Nobody knows who you are.’ You didn’t get your name and picture splashed across national television.
‘Just stuff – call it insurance. And I don’t trust you, Len. I’m sorry.’ He turned away, busying himself with the contents of a plastic crate in the corner; he carried it carefully outside into the corridor and returned a few seconds later. ‘You’ve systematically shafted everyone you knew back then. Why not me too? And you’re not exactly Mr Innocent yourself, are you?’
‘I’ve never pretended to be. And I’ve been inside for most of the last year,’ Lenny added. ‘In fact – what time is it?’
‘Just coming up seven.’
He sighed. ‘There goes freedom.’ He pulled down his sock, exposing the tag on his ankle. ‘See this? In a few minutes, I’ll have defaulted on my curfew and there’ll be an arrest warrant out. It’s probably got GPS in it, so leaving me here – as I assume you’re planning on doing – will just bring the cops here too.’ Fuck. That’ll be ten years minimum. Without Darwin on his side, they’d screw him in court.
Bollocks. He’d been doing OK in Liverpool. He really had. What a fucking waste.
Nick shook his head. ‘Nothing’s ever straightforward with you, is it? You were such a shitty spoiled brat when I first met you, you know?’
‘Fuck it, Nick. I’m not a kid anymore.’ He was losing patience. He’d been stupid to trust the man, letting him approach from behind when he was already uncomfortable with the situation. Nick had taken his hand and he’d not pulled away, remembering other times when the man had offered physical comfort. Not sexual – never that. At least not that I remember. But there had been childhood hugs and teenage beer-and-cigarettes – male bonding with its own significance – and Lenny didn’t know how to react now. And Nick had taken advantage of that, used it to slap the fucking chain on him and move out of reach before he could fight back. Fuck. Claire had robbed him of his natural instincts and he needed them to survive.
‘So what will you do, Len?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know; I can’t do prison again. Liquidate some of my assets, I guess, and start over somewhere else – America, maybe.’ Sohail could sort him a passport and some start-up capital in return for the proceeds from the sale of the flat. If he could get himself out of this.
Maybe … ‘Come with me, Nick,’ he tried. ‘Let me take Danny back to Becky and we can go together. I’ve still got contacts who can sort passports, and I have money.’
‘So have I. In fact I have my own passport – I just didn’t trust you not to have arranged a reception committee for me at the airport.’
‘Jesus, you’re paranoid. I do have some loyalties, you know?’
‘Do you? Seems to me you were looking after number one. Stop bullshitting, Len; I don’t entirely blame you – only right now, I’m looking out for number one and you’re in my way.’
‘Chuck me a cushion?’ Lenny slid down the wall and sat on the floor, crossing his legs. He’d left his cigarettes in the car, so he had to settle for a hard stare instead as he looked up at the man who used to be his friend. ‘So what happens now?’
24 – RYAN
‘I’m out of here.’ Ryan dumped the contents of Lenny’s pockets on the front desk. ‘Can you give these to that Steph copper when she gets back, please?’
‘Steph? You’ll have to fill out—’ The man reached for a keyboard.
‘The one with the red streak in her hair. Don’t know her last name.’
‘Oh, you mean Sergeant Riordan?’
Haven’t a clue. Ryan shrugged and walked towards the door. It was time to get back to real life.
‘You can’t just leave this stuff here.’
‘Well, what else am I supposed to do with it?’ He was halfway out of the door onto the street when Lenny’s mobile phone rang.
He stopped. It was gone seven now. He’d waited, unsure of what to do – gone out for food and a wander around the local park, then come back and waited some more until finally he’d had the guts to make a decision. Lenny obviously didn’t give a shit about him, so he was wasting time even wondering. And then at seven, Lenny had probably become wanted – an ex-con breaching the conditions of his parole and if Ryan was caught with him, he’d end up in trouble too.
The phone continued ringing, jumping around on the desk like it was alive. Clearly Lenny didn’t do voicemail.