Chapter 92

21ST CENTURY POLICING

Do Wilks said, “I followed you here, son. Proper, old-fashioned police work. Followed you. What happened to that little girl you were carrying, eh?”

“You could’ve checked before you hauled me away, Wilks,” said Faultless, handcuffed in the back of the police car.

“Yeah, I don’t really give that much of a shit. Was her mate got killed, weren’t it? What was her name?”

“You’re the detective.”

“I’m a busy man. Trying to catch crooks and killers. Victims ain’t my problem. We got liaison officers and all that politically correct bullshit for them, Faultless.”

“Of course. I forgot—you being the face of 21st century policing and all.”

Wilks chuckled.

Faultless caught the driver watching him in the rear-view mirror. The copper’s eyes were wide with shock. They were saying, Wilks has got nothing to do with me, mate.

For a while, no one spoke. Faultless kept his head down, thinking about things. Mostly who he was and where he’d come from. How he could find Lew. Who Jack really was and why he’d told Faultless, “You’re like me.”

He shivered. His mind went round and round, over the same questions that had haunted him for days.

He’d assumed Wilks was taking him to the closest nick, which was Brick Lane. Thinking that, he never bothered to keep an eye on the roads. But when he lifted his head to stretch his neck, he noticed they were nowhere near Brick Lane.

So he asked, “Where the fuck are we?”

Again, the driver gave him a look and this time his eyes said, This ain’t my doing, mate—I’m following orders.

Shit, thought Faultless.

“Stop the car, Khan,” said Wilks.

“Wilks, what the fuck—”

“Shut it, Faultless.”

“Sir,” said Khan. “I’m not—”

“And you shut it, too, Khan. Everyone fucking shut it. Everyone do as they’re fucking told. Khan, you fucking remember what I got.”

In the rear-view mirror, Khans eyes told Faultless, I’m fucked.

Khan pulled the car up on the pavement outside some rusting, metal gates. A sign on the gates said the site was part of a renewal project. It was an old industrial estate. Grey buildings lurked behind the gates. They flanked rutted roads. Pavements were overgrown with grass and weeds. Beer cans rolled about in the wind.

Wilks dragged Faultless out of the car and marched him towards the gate.

“I like fucking with people,” said the detective. “Khan, he’s a Muslim, see. Fucking loads of them in the Met these days. It’s a fucking shambles. Thing is, he’s also a homo. Which is classic. Typical fucking Met these days—queers and Pakis.”

“So you’re fucking blackmailing him, Wilks. Ever the cunt.”

Wilks opened the gates. They screeched. He shoved Faultless, who stumbled forward. He heard the gates clank shut.

Wilks pushed him, making him walk up the road. It was a ghost-town of a place. Creaking gates. Clanking doors. Dark windows showing gloomy interiors.

They came to the edge of the first warehouse. Wire fencing hemmed in a courtyard just round the corner. Faultless sensed something. He heard laughter. Maybe it was the ghosts. But when he came round the corner, he saw the men.

Four of them. Coppers in uniform with their sleeves rolled up, tapping their batons on their palms in anticipation.

“Two of these fellas, you know,” said Wilks.

They were the two filth Faultless had beat up behind the lock-ups.

“The other two are pleased to meet you, Charlie.”

The coppers sneered. They bristled. Their hate showed.

Faultless thought, What have I got to lose? and he swung his handcuffed wrists in an arc, smashing Wilks in the face. Blood came from the detective’s nose. He stumbled away, arms flailing.

The four cops legged it out of the courtyard towards him. Faultless tried to do a runner, but he stumbled.

He heard them behind him, their rage hot on his neck.

And when the first baton strike laid him out, he knew he could do nothing but cover up and take a beating.