Absent Light (22 page)

“Get them.”

Helen wavered unsure whether this was some kind of test, or whether the woman was waiting for an opportunity to get rid of her. “All right,” she said.

“Leave the fags,” Stacey said, putting her hand over them, a cunning look in her eye.

Helen nodded, decided it was best to call her bluff. She sped down the corridor, left the front door on the latch, pleased to find that her car had all four tyres and no obvious signs of damage. Unlocking it, she reached in and took out the photographs of Karen Lake and the single digital shot of the unnamed man.

By the time she returned, another woman was sitting in the kitchen. She, too, was smoking. Taller than Stacey, she had a fuller build. Her hair was dark, with bright blonde highlights. It stuck out like a bush. Like Stacey, she wore a dressing gown. Like Stacey, she wore an uncompromising expression.

Helen handed the photographs over. The other woman looked at them, too. Helen watched their expressions change from cold lack of interest to wonderment.

“Fuckin' hell,” the other woman said, fingering the prints. Her mouth had dropped open and the cigarette was hanging tenaciously to her lower lip.

“You reckon you could make Jade here look this good?” Stacey said, nudging her friend's elbow with a shallow laugh. “Hang on, who's this?” Stacey said, picking out the photograph of the funeral mourner.

“Oh, a friend of mine,” Helen bluffed, watching both women intently for signs of recognition.

“Not much to look at, is he?” Jade gave a coarse laugh.

“Don't know how you can tell with those fuckin' silly sunglasses on,” Stacey jeered. “Who does he think he is, some tosser in The Matrix?”

Another theory blown, Helen thought. “So you knew nothing about Karen's plans?”

“Nah,” Stacey answered. Jade just shrugged.

Helen wondered how far she could push it before they realised who she was. “What was Karen like?”

Another couple of shrugs.

“Was she happy, sad, depressed?” Helen persisted.

“Wouldn't you be?” The woman called Jade cast her eyes around the room.

“Is that why she took drugs?”

“What do we know?”

“You surprised that she died of an overdose?”

Jade exchanged a knowing smile with Stacey. “Nothing surprises us.”

“What the fuckin' hell's she doing here?”

Everyone's eyes swivelled towards the doorway. A slim woman was standing there. She was dressed in a long camel coat, buttoned up to the neck, and she wore long black leather boots. She looked entirely out of place except for her worn-down, pitted complexion. The skin looked as if it were formed from a natural sponge. She could have been twenty-five or fifteen years older. She turned accusingly on the others. “What have you told her? What have you said?”

Jade spoke first. “Nothin' Shirl. Nothin' we didn't already tell the law.”

“She's a photographer,” Stacey said, thrusting the photographs towards Shirl, trying to appease her
.
“Took some lovely pictures of Karen.” But Shirl wasn't buying it. She snatched up the prints, cast her eyes over them, and threw them on the floor.

“I've seen the fancy car you drive,” she spat at Helen, “seen the clothes you wear. You're that woman, the one they said Karen was blackmailing.”

Helen paled, felt three pair of eyes fasten on to her. She wondered how quickly she could run down the corridor and get out of the building. Then she had another idea. Glancing at the fridge, observing the familial likeness, she decided to take her chances.

“How's your daughter, Shirl? Her name's Kelly, isn't it?”

“What?” Sudden fear chased across the woman's face.

“Must be comforting having your mum take care of your little girl, especially with her being so ill. Mind, hospitals are brilliant these days.”

“Get out of here before I deck you,” Shirl snarled, taking a step forwards. The air felt electric. The others bunched up behind her.

Helen put both hands up. “It's OK. It's cool.” Then she bent down, collected the photographs, straightened up, and decided to go for the head shot. “Does the name Lee Painter ring a bell?”

All three women looked at her blankly.

Then she left.

On the way back to the cottage, she decided to call on the Wellings for a second time. She wanted to show them the photograph to see whether the man in the picture could be Lee Painter, her half-brother.

Mr Wellings opened the door, saw who it was, and just as quickly closed it. Baffled, Helen knocked once more. This time, and to her amazement, Violet answered. Bent almost double, she stood inexorably, her eyes drilling into Helen.

“Sorry, dear. We're having our tea.”

“Won't take a moment,” Helen smiled.

Violet's lips screwed into a frown. “It's inconvenient.”

“I could come back later, if you prefer.”

“I'd prefer if you went away.” And the door was closed.

Helen returned slowly to the car. She sat inside for a good five minutes, trying to work it out. Was someone following her, watching her movements, warning people off?

She picked up the photographs again. They were covered in grime and dust. She flicked through them once, then a second time, more slowly, ran a hand over the passenger seat, checked the glove compartment, leant over and looked in both footwells, moving the seats back and forth to make absolutely certain.

But there was no mistake. Some kind of sleight of hand, she thought, baffled, or maybe it had slid under a piece of furniture. Either way, the digital picture had disappeared.

A pall of darkness hung over the cottage. Switching on the interior light of the car, she searched again, in vain, for the lost print. Resigned, she climbed out of the car and let herself in, taking care to bolt the door. After she'd poured herself a large glass of wine, she picked up the phone to Stratton. She needed to hear his voice.

“Hello, stranger.”

“Oh, it's you.” He didn't sound as pleased to hear from her as she'd hoped. Not his fault, she thought. She couldn't really blame him. “This a social call or business?” he asked.

“Social.”

“No questions, no information required, no theories?”

Ouch, she thought. “Where are you?”

“Home. And you?”

She explained, feeling guilty for taking off and not telling him.

“Sounds nice.”

“It's a bit lonely, actually. I'm not far away from you. Do you fancy meeting up? I could drive over.”

He waited a beat. She felt her stomach creep with disappointment. “To tell the truth,” he said, “I'm knackered. I've only just got home. Yesterday I started at six and finished at two in the morning.”

“Of course, sorry, I should have thought.”

“It's this fatal stabbing at Selly Oak I'm involved with.”

“Right. Another time, then.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Helen felt desperately uncomfortable. “Did you hear about Adam?” she blurted out.

“Yes.” This was followed by a dreadful silence. “I'm sorry,” Stratton said, at last.

For whom, she thought? For Adam's sticky end or for her? Or because there would always be the spectre of his ghost haunting them? “Look, I'm sorry about everything,” she said. “Life's been a bit strange. Just wanted to say, once I've sorted myself out, I'd really like to see you again.”

“Fine.”

“I'll phone you.”

“Do that.”

“'Night then.”

“Goodnight, Helen.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
HERE ARE STILL PUBS
in the West Midlands entirely populated by men. One of them is a tiny boozer in Cradley Heath. Frequented by second and third generation unemployed, it has grand views of a former steel factory. Helen knew this because Adam told her. He drank there, not out of choice, but because it was business.

Through painful experience, she'd become sceptical of the concept of trading information. It seemed wide open for abuse on either side: handlers getting too close to their ‘grasses', ‘grasses' getting too close to their paymasters. But she wasn't a paymaster, she told herself. She wasn't offering promises, or bribes, or good turns. She was simply trying to track down her half-brother. That was her story. It was also the truth.

Helen parked outside. Criminals are like anyone else, she thought. They stay close to their roots, their friends, their stamping ground. Whether or not Lee was a villain remained to be seen but, geographically speaking, she guessed that this was as good a place to begin as any. More to the point, she didn't know where else to start.

She swung open the door and walked inside. A beery fragrance caught at her nostrils as did the powerful scent of men's bodies. Apart from the noise of a fruit machine, the sound of Muzak, there was little conversation. The room fell silent on her approach.

Six men were clustered around the bar, pints of mild and bitter in their hands. There was a pool table in one corner where, cues poised, four guys stood and watched. The rest were seated on chairs and faded velvet banquettes with the stuffing spurting out. Roughly twenty pairs of eyes fastened on her.

A barman gave her a steely glare. The guys at the bar wordlessly parted, letting her in, then closed rank behind her. She could feel the men's breath on the back of her neck. Feel the intimidation. She'd weathered this kind of stuff before, she told herself. She wasn't leaving.

She smiled hesitantly, ordered a drink. The barman ignored her. He carried on drying a glass with great precision, as if wiping a shotgun free of prints. When a man came up to the bar after her and ordered a round, he was served. Immediately.

She didn't know what to do. She was the only woman in the room. Nobody to appeal to, nobody to reason with.

Another man pulled alongside her. He was short, stocky. His brown leather jacket was open revealing a black open-neck shirt. Apart from that, he had no real distinguishing features. Colourless best described him, she thought, watching as the others backed away.

“What are you having?” he said, turning towards her. He had the smile of an assassin, she thought, warm on the surface, cold underneath.

“Vodka and tonic,” she replied, “thanks.”

“V&T and a straight Scotch, no ice, no water,” the man said.

They were served with speed, without hesitation, no payment required. Helen knew immediately that she was in too deep, too quickly. The click of cue on ball confirmed it. It sounded like a gun cocking.

“Don't see too many women here,” he said, his cool eyes razoring into hers, “certainly not girls on their own. A word to the wise,” he added, leaning in close so that his lips almost brushed her face, “
not
a good idea.” Helen resisted the urge to back away. “So what are you doing here?” he said, pulling at his drink.

“Looking for someone.”

“Oh yeah, who?”

“A man.”

A slow smile crept over his face.

“My half-brother.”

The man arched an eyebrow. “You think you'll find him here?”

“Everyone has to start somewhere,” she smiled nervously.

“Did you hear that, Richie?” the man said, turning around theatrically, addressing a man standing nearby who had two fingers missing from his left hand.

Richie let out a laugh. “What did he do? Rob a bank, stick a knife in someone?”

Helen swallowed. “I don't know. I'm not sure.”

“What's his name?” her host asked.

“Lee,” she said, “Lee Painter.”

The man sniffed, rubbed his chin with his hand. “Never heard of him. You, Rick?”

“Nah, either small-time, or before my time,” he grinned.

“So why did you want to see him, something important, was it?” The guy in the leather asked.

Shit, better stick with the main story, she thought. “Our mother died and I thought he should know.”

“
Should?
”

“I thought it was his right,” she stammered.

“Close family, are you?”

“Not really.”

“Then why the fuss?”

Helen attempted a smile. “I just told you.”

The more he studied her, the more scared he made her feel. She couldn't help but sweat. Her stomach felt completely knotted. “Look, you're right,” she said, reaching for her bag, “I can see I'm wasting your time.”

“There was a guy,” another man said, drawing close. He was taller than the others, didn't look so hard. “Don't remember his last name or nothin' but he was called Lee.”

“You know him?” she said, not sure whether this was good or bad luck. Not sure she wanted to stick around to find out.

“He didn't say that,” the man in the leather jacket snarled, waving the tall guy silent.

This time she flinched. The aggression in the man's voice was palpable. He turned to Helen with a short, restricted smile. “What makes you think this half-brother of yours wants to see you anyway?”

This was a really crap idea, she thought, trembling. Positively dangerous, and how could she know that the Lee they were talking about was her half-brother? She was just boxing in the dark. With all the courage she could muster, she picked up her bag, making to go. “Sorry, I've obviously come to the wrong place.”

“You're in a bloody hurry, all of a sudden,” he said, clamping a muscled hand around her wrist. “You on the level? You're not one of them undercover cops, are you?”

“No,” she gasped, wincing as his grip tightened.

“Good, now don't be so fuckin' miserable. Drink up. I know a man, if you get my drift. Got plenty of money on you?”

Helen felt the knot in her stomach tighten some more. All she wanted to do was get out of there, go home, go anywhere. He snatched at her bag, opened it, turning it upside down. Coins, lipstick, Tampax, wallet flew out over the counter. She froze in dismay as he picked out her wallet, opening it.

“Don't think he takes Barclaycard,” he laughed raucously, stubby fingers moving onto and riffling through the notes. “About fifty quid,” he said. “Could be your lucky night,” he winked at the others.

The guy in the leather jacket drove a BMW 7-Series. He told her to get in the back. She wanted to protest but her tongue felt too big for her mouth. She was sweating all over now. Shaking. Legs like lumps of lead. Sick with fear. Make a wrong move now, and it might be the last. Once in, she thought, there was no way out. But if she resisted, she'd be hurt, maybe even killed.

“Get in the fuckin' back,” he said, quiet but menacing.

She nodded, eyes wide with fear, reckoning her best bet was to go along with him. She had no real choice. She only hoped to God nobody found out about her previous line of work. Criminals weren't that discriminating.

Richie got in one side. The tall guy the other. Her horror complete.

She was taken down streets she'd not come across, past pubs she didn't drink in, through swathes of wasteland she'd never seen before. Every so often, they'd pull over, let two or three cars pass, indicate left then turn off right at the last minute. Christ, who did they think she was, she thought, trying to still the terror bubbling deep inside her? These guys were very good. They knew exactly what they were doing.

She tried to think, to keep her mind alert, to stop the fear from overwhelming her. The kind of places villains hung out in were pubs and clubs, gaming joints, pool halls, boxing rings. So where, in God's name, were they taking her?

They eventually stopped at a decrepit-looking row of shops. The driver got out. He walked along to the end and suddenly disappeared from view. She asked the others, in an anxious voice she hardly recognised as her own, where they were, where he was going, but they didn't answer. She could feel the sweat trickling down between her shoulders, pooling under her breasts. She could feel it under her arms. She could taste fear in her mouth. She had a mental image of her slain body being found by some old dosser.

At last she heard a soft footfall. “Everybody out.” The driver had his face squashed up against the window like a demonic-looking gargoyle, his breath making a pattern on the glass.

Richie opened the door and let her out. Nobody laid a hand on her. No restraints, verbal or otherwise. In theory it would be easy to run, she thought, but to whom, to where?

The guy in the leather jacket led the way. They followed him back to a doorway leading down to what looked like a basement flat. The door opened onto a flight of stairs heading down to another door where a big, burly black man stood like a bouncer. After looking her up and down once, he waved them in.

A wall of sound greeted them. It took some time for her eyes to adjust to the light and noise. The place was packed with men and women, the air dense with cigarette smoke and cannabis. Some of the tension eased from her body. She didn't feel exactly safe but, among so many people, she felt slightly less under threat.

Two cages were suspended from the ceiling in which two semi-naked girls, their skin slick with oil, gyrated to a pulsating beat. Underneath them, bodies jerked and twitched like hangman's thieves. Hot-wired on coke or E, their sex seemed indistinguishable in the strobe lighting.

Leather Jacket bumped and jostled his way through to a bar. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he spoke to a pretty blonde who was serving. Following her gaze, he nodded and directed Helen and the others to a corner where an impossibly thin middle-aged man was sitting, legs crossed in an effete fashion, smoking a roll-up.

“Mind if we join you, Blackie?” Leather Jacket said, drawing up a chair.

Blackie blew out a plume of smoke and indicated for them to take a seat. He paid scant attention to Helen for which she was grateful.

“Blackie is blessed with a rare gift,” Leather Jacket explained, turning his expressionless eyes on Helen. “Just as the gambler remembers the name of the horse who won the Gold Cup in 1983, the name of the jockey, his colours, his trainer, Blackie is a Who's Who of the lads in the game. But nothing's for free. Everything has its price.”

Helen wondered what was in it for him, how much fifty pounds would buy?

“What do you want to know?” Blackie mumbled, not looking at her.

She tried to tame the shake in her voice. “I have a half-brother. His name's Lee Painter. He was born in Kidderminster, was put up for adoption but spent his life in care, possibly somewhere in the West Midlands. He came back to visit my mother's childhood home about four years ago. I haven't heard from him since, but I believe the Midlands is his patch.”

Blackie nodded, took a drag of his cigarette. The others watched him like he was the Dalai Lama. Helen felt her skin crawl. “It's possible he might have known a prostitute called Karen Lake,” she added.

Blackie frowned, clearly irritated by the interruption in his concentration. He flicked some ash off his cigarette. “Don't know any Karen Lake.”

“Right. Sorry,” she said.

“Twenty quid,” he muttered.

Jesus, Helen thought. She took out her bag and slapped the money down on the table.

“
If
it's the same guy,” Blackie said, “he's the nearly man.”

Helen stared at him, perplexed.

“Nearly pulled it off, nearly made it, nearly got in with the big boys.”

“A loser,” the guy in leather interposed.

“Tosser, more like,” Richie scowled.

She wanted to hit the pair of them. The last thing she wanted was Blackie put off his stride. “Was this guy blonde, stocky, pale-skinned?”

“Yeah.”

Progress, she thought. Oh dear. “So what was he involved in?”

“Small-scale stuff, drugs, burglary, bit of this, bit of that. Spent more time in the nick than out on the street. Eventually got sent down.”

Helen felt as if someone had pressed razor wire against her skin. So that's why he was unable to follow up the family connection. “Where?”

“Featherstone.”

Wolverhampton, she thought. “He still inside?”

“Cost you another twenty,” Blackie said, gazing off into the middle-distance.

Helen let out a sigh and put another note on the table.

“Came out eighteen months ago.”

“Then what?”

“Dunno,” Blackie said, his small eyes meeting hers. You're lying, she thought.

“Typical woman,” Richie sneered, “always asking too many fuckin' questions.” The others laughed.

Helen ignored them, kept her eyes on Blackie. “Who did Lee mix with? Who were his friends?”

“Anyone he could use,” Blackie said, evasive.

“You said he nearly got in with the big boys. Who do you mean?” She pushed her last ten pound note towards him.

“Cost you more than that.”

“It's all I've got.”

He sniffed and took it.

“The new kids on the block.”

“Which new kids?”

Blackie shook his head, took a drag.

The guy in the leather jacket stared at her. “The Park Lane Boys, you stupid cow.”

Stunned, she hardly noticed being manhandled out of the club and onto the street. A rush of cold air brought her to her senses. She was alone with the man in the jacket. He had an iron-grip on her elbow, and was propelling her down the street and towards the BMW.

“What are you doing?” she said, badly frightened again.

He didn't answer. Chucked her in the passenger seat. Got in next to her, locked the doors, drove off at speed. She didn't know what to do, how to react, which course of action might save her skin. Should she talk softly to him, argue, scream, or attempt to get out of the moving vehicle, attack him maybe? No, she thought, watching the streets fly by in a blur. Too risky.