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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: Charisma
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Her voice was barred with irritation, as if he wasn't paying attention during lessons. ‘You
saw
what it achieved. It filled the tent, night after night.'
‘She was a
child,'
he whined. ‘What possible quarrel could you have with her?'
‘None at all,' she freely admitted. ‘She paid the price of this bloody town's indifference, that's all.
‘I knew Castlemere was going to be uphill work when I got here. The people I talked to had no interest in moral revival. I didn't want you preaching to an empty tent so I needed something to fire them up. I can still do that for you, Michael. I can bring people to you when you can't bring them yourself.
‘I can drive into some town where I've maybe only been once before, late at night, and within half an hour I'll have found where the whores hang out. I look for the same sort of girl as when I'm looking for you.' Ice cracked in her voice. ‘How does that feel, knowing that there are girls dead only because they were Your
Type? Taller girls, older girls, thinner girls were all quite safe. They'd do just as well to put the fear of God into a town but they wouldn't satisfy me the same. Because what I did I did for you, but the manner of doing it was for me. My reward.
‘I hated them for being Your Type. I should have hated you, only then I'd have had to leave. But you and your crusade were all that was left of my life: if I walked away I'd have nothing. So I continued to believe that, even if your feet were clay to the hips, your work was still important. Important enough to demand sacrifices. Instead of hating you I hated the girls, and when a sacrifice was needed they served.' She smiled tightly. ‘It was after Hastings that I saw what I had to do. It was a while before I could make myself do it, but now it doesn't cost me a moment's grief.
‘When I came here last week and realized the trouble you were going to have, I searched the papers for some fresh horror you could stir these people with. But there was nothing. So I found a little whore and slit her throat.
‘And do you know what happened? Nothing. It was as if she was a stray cat run down in the road. They didn't find her for two days and then she was in the canal. I left her on the wharf but someone tipped her in the canal rather than call the police! I couldn't believe it. What kind of people behave like that? There was a paragraph on page two of the local rag; the police asked some questions, didn't make much progress; then everything went quiet.
‘It was as if the little slut had never lived. I mean, that's why I did it: so that her death would make more sense than her life. And these people didn't give a damn. Charisma had died for them, and I'd killed for them, and they didn't even care. Too busy, you see. This is a prosperous little town and everyone's busy grabbing a share. Charisma wasn't their business. They weren't interested.
‘I had to get their attention somehow. If they weren't bothered by a tart dying in a dark alley, I thought, let's see what they make of a bit of butchery in their park in broad daylight. The girl on the pony was perfect: as soon as I saw her I knew her death would make the shop-keepers and bank clerks and factory undermanagers sit up and take notice. And by God I was right! Do you remember the tent that night? I thought we'd never squeeze them all in. I thought the canvas would split with their clamour.'
Her voice warmed as she relived it. ‘Oh, Michael, do you remember how it was? – the excitement passing between them like electricity? Most of them had never been to a gospel meeting
before, never would have done, and it was a revelation to them. The sense of involvement. The way a congregation feeds on itself, concentrating all that faith and commitment until those there are no longer individuals but combine in a great seething mass of energy, ready to move mountains.
‘And you, Michael: I thought you were so fine that night. Incandescent. I thought, and I knew it was blasphemous but I thought, It must have been like this watching Jesus preach.'
Davey was stunned. ‘A man damn near died because of what I started that night.'
She shrugged that off. ‘Sacrifice is part of the process. I believed that what we were doing was more important than any one life.' Her tone altered abruptly then, all the fanatic joy going out of it. It grated like cinders. ‘That was before you decided it maybe wasn't as important as getting into bed with another man's wife. The things I'd done for you, that I'd justified by the importance of your mission! But if the mission wasn't so important after all, I wasn't justified in doing whatever was necessary to make it succeed.
‘That was when I looked at you afresh. You weren't the man I believed you to be. You weren't worth killing for. You were a man in love with the sound of his own voice. Not me, I knew not me, and not the little tarts you had me buy for you, and not even this woman who was supposed to be the great love of your life. Yourself: your own ego. The rest of us, even the people in the tent who were supposed to be the reason for it all, were just – props. It's all an act. I've spilt blood for you, some of it innocent blood, and you aren't even real. It's all been a terrible mistake. I mistook the charisma for the man.'
He didn't know what to say to her. She seemed to expect an apology. But he hadn't asked her to kill for him, was appalled by what she'd done. Even when he searched his heart he found no impulse of guilt. ‘What are you going to do now?'
Her voice was edged with annoyance. ‘I'm not going to run, if that's what you think.'
‘I'm sure that's wise. The police know. If you want,' he offered, meaning it kindly, ‘we could go to them together.'
He caught the movement in the dark as she nodded. ‘Yes, we'll go together. But not to the police.' The gleam in her hands as she moved towards him was his first intimation that it was not one of her fingernails that had cut his cheek.
 
 
As the chair came slowly towards them, for long seconds Liz could make no sense of the shape coalescing from the dark. She could not tell if it were one person or two, male or female, in the chair or pushing it. It remained amorphous almost until it reached the little knot of people waiting on the wharf.
Then she saw that it was Davey in the chair, pushing himself awkwardly, the thrust of his arms hampered by the woman's body lying across his legs. Jennifer Mills' head hung limp, moving too readily with the sway of the chair on the uneven ground, and her eyes were open and glazed.
‘I broke her neck,' Davey said by way of a greeting. ‘She tried to stab me and I broke her neck.' His voice was hollow.
But even allowing for the shock there was an absence of feeling, of any real awareness of what had happened, that made Liz wince. For five years he'd used a woman who loved him as a tool, a gadget he'd acquired to make his life easier, like his chair and his adapted car. It was perhaps inevitable that when she finally came to threaten him he'd put her down with no more regret than he'd destroy a dog that turned vicious.
Shapiro recovered his composure first. He shone his torch on the woman's face and put his fingers to the artery behind her jaw. There was no doubt in his mind that she was dead, but he waited for the absence of a pulse to confirm it. Then he looked at Davey. ‘Where's the knife?'
The big man waved an unsteady hand back at the alley. ‘In there somewhere. I didn't touch it. I didn't want to confuse the fingerprint man.'
Liz stared in disbelief. A woman who'd loved him madly had come at him with a knife; to save himself he'd used those great hands powered by the kind of muscles only men in wheelchairs develop. He'd broken her neck while her mad face panted in his: they were close enough to kiss when he killed her instead. And with her body warm and heavy on his knees he had enough command of himself, enough awareness of his own interests, to know better than to put his fingerprints on the weapon.
Liz cleared her throat. So softly that only Davey and Shapiro could hear she said, ‘Because we wouldn't want people thinking any of this was your fault, would we?'
By the time Brady reached Cornmarket the darkness was complete. But he hardly slowed, and as he neared the shunting yard he was rewarded by a glint of moonlight on metal: a car tucked behind the last wagon. That removed any doubts he'd had. Scoutari had got to Donovan. What he'd got out of him would become apparent soon enough.
Sooner than he expected, in fact: they'd left the wagon and moved down to the canal. Scoutari must have needed elbow-room. But he'd yet to get the answers he wanted because he was still asking the questions. His was the voice, low and with the characteristic rasp, that was doing most of the talking. Soon Brady could make out the words.
‘Do you think I'm bluffing? Trying to scare you? Do you suppose that if you keep your nerve and don't say anything, pretty soon I'm going to throw my hands in the air and give up with a good grace? Be your age, Sergeant. There are things I need to know. Who you were watching: me or the mission. What's going down and how it affects me. Once I know that I can protect myself; what happens to you then is of no more interest to me. But if you don't tell me I swear to God, Donovan, I'll kill you an inch at a time.'
The huddle of figures resolved as Brady drew near into the shapes of men posed rather theatrically on the tow-path: one standing, one bending, one kneeling in the dirt. He assumed the man on his knees was Donovan: Scoutari was the man bent over him, talking into his face in that oddly flat, insistent tone. The third man was the minder but he was too interested in what was happening to do his job. Brady came among them out of the dark as if he'd been there all along. ‘How's about ye?'
Scoutari straightened like the crack coming out of a whip. ‘Jesus! Who—?' Then he recognized the voice. ‘You? You're too soon. I told the big man—'
‘I know. And he believed you.'
Grudging respect put a degree of warmth into Scoutari's tone. ‘But you didn't?'
Brady shrugged. ‘You did what I'd have done in your place. Did it get you anywhere? Was it you or us he was watching, has he said?'
‘Not yet.'
At the Glencurran accent Donovan's heart gave a cautious lift. Brady coming back had to be good news: how good depended on things he had no way of knowing. Whether he was armed. Whether he had back-up. How long he could keep Scoutari thinking they were on the same side.
‘I keep telling you,' he growled, ‘I wasn't watching anyone. I live on the canal. I saw people heading this way and wondered what was going on. For all I knew it could have been a card school, a dog fight or the annual outing of Castlemere Morris Men.'
Brady tried not to sound relieved. ‘That's what he told me too.'
Scoutari grunted. ‘Perhaps he didn't understand how much you wanted the truth.'
They'd hauled Donovan out of the wagon still tied as Brady had left him, his hands behind his back, his ankles lashed with the same short rope. He was on his knees because he could neither sit nor stand.
Brady sighed. ‘Well, see if you can do any better.' Donovan's startled glance vanished as Scoutari moved between them.
Jimmy Scoutari had made his name as muscle to a previous generation of gangsters. Violence was his speciality and he'd chosen not to delegate it as he moved up the ranks. It helped keep him in shape. So he could have continued much longer, except that after a minute or two Brady interrupted again. ‘I don't know, maybe it's the truth.'
Scoutari stopped, staring as if the possibility hadn't occurred to him. ‘What?'
‘That he wasn't watching us officially, just being nosy. He does live on the dock – one of those houseboats, I've seen it. Seems to me, if this was official someone would have come looking – for him or for us – before now.'
‘Kelso said you called in sick for him.'
‘So I did. But they'd hardly shelve an operation because one of their sergeants wasn't feeling well. Don't let me put you off,' he added generously, ‘thump him a bit more by all means, but I think
maybe the reason he keeps saying that is that, pathetic as it sounds, it's true.'
Momentarily Scoutari was nonplussed. He straightened up, letting Donovan fall, and stood scowling at him. ‘So what now?'
Brady shrugged again. ‘Do what we came here for. Kelso's got the stuff. If you've got the money, let's deal and get the hell out of here.'
‘What about him?' He poked Donovan with his foot. Then he did it again, harder, in case he hadn't noticed.
‘I said I'd deal with him and I will. There'll be nothing to trace to you.'
Scoutari considered, then shook his head. ‘I don't want to leave here with him still alive.'
Brady nodded understanding. ‘And I don't want to kill him in front of witnesses. No offence, Mr Scoutari, just being practical. If the worst comes to the worst one day and you've got your back against the wall, saying you think I killed him is one thing. Saying you saw me do it is another.'
They were both valid arguments, neither man was being unreasonable. But one of them would have to give way. Finally Scoutari sighed. ‘It's too important. He knows me, where I live. You can hit the road and disappear but if he leaves here I'm going down. I want him dead, now. If you won't do it with me watching, I'll do it with you watching. The law won't make much distinction between us if we're caught so you won't go round blabbing about it.'
Brady thought about that, then put out his hand. ‘If you feel that strongly about it I'll do it now. But I'm not carrying. Do you have a piece?'
‘I thought you were going to drown him.'
Brady eyed him askance. ‘That was before you beat the crap out of him. I think we might have trouble persuading an inquest that he slipped crossing the dock when there's footprints all over him.'
Scoutari nodded and the third man reached inside his coat.
Brady knew about guns and he didn't think much of this one: it was made more for ease of concealment than either accuracy or stopping power. But it represented at worst half, at best all the fire-power in the immediate area and he was glad to have it.
Donovan lifted his head, dirt caking the blood on his face, and watched him take it, and still didn't know if it meant he was going to live or die. He thought Brady was on the side of the angels but
he had no proof, only Brady's word. In one way it hardly mattered: he couldn't resist even if he needed to. All he could do if Brady pointed the gun at him was roll into the canal, in which case he'd die just as surely but slower. He didn't know the depth of water here but it had to be enough to drown a man who couldn't sit up.
When he had the gun Brady looked round but there was no one in sight. Kelso must have decided against joining them. So far as he knew there was no one closer than Broad Wharf almost a mile away. The time of reckoning was come. ‘I haven't been entirely frank with you, Jimmy. There was a police surveillance – a proper one, Drugs Squad. But Donovan didn't know about it. It was luck and guesswork put him on to us, nothing more.'
Scoutari frowned. ‘What are you talking about?'
‘A police operation to track illegal substances from their sources in Europe to point-of-sale in England, netting those involved at every stage. He wasn't part of it. I was.'
For ten or fifteen seconds, which is a long time when anything could happen and still, second after second, nothing does, the silence stretched out thin and vibrant.
Scoutari was an unpleasant man, vicious and unprincipled, but he wasn't stupid. He knew the truth when he finally heard it. He knew where it left him: in over his head. There was no longer any question of salvaging the situation. Mere survival, evading arrest long enough to disappear, was the best he could hope for now. If he hadn't parted with the only gun he'd have shot his way out. But he didn't mean to wait meekly until the net closed and people turned up with handcuffs. He was thinking too intently to talk.
Brady also had too much on his mind for conversation. This thing had worked out less well than he'd hoped, perhaps better than he'd the right to expect. He had Scoutari and his people, and Kelso and his. He'd hauled Donovan's butt out of the fire. On the debit side, the thing ended here. Brady had hoped to finish the season, rounding up Kelso's contacts in all the towns they visited. He'd envisaged a kind of grand finale on the way back to Dover, looked forward to seeing in Kelso's face the realization that he wasn't going to get there. He could still have that pleasure but he couldn't put it off long enough to pull in the dealers all round the circuit. Still, there was more to celebrate than to mourn. Brady made no move because he was counting his blessings.
Scoutari's driver was a large young man who took a pride in his work. He spent time in the gymnasium and on the shooting
range of an otherwise respectable club that turned a deaf ear to the rumours, partly because he won trophies for them and partly because if the rumours were true they didn't want to antagonize him. While he was good at his job he had no desire for upward mobility. He didn't move because Scoutari hadn't told him to, and he was busy wondering if any of this could be blamed on him. He was more afraid of Scoutari than of going to jail.
Donovan didn't move because he was trussed up like a turkey and he didn't say anything because he hadn't breathed for a while. For the first time he was aware of the blood cooling on his face, the sweat on his body. A cautious elation began bubbling in his veins. He thought his troubles were over.
But Scoutari hadn't got where he was today – well, where he was yesterday – without knowing a chance when he saw one. In a flash of inspiration he saw a way out. Not a complete solution, it wasn't going to get his business back for him, but it would leave him free to start again somewhere else. He wasted no time. As soon as the idea came into his head he acted on it.
Donovan was still lying at his feet. Scoutari planted a boot against his hip and pushed hard, and with a yell of alarm the policeman rolled over the edge into the canal. He hit the water with enough of a splash to suggest real depth.
‘Now you have three choices.' Scoutari's voice was fast and harsh. ‘You can shoot me in the back, unarmed, as I walk to my car, in which case you'll be able to get in there and get his head above water before he drowns. You can try and hold me by force, but that'll take more time than he's got and since you're outnumbered you probably won't even succeed. Or you can forget about me and save him. You can look for me later. There's nothing you can do for him later if you don't get in there now.'
Scoutari wasn't stupid and he wasn't a coward either. He had to walk past the gun levelled at his chest in order to reach his car. He did it without hesitation, without a backward glance, without breaking into a run. After a moment his minder found the courage to jog after him.
‘Hold it right there,' shouted Liam Brady. ‘I'll shoot you if I have to.'
‘Then do it,' said Jimmy Scoutari, opening the door of his car. ‘But you'd better do it quickly.'

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