Good as Dead (26 page)

He’d actually lost the first frame when he’d knocked the black in accidentally and was forced to watch as Corporal Cock winked at his slag of a girlfriend in the corner and said, ‘Bad luck, mate.’ Then, it had been a toss-up between breaking his cue across the arsehole’s nose or sharpening his game up, and after thinking through his options Allen had decided to get his own back on the table. He reckoned it was probably the sensible thing to do, considering the terms of his licence. Besides, he knew he could always batter the bloke later on if he lost, or if winning didn’t prove satisfying enough.

He sank the final black nice and slow, and was staring at the squaddie’s pig-ugly girlfriend before the ball even dropped. Giving her a nice, big smile. He winked and said, ‘Bad luck,’ and as he was walking back to the bar, it struck him that he could have been talking about the game, or just saying it was her bad luck to be shacked up with such a loser. A double-meaning kind of thing.

He thought that was pretty clever.

Despite waving a twenty at her for at least half a minute, the snotty cow behind the bar ignored him and carried on gassing with some twat in a suit, so he moved to the other end of the bar and squeezed into the first gap he could find. He started waving his money again, then turned at the sound of a payout on the fruit machine and saw a face he recognised.

‘Oi, knobhead!’

The boy at the fruit machine turned, his eyes cold and dead, then grinned when he recognised Allen, who had raised his arm and was now making wanking gestures. He scooped out his winnings and sauntered across, then, ignoring the angry looks of those he jostled on the way, he pushed through the crowd at the bar to Allen’s side. He held out a fist. Said, ‘What you doing here?’

Allen touched his fist to the boy’s. ‘Just getting hammered,’ he said.

‘Sweet … ’

‘What you drinking?’

He hadn’t been particularly close to Johnno Bridges in Barndale. The kid was a Jock for a kick-off and Allen never really had much to do with the smackheads. On top of that, Bridges only ever hung out with the white kids, and while it wasn’t like Allen was any big fan of the blacks or the Pakis, he’d preferred to give the gangs a wide berth and keep himself to himself. Safer that way in the long run, he reckoned. All the same, Bridges had never seemed like too much of a prick whenever their paths had crossed. That was a pretty decent character reference considering some of the idiots they’d been banged up with and was certainly a good enough reason to buy him a drink.

‘How long you been out?’

Bridges thought about it. ‘Not long after you. Couple of months, whatever.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a string of blue, plastic rosary beads. He dangled them in front of Allen and smiled, showing a row of crooked and missing teeth. ‘Secret signal,’ he said. ‘Come on then, let’s see ’em.’

Allen nodded and produced his own beads from his jacket. All the boys at Barndale had been issued with them and it was accepted that, once released, they would always carry them. It was a way of acknowledging a shared history, establishing trust with one another on the outside.

No different from those secret handshakes all the coppers and judges had, that’s what Allen reckoned.

He slipped the rosary beads back into his pocket and watched Bridges sip his beer. He had very short, reddish hair and wore a dirty denim jacket over jeans. His pupils were dilated and Allen could see that he had got himself high recently.

‘Still on the gear, then?’

Bridges nodded slowly and raised his glass in a salute. ‘Nothing cut to shite with laxatives either.’

‘Where’s the money for that coming from?’

Bridges nodded across towards the fruit machine. ‘Them.’

‘Piss off.’ It was the same kind of story Allen had tried on those two coppers earlier.

‘I swear,’ Bridges said. ‘I just drift around the pubs emptying those things once the punters have filled them up for me. I’ve got a mate works for the company, told me how to beat ’em.’

‘For real?’

‘Piece of piss, I’m telling you.’

‘Yeah, well tell me then.’

Bridges put a finger to his lips and giggled.

While Allen downed the rest of his drink, Bridges rummaged in his pockets then slammed a fistful of change down on the bar. Ignoring the coins that rolled on to the floor, he turned to Allen as though he’d just had a revolutionary idea. ‘Let’s make a night of it.’

‘What have you got in mind?’

‘Let’s get completely off our faces,’ Bridges said. ‘See if we can find a couple of birds who are up for it.’ He reached for his rosary beads again and waved them in front of Allen’s eyes like a hypnotist’s gold watch. ‘Come on … a great big “fuck you” to Barndale.’

Allen stared at him. He was starting to feel the booze kick in himself, but Bridges looked well out of it, and bearing in mind the day Allen had had, the mood he was in after his visit from those two smartarse coppers, he certainly fancied getting into the same state himself.

‘Sounds good,’ he said.

Pascoe and Donnelly sat drinking coffee in the small room behind the stage. There were no more than a couple of hours to go before the overnight team came back. One more phone call to Helen Weeks, a briefing for the new boys and girls and they would be away.

‘You’re doing well, by the way,’ Donnelly said.

Pascoe looked at him, swallowed her coffee. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Just wanted to let you know.’

Pascoe turned away, not wanting the superintendent to see her blush, to see what the praise had meant to her. Almost immediately she began to wonder why he had told her. Was it perhaps because he fancied her a bit and was trying to gain favour? Or did he simply think she was the sort that needed reassurance?

Neither explanation made her feel particularly good.

‘I’m pleased that’s what you think,’ she said. ‘Don’t think I’m not … but I just wondered why you felt the need to mention it. Is it because you don’t believe I’m … confident?’

‘No. I mean I think you
are
—’

‘Because I am.’

Donnelly raised his hands in mock-surrender. ‘I know, I know. Look, I just thought you were a bit nervous when you arrived, that’s all, but you’re doing a great job and I wanted to let you know that I’m impressed. That’s it. No hidden agenda.’

‘Sorry, I wasn’t suggesting that.’

‘I think it’s part of my job to make sure everyone on the team’s feeling positive about themselves,’ Donnelly said. ‘Every bit as much as they are about the operation. People work better, simple as that.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘So, are you still feeling positive? About what’s happening?’

‘Yes, I am,’ Pascoe said. ‘There’s no increase in references to violence and no insistence on face-to-face negotiations. We’ve got a hostage taker demonstrating no more than mild to moderate anxiety and a hostage with at least basic training in dealing with her situation.’

‘Right … ’

Donnelly had grunted and nodded three or four times as Pascoe had been speaking, but she got the impression he had been looking for something other than chapter and verse from the hostage-negotiator handbook. ‘I think it’s looking good,’ she said.

‘You still think we should wear him down?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Provided the state of play stays the same.’

‘Of course.’

Donnelly nodded again, and not for the first time Pascoe saw an uncertainty that bothered her. She would have been far from happy had the officer in control of the operation been one of those hard-arses unwilling to listen to those around them, but she was nervous nonetheless. Donnelly was starting to look increasingly like someone who needed others to make decisions for him. Who took advice only because it meant he could duck responsibility if things didn’t work out.

‘It was impressive,’ he said. ‘The way you squared up to Chivers earlier.’

‘I was just fighting my corner.’

‘It was good,’ Donnelly said, smirking.

‘Was it?’

‘I don’t think he’s used to people taking him on, you know?’

It
had
been good, and Pascoe smiled remembering the look on Chivers’ face. Thorne had clearly been impressed too, and she in turn had enjoyed watching him give every bit as good as he got.

Still impossible to say, Bob …

Donnelly said he was going to have another coffee and asked if she wanted one. She handed her cup across. He filled it from one of the vacuum jugs and handed it back to her.

‘Are you married, Sue?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Just asking, that’s all.’ Donnelly slurped at his coffee. ‘I mean I noticed there wasn’t a ring, so just wondered … ’

‘I don’t think
that’s
part of your job, sir,’ Pascoe said. ‘Is it?’

THIRTY-EIGHT

Though Helen knew what time it was and that it would be dark outside, the light in the storeroom never changed. With no windows to the back and the shutters down in the shop itself, the sickly white wash of the flickering striplight had remained constant and, exhausted as she was, Helen knew that once again there was little possibility of sleep.

Akhtar was lying on his camp bed. He had one arm folded across his eyes, but Helen knew that he was awake.

The most recent call with Sue Pascoe had been brief and uneventful, which Helen knew was a good thing. It was becoming routine. The woman was good at her job, Helen decided; businesslike, but as friendly as she was required to be. Helen guessed that she could also be firm if the need arose, but for now she was doing all that was necessary to keep Akhtar calm and relatively relaxed.

Helen had once again reassured Pascoe that she and Mitchell were fine and in good spirits and, when the call had ended, Akhtar had thanked her for continuing to lie. He had made her more tea, asked her if there was anything she would like to watch on the television, before moving across to his bed and settling down.

Now, while he was still awake and feeling well disposed towards her, she decided to ask him a favour.

‘Javed … ’

He sat up and looked at her.

‘Can I call Thorne?’

‘Why?’

‘I understand why you didn’t want me to call my sister,’ she said. ‘But if I could speak to Thorne, then maybe he could call her. I just need to know that my son’s all right.’

When Akhtar looked at the phone on his desk, Helen knew that he was going to agree. She was still surprised when, instead of pointing the gun and sliding the handset across the floor, he left the gun where it was and handed the phone to her. It was as close as they had been to one another since Akhtar had bent down to uncuff and then remove Stephen Mitchell’s body.

‘Thank you,’ Helen said.

Akhtar nodded and returned to sit on the edge of his bed. ‘So you can tell them how well I am treating you.’

Helen dialled and the call was answered every bit as quickly as she had been expecting. Thorne had obviously recognised the number.

‘Javed?’

‘It’s Helen.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘It’s fine. Listen, I wondered if you’d be able to call my sister for me? I need to know that everything’s OK with Alfie, that’s all.’

‘No problem,’ Thorne said. ‘What’s the number?’

Helen told him. ‘And tell her that I’m all right and not to worry.’

‘I’ll call you back when I’ve spoken to her,’ Thorne said. ‘Is that OK with him?’

Helen raised her head and asked Akhtar the question. He thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘It’s fine,’ she said.

They sat in silence, waiting for Thorne to call back, occasionally catching one another’s eye and smiling a little awkwardly like patients in a waiting room. Helen’s stomach rumbled loudly and Akhtar pretended not to hear.

Helen stabbed at the button the instant the phone began to ring.

‘Tom?’

‘Alfie’s fine,’ Thorne said, immediately. ‘He’s asleep now, obviously, but Jenny said he’s in top form. Giving her the runaround by the sound of it.’

Helen’s breath caught in her throat when she tried to speak. She managed to say, ‘Thanks,’ then took a few seconds. ‘Is he eating OK, did she say that? Because sometimes he’s fussy, you know?’

‘He’s
fine
. I promise.’

‘OK … ’

‘Probably hasn’t even noticed you’re not there,’ Thorne said. ‘You know what kids are like, right?’

Helen managed to laugh, but it felt tight in her chest. ‘Yeah, she’s probably spoiling him rotten.’

‘Course she is.’

‘Is
she
OK?’

‘She’s worried,’ Thorne said. ‘She’s your sister. But I told her how well you’re doing, and that you’re going to be seeing her very soon.’

‘Did she mention my dad?’

‘Yeah, he’s bearing up, she said. He’s worried too, obviously, but your sister told me she’d send him your love and tell him everything was going to be fine. Helen?’

‘Sorry, yeah … listen, thank you.’ She glanced up at Akhtar. ‘I need to go,’ she said. ‘Thank you, really
.
I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’

‘I can’t think of any,’ Thorne said.

Helen laughed and this time it felt a little easier.

‘And it
is
going to be fine, all right, Helen? So just hold on.’

When Helen had hung up, she held the phone out for Akhtar to take. He stood for a few moments, looking up at the striplight and shaking his head, then walked across to the same cupboard from which he had dragged the camp bed and reached inside.

‘Let’s see what we can do,’ he said.

With a small cry of satisfaction, he retrieved a wooden table lamp with a torn green shade. He carried it across to the desk then fumbled underneath with an adaptor until he had managed to plug it in. As soon as he had switched the lamp on, he turned off the overhead light and considered the effect.

‘Still too bright,’ he said. Then, ‘Wait.’

He stepped across and picked up one of the cushions that Helen had discarded after Mitchell had been shot. He pulled the cover off and held it up triumphantly, as though looking for her approval. Helen watched as he tried and failed to tear it, then walked across to the desk and took a large pair of scissors from one of the drawers. When he had finished cutting the cushion cover in half, he put the scissors back then carefully draped the square of dirty brown material across the lampshade.