In the Dark (29 page)

Besides which, he never liked to give anyone the chance to work out he was coming for them.

 
Detective Inspector Spiky Bugger called just as Helen was leaving the hospital. He said he was sorry that she hadn't been told very much; apologised that she'd been left out of the loop. She said she understood, knew that it was probably because there hadn't been much to tell her, and he didn't argue.

He seemed keen to keep it short, just wanting to let her know that they were following up a few fresh lines of enquiry. He promised to try to keep her better informed. She told him she'd be grateful, and insisted she was fine when he asked how she was.

Half an hour later, walking down from the multi-storey above the Lewisham Centre, Helen had a pretty good idea what those ‘fresh lines of enquiry' were. Having seen the news the night before, and several more reports on TV first thing, she knew that many of the DI's team, if not the man himself, would be walking the same streets as she was at that very moment. She half expected to bump into him, queuing for a parking ticket, and wondered how the conversation would go if she did.

‘Small world . . .'

‘What are you doing here?'

‘Just out for a walk. Exercise is good for the baby.'

‘In
Lewisham
?'

‘It's very underrated.'

Helen knew that few people would
over
rate Lewisham, based on a cursory stroll around its main shopping area at any rate. Granted, anywhere that had seen two fatal shootings in less than a week was hardly likely to feel like Hampstead or Highgate Village, but even so. The place felt like somewhere people would visit only if they had to; only if the life they endured behind their own four walls was close to intolerable. Somewhere to get in and out of quickly. There was a leisure centre, a decent-looking park and a library, and Helen knew that if she had the time to look, she'd find a variety of smaller communities untouched by the tension and the violence. But around the DLR and bus stations, outside the pubs and shop-fronts, the noise, the
industry
, only seemed to heighten the edgy atmosphere.

The heart of the place felt clogged and close to giving up.

Helen walked along the High Street. The usual chains: Boots, Argos, the compulsory Starbucks. There seemed to be an inordinate number of places to eat - McDonald's, KFC, Jenny's Burgers, Nando's, Chicken Cottage - interspersed with pound shops and low-end grocers'. She could picture the look of horror on Jenny's face.

‘What, no M and S? And
how
far is the nearest Waitrose?'

Within an hour, Helen had spoken to a dozen or more people, found locations where it was not unnatural to fall into conversation: waiting for a cashpoint, at a bus stop, in the queue in a small baker's. Not produced her warrant card. She'd decided that the conversations would be more illuminating without it, and she did not want to risk being seen by any of the officers who were investigating the murders officially.

People had plenty to say; had opinions that they were more than keen to pass on. Deeply felt, dismissive or, to Helen's mind, plain ridiculous.

‘Life's not worth tuppence round here right now, that's the truth.'

‘No more than some of these little bastards deserve.'

‘So where d'you think all these guns are coming from? Ask yourself that. Who supplies them? The government, that's who. They
want
us to kill each other.'

Helen walked away from the main street, across Lee Bridge and into the quieter areas behind the station. Over towards the estates: the Lee Marsh, the Kidbrooke, the Downton and the Orchard. There were plenty of youngsters hanging around, enjoying the sunshine. And more than enough men in uniform eager to pass the time of day with them.

At an intersection, where two police vans were parked, she saw a smallish crowd gathered in front of a mural. People were taking photographs, and a camera crew had set up and was doing vox pops. There was rap music coming from a portable beat box on the pavement.

She read the dedication: ‘Michael Williamson. 1992-2008.'

A column of graffiti ran down one side: a list of signatures, tags sprayed against a white background designed to look like a scroll. A roll of honour. Helen stared at the multicoloured tangle of swirls and symbols on the brickwork. She couldn't decipher most of the names, but made out a few.

Wave.
With three wavy blue lines underneath, like the sea.

Easy.
With ‘S & S' in a circle beside the name; the letters drawn as hissing snakes.

On the far side of the street, near the entrance to the Lee Marsh, Helen saw a cluster of boys lurking by a low block of garages. She wandered across, aware of the looks being exchanged when they saw that she was coming. There were six or seven and she doubted any of them was yet a teenager. Pointless to speculate as to whether they'd be in school if it were not the summer holidays, or to presume for one second that they were too young to be tied up with one of the local crews. Not for the first time, Helen wondered why CP units such as her own didn't spend much more time trying to protect children
before
the damage was done.

She nodded back towards the wall, to the man with the camera and his colleague sticking a microphone into the faces of passers-by. ‘They're talking about a gang war,' she said.

All except two of the kids began to drift away, seemingly unconcerned, joking with one another as they went, but keen to put distance between themselves and the conversation. Of the pair who were left, it was immediately clear that the shorter boy was the more talkative; but that was not saying a great deal.

‘Talking about all sorts,' he said. ‘They don't know nothing.'

‘What do you think?'

The sullen expression on the boy's face changed. It was only for a second, but in that moment Helen could tell he was pleased to have been asked his opinion. The boy wore jeans and a baggy basketball shirt, and his hair had been cut very short. When he turned slightly, Helen could see that some kind of pattern had been shaved into the back. ‘If it's a war, the other crew won't know what's hit them, man.'

‘Who's the other crew?'

The boy shrugged, glanced at his friend. The other boy was gangly and unco-ordinated, as awkward as a baby giraffe. He kicked at the ground and spun slowly round on one leg; took a couple of steps away; turned and ambled back.

‘Are you in that crew?' Helen nodded back towards the mural.

‘Maybe,' the chatty boy said. He stuck his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and spread his short legs. He was at least a foot shorter than Helen.

‘You know the people on that list? Wave and Sugar Boy?'

‘Everyone knows Wave.'

‘Is he the leader?'

The boy shrugged again. His friend sucked his teeth, looked like he was ready to be on his way.

‘If it's not a war, who do you think killed Michael and . . . the other boy?' Helen had heard the second boy's name on the news, but it had slipped her mind.

‘Mikey and SnapZ,' the boy said.

‘Why were Mikey and SnapZ killed? What do
you
think?'

The boy cocked his head, like he was mulling it over. Helen gave him the time, looked from one boy to the other; at the attitude and bum-fluff. She had no idea what either of them might be capable of, but still felt like she might be able to buy information from them with sweets and fizzy drinks.

‘Disrespected someone, maybe,' the kid said.

‘Who?'

‘Doesn't matter. That's enough, you get me?'

‘I think so.'

‘You got to have a rep and you got to keep it, yeah? You got to be the buff man and that means stepping up to anyone who don't behave the way they should. I'm telling you, man, anyone try to boy me they better be ready to pay.'

Helen nodded to show she understood.

‘Everyone knows that. Mikey, SnapZ,
everyone
. . .'

‘How does someone join the crew?' Helen asked, like it had just popped into her head. ‘Is there like an initiation kind of thing?'

The boy tilted up his chin. ‘You some sort of undercover copper?'

Helen felt herself blush, felt it deepen as the taller boy stepped forward and looked her up and down; as she saw something that should not have been there in his eyes. She had no doubt that these boys were already sexually active, that they had ceased to be children in all the ways that mattered.

The taller boy sent a thin string of spit from between his teeth. Said, ‘You fat or just pregnant, man?'

It took Helen ten minutes to walk the relatively short distance back to the High Street. Walking was becoming increasingly difficult, as was driving, with her seat pushed right back away from her belly and her feet struggling to reach the pedals. That morning, at her final antenatal appointment, the doctor had smiled and told her that everything was fine. All the boxes had been ticked. ‘Just sit around all day and spoil yourself,' he'd said. ‘Get ready for the big day. It'll soon be over.'

So what the hell was she doing trudging around Lewisham, sweating and feeling stupid? Wasting her time. Feeling further out of her depth than she could ever remember.

She thought about how those boys had made her feel. She'd been in more dangerous situations, after all. She'd been physically threatened by a predatory paedophile in an interview room and had stared him down, yet now two children had unnerved her to the point where she could still feel the tremor in her legs.

For once, the urge to turn on her heel had been stronger than the urge to lash out.

Helen knew that having a child changed you in fundamental ways; she'd seen it in Jenny. She knew that it made you less confrontational and less inclined to take any sort of risk. Paul had asked her once during a particularly nasty argument if she really thought she'd be able to hack it when she went back. If she honestly thought she could handle the Job;
her
Job especially.

She'd laughed it off back then, but she wasn't finding the suggestion particularly funny any more.

Back at the shopping centre, she decided to call into the supermarket and pick up a few things for dinner. Struggling out through the doors, she collided with a baby-buggy and dropped one of her carrier bags. As she watched the young mother walk away without a backward glance, a teenage boy stepped out of the newsagent's next door and walked across.

‘You OK?'

Helen delved into the bag and was annoyed to see that two of her six eggs were smashed. ‘Just about,' she said.

The boy took the egg box, carried the mess across to a bin a few yards away, then walked back. ‘That was out of order.'

‘It's not like she couldn't
see
me,' Helen said.

He waited until she was steady, with a bag in each hand, then nodded and walked away. She thanked him, but he was already lighting a cigarette, hurrying to get across the road before the signal changed. Helen shouted after him and the boy stopped on the far side, pointing at himself to be sure it was him she was calling out to.

By the time Helen had caught up with him she was out of breath. ‘You couldn't give me a hand with these to the car, could you?'

They walked back across the road in silence, and around the corner of the shopping centre, moving through the crowds towards the car park entrance.

‘You live round here?' Helen asked.

‘Over there.' The boy nodded towards the estates.

‘I've not exactly had a great day. So, you know, this is . . .'

Another boy came striding towards them, slowed as he got close and grinned at the boy with the shopping bags. ‘You're a
seriously
dark horse, T,' he said. He nodded towards Helen. ‘Got yourself a nice lickle MILF tucked away.' He winked and pointed at Helen's belly. ‘That one of yours, is it?'

The boy carrying her bags stepped around, shaking his head, and the other boy moved on, laughing, along the pavement. ‘Sorry.'

Helen shrugged. ‘What's a MILF?'

‘You don't want to know.'

‘Like I said, the day can't get much worse.'

‘Mummy I'd Like to Fuck,' the boy said. He glanced across as Helen moved to avoid a man with a large dog. ‘Sorry.'

Helen was parked on the first floor of the car park, and the boy waited for her on the stairs, stopping every two or three steps to let her catch up. ‘There's a lift, you know,' he said.

Helen leaned against the wall for a second. The narrow stairwell smelled of urine and burgers. ‘If I can't make one flight of stairs I might as well just curl up and die,' she said. After she had validated her ticket at the pay station, the two of them walked towards her car. ‘It's not a nice place to be at the moment, is it?'

The boy looked around.

‘Not the car park,' Helen said. The boy smiled. ‘Round here generally. '

‘Pretty sweet if you're a florist,' he said. ‘Or if you're in the mural-painting business.'

‘What's
your
business?'

‘Don't have one.' He looked at his training shoes. ‘Just try and pick up a bit of cash where I can.'

‘Did you know either of the boys who were killed?'

‘Both of them.'

‘Sorry.'

‘They weren't friends, exactly. Not
proper
friends.'

‘Still. Must be scary.'

He shrugged.

‘Think it'll carry on?'

‘I reckon.'

‘This is me,' Helen said. ‘Thanks.' She unlocked the car and the boy lifted her bags into the boot. The sound of cars screeching around the tight corners bounced off the walls on either side of them. She opened the door. ‘Probably a good time to take a holiday, if you ask me.'