Little Triggers (11 page)

“I said, what time?”

“Would you?”

“No!”

“All right! Good.” Larkin allowed himself to relax a little, feeling that, in some way, he’d just won a little moral victory. “Now drink up. We’d better go.”

Five fifteen, and Larkin and Andy were parked on a side street
opposite the arcade on Clayton Street. The two of them had walked down from the pub to where Andy had parked behind the Central Station, Andy telling Larkin not to worry about the amount of alcohol he’d consumed; the drive would soon sober him up, he claimed. When they had reached the parking space, Larkin had done a double-take: Andy’s vehicle was a gleaming, brand-new, purple and chrome soft-top Vitara jeep.

“What the fuck’s
this
?” shouted Larkin. “I thought you’d done surveillance? I thought you’d been spying on people? Couldn’t you have found something a bit more inconspicuous, like an ice cream van or a fucking Sherman tank?”

Andy shrugged, tried not to look hurt. “I like it.”

Larkin sighed; it was too late to argue. “Oh well – you’re the expert.”

Now they waited, hopefully not too visibly, in the side street. Larkin prayed that the city-centre rush hour meant all the traffic wardens would be too busy to ticket them for parking on a yellow. Just before five thirty, Noble entered the arcade.

“That’s him,” hissed Larkin.

Andy sat up. All he saw was a mild, inoffensive-looking bloke. Then, a couple of minutes later, Noble emerged with two boys. They all seemed cheerful enough.

“Right, there you go, Andy. Best of luck,” said Larkin, jumping out. He had already given Andy the gen on Noble’s Fiesta.

“Now remember,” said Larkin, “the first sign of anything untoward, you get the fuckin’ law in, right?”

Andy nodded. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and swung the Vitara out onto the main street.

Larkin turned and walked back in the other direction. He didn’t want Noble to catch the slightest glimpse of him. At least he could trust Andy to do a professional job, he thought. Despite the pimp-mobile.

Larkin trudged slowly back to the Golf. Perhaps Andy was right. Perhaps it was merely bitterness combined with a misplaced idealism that was blinding him to some unalterable truths. Perhaps. Either way, it was good to see the old bastard again.

With nothing better to do, and nowhere else to go, Larkin headed the Golf towards Jesmond and home.

As he let himself into the house, he was immediately consumed, as always, by a feeling of entrapment. But what was trapping him?
Was it the house – his past? Or something inside himself he couldn’t let go? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. So he took a can of beer from the fridge and made his way upstairs to his attic. He intended to lie on the bed, tune in the TV, and tune out his head to an alcoholic accompaniment. But when he was halfway up the stairs, he heard a noise.

Larkin froze. The noise came from above. From his room. He reached the half-landing and he quickly looked around. He didn’t know whether to continue his ascent or run back down and out the front door. His heart was doing somersaults in his chest. His eyes caught on an ornamental, free-standing cast-iron candle holder, he put the beer can down and hefted the candle holder into his arms like a weapon. Taking courage from the weight, he decided to go on.

He climbed up the second set of stairs as quietly as he could. He reached the second landing and stood outside his door. His heart was pounding fit to burst; it filled his ears with rushing blood, blocking out any sound from the room.

With sudden force he kicked the door open, almost knocking it off its hinges, and stepped into the room, brandishing the candlestick, his breath ragged, adrenalin-fuelled.

At the far end of the room, on a chair in front of the window, sat a figure. Rays from the dying sunset cast an obscuring halo around its head. Apart from moving its arm to drag purposefully on a cigarette, the figure didn’t move. Larkin too stood still. The silence was palpable.

Eventually the figure spoke. “I hear you’ve been lookin’ for me.”

Larkin lowered the weapon, in recognition of the voice. It wouldn’t have helped him anyway.

“Hello, Ezz. How you doing?”

Ezz. Larkin had known the man for about fifteen years, on and off, and was still no nearer to understanding him. Back in the early eighties, Ezz had been a contract burglar employed by Larkin (amongst others) to aid him in his work as an investigative journalist, both in Newcastle and London. Whenever there was a piece of evidence Larkin knew existed but couldn’t access, Ezz was the man. He had a one hundred per cent success rate, and had been well rewarded for it, while Larkin had been supplied with some spectacularly incendiary information. When it came to burglary, Ezz was the expert’s expert. He could enter a premises, do what he had to do, and leave, without the owners even noticing he’d been there. Years of practice had given him an unflappable serenity and mastery of physical movement that made him the best there was. While working he had perfect control: so light-fingered and nimble-footed he could have been a ninja. But he had a flipside: the need, outside working hours, to release his pent-up aggression.

It wasn’t a simple matter of getting drunk and picking a fight; Ezz needed to be goaded. He waited for violence to find him, then used the consequences as a form of therapy. Larkin knew that Ezz went ballistic to relieve the stress of maintaining the rigorous control that Ezz’s work demanded; but he suspected Ezz’s need for aggro went much deeper than that. The violence Ezz sought didn’t happen just for the sake of it; it was instinctive, emotional. It fulfilled a deep need, satisfied some sort of terrible anger. Larkin was amazed he’d never killed anyone; he’d come pretty close several times. He had never dared to ask Ezz about it, though. Ezz, Larkin had decided, was driven by some very deeply rooted and complex demons.

Of course, while Ezz didn’t actively start trouble, he encouraged it to come to him. He loaded the dice in his favour. He had spent years searching for the most contentious image possible and, through trial and error, had honed it to the point of hostile perfection: the skinhead.

He now had the look just right: twenty-four-hole DMs, faded jeans, braces, white T-shirt and Union Jack tattoos all the way up his arms. Shaved head, crooked nose, broken teeth. He was a walking threat. A danger to society. And the uniform distracted attention from his curiously vulnerable eyes.

His fighting method was simple: go somewhere promising (usually one of the rougher pubs), find a target (or two, or usually three), send them intimidating looks and wait for it to kick-off. He was rarely disappointed; and he hardly ever lost the fight. Occasionally he attracted the notice of the police and had done time in Durham because of his leisure pursuit. But never for burglary. Never for his true calling.

And that was one thing Ezz was very insistent about; he was a
burglar
, not a common thief. A professional. He would break into an office, an institution, a home – and take only what he had come for. No unnecessary damage. Strictly business. Nothing personal. That, he felt, was a violation.

Now, though, Larkin’s relief at discovering the identity of his intruder was turning quickly to irritation.

“How the fuck did you get in?”

Ezz shrugged, as if the question wasn’t worthy of an answer.

“You scared the fuckin’ life out of me! Couldn’t you just ring the bell like normal people?”

“Sorry,” Ezz said indifferently. “Habit.”

Larkin sighed. He was beginning to regain his composure. “Anyway, you’re here now.”

“You wanted to see me,” Ezz said again.

Same old Ezz, thought Larkin. No pleasantries, no small talk: just business, discussed in that same detached monotone he remembered so well. It was like conversing with a Dalek on methadone.

“Yeah, I did,” said Larkin. “I’ve got a bit of work for you. Tomorrow night. Bit short notice, but I’ll pay you.”

Ezz nodded slightly, as if that were no more than his due.

Larkin outlined his plan; Ezz listened, motionless. After Larkin finished there was silence. Larkin was patient, waiting for Ezz to
utter. Eventually, he was rewarded: “I always work alone.”

“I know,” said Larkin, “but I need to be with you. I have to be there. This is important.”

There was silence again while Ezz thought.

“So what’s he done?” asked Ezz presently.

“It looks like he might have been abusing children.”

“You mean, sexually?” Was Larkin imagining it, or had Ezz’s icy monotone become a little warmer?

“Yeah, I imagine so.”

There was silence again. This time it seemed tense, menacing.

“All right,” said Ezz. “But you’re an amateur. And amateurs fuck up. You do exactly what I tell you.”

“Absolutely,” said Larkin.

Ezz stood up, and for the first time Larkin got a good look at him. He was still in prime condition; his arms and torso were like silk-wrapped rope. The sleeveless T-shirt emphasised his muscles. His arms were a picturebook of fascism: Union Jacks, bulldogs, home-made prison slogans crowding for space with Death Or Glory knives and hearts. No space for his mother’s name. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, it was his guts as well: a whole political agenda, in fact. Larkin knew Ezz didn’t subscribe to it, but that didn’t stop it looking authentic.

Ezz repeated his instructions; Larkin nodded, in confirmation. Then Ezz was off. No goodbye, just straight out the door and soundlessly down the steps.

Larkin crossed to the window, opened it to disperse the thick cigarette smoke. He glanced down at the street. No trace of Ezz. He hadn’t expected there to be.

He lay down on the bed. There was nothing else to be done till morning. He considered his options for the evening. Meet The Prof for a drink? No – he didn’t want him involved in any way, not this time. Phone Jane? No. He didn’t feel like talking to her at the moment. In fact, if he was honest, he didn’t feel like talking to anyone at all.

He swung himself off the bed and went looking for the discarded can of beer. That would keep him company. That would be a start.

Beer in hand, he slapped an old Tom Waits tape – one with unerasable ghosts limpeted to the songs – into the machine and lay back on his bed nursing his beer. His mind ticked over, relentlessly.

Jane: where was the relationship (if it could be called that)
headed? No idea. Houchen? He felt uncomfortable about the man’s death, but not guilty. At least, not yet. He would try his damnedest to investigate it, though; he owed him that much.

Then after Houchen came Moir. Then Jason Winship, the missing child. Then Charlotte. Then he needed another beer. And so it went on, until the tape ran out.

Eventually, the hours were killed and the best part of another night had gone. Having successfully managed to stay this side of maudlin drunk, Larkin slept. And there were no dreams. At least, none he would admit to remembering.

Saturday morning. After getting up and shaking off his mini-hangover, Larkin felt his heart sink when the phone rang. He’d come to expect bad news.

It was Jane.

“Hiya.” She sounded doubtful, as if she wasn’t sure she should be calling. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” Larkin replied. There was an uncomfortable silence down the line. “Or did you mean, how was my job for you going?”

She gave a small laugh of embarrassment. “Well, both, really.”

“Well, as I said, I’m fine, and I may have something for you soon on that front.”

There was a catch in Jane’s voice. “Good or bad?”

“Depends how you mean. I think your suspicions were right, though. Don’t worry – I’m on to it. I’ll know for definite by tomorrow.”

“Why? What you goin’ to do?”

“I’ll – just know, that’s all.”

No response.

“Look,” said Larkin, “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how I’ll know. But you’d better start thinking about your next step.”

“Yeah …” Her voice trailed off. Larkin was just about to prompt her when she said, “Listen, d’you fancy meeting for lunch? I need to talk this through with somebody.”

He did fancy it. They arranged a time and place and hung up. And Larkin went off to get a much-needed shower, looking with distaste en route at the debris of the night before. Empty bottles and cans; a pile of tapes; CDs full of lonely music. His Friday-night life, the melancholic’s handbook.

In the shower he smiled to himself. It might just be a meeting to sort out damage limitation, he thought, but it was good to have something to look forward to.

Lunch actually turned out to be fun. They met in the Food Court of the Monument Mall, Jane having left Alison with another female worker from the centre, who had kids the same age. “They’re all goin’ to the park this afternoon. I doubt our Alison’ll even know I’m not there,” she said with a laugh.

Over jacket potatoes and cappuccino, they discussed the best way to approach the problem, so that the kids, the parents and the centre all came out of it as unscathed as possible. Larkin said he didn’t know how much of the evidence he hoped to gather against Noble could be used in a court of law. “But I do have a sympathetic friend in the police force. He’ll help us.”

“Thanks, Stephen,” Jane said. “I suppose we’ll have to bring in Social Services for Daniel and his family. It might help if I have a word with them before we do that.”

“It might.”

Jane sighed. “I know it sounds selfish, but I’m really worried about the centre as well. I don’t want it to close. We do good work. People need us.”

Larkin was hit by an idea. “I think I’ve got a friend on the council who owes me a favour. Worst comes to the worst I’ll have a word.”

“Aw, would you? Thanks.” She sighed again. “You know, we followed all the procedures with James … I dunno. You try and look out for them – the ones who get into these kind of jobs just to hurt kids – but they’re so
convincing.
I mean, I reckon I can spot a bullshitter when I see one, but he had even me fooled at first. No record, great references —.”

“I’m getting those looked into too.”

She smiled then; it lit up her face. “What a great guy you are!”