Nobody Saw No One (19 page)

“What are you talking about, V?” I say.

He lets out a long sigh. “Oh, we go back, Norman Newton and I. Many, many years. Long before
Cash Counters
. I used to be on the board of an organization – you might have heard of them – they’re called Reliance Plus. Of course, they’ve expanded a lot since then. The first children’s home they ran was up Enfield way. Mr Newton was the manager.”

“You knew!”

He closes his eyes again. Like he doesn’t want to see what’s right in front of them.

“No, no. I didn’t. But … I suspected. I always suspected. I mean, none of it was on the straight and narrow exactly. There’s a lot of money to be made from the care system, you know.”

“Oh, is there?” says me, all snarkastic.

“But it does a lot of good too!” he puts in. “That was what drew me to it. I never simply wanted to make money – I wanted to help the young people.”

“Instead, you made your money and you left the
young people
to the hands of Norman Newton. You fiddled the books, and he – just fiddled.” I can barely conceal my disgust.

“No. I promise you, no. Well, I admit, I was syphoning funds, but not to the detriment of the home; it was all government money. But there was an incident. A serious incident. And a nasty rumour, regarding Newton’s involvement. It was enough for me.”

“Enough? So what? You had him long-armed? Got the Sherlocks on the case?”

I’m pushing my luck, I know.

“I challenged him, Digit. I promise you, I challenged him.”

“Excellent,” says me. “And that stopped him there and then.”

“Well, of course, he denied it all,” Virus stutters on, “and then he showed me copies of documentation he had that would have brought me down.”

What’s he expect me to say? He’s squirming, like he’s sat on his zapper. “I’d have gone to prison,” he pleads. “I’d never have bought the building, this building, that eventually became
Cash Counters
, and I wouldn’t be able to give you and all the other boys the support you have. Don’t you see?”

The Digit doesn’t know about
seeing
Virus’s support. I’ve certainly
felt
it. My skin is still sensitive from last night’s punishment.

“I see.” I’m going to say more. I’m going to switch on the Citizen Digit sarcastical button, and give him the rattatat verbals he deserves. But I can’t. I need V’s help, not another zapping.

The Great Manager stands up and leaves the room, muttering. He leaves me there, with the ugly image frozen on-screen, and an anger, from the balls of my feet to the brows of my eyes.

He’s gone into the room next door and he doesn’t shut the door properly. After a moment, I hear the electric buzz. I hear him wince. I hear him thud against the floor. And in that moment, it seems like Citizen Digit is the only sane person left in an insane world.

Fifteen minutes later, he comes back in. He’s carrying a tray, with tea and biscuits. He’s smiling like a tea-party chimp.

We drink the tea and dunk the biscuits. He picks at the stray crumbs, and without another word, he gets straight back to business. He’s perkiness itself.

“So. You guessed that Alfi’s password was Katariina?”

“Yes,” I say, all warylike.

“Katariina is the name of Alfi’s mother, you say?”

The Digit nods, affirmativelike.

“And you remember this all from looking at the file at Tenderness House?”

The Digit nods, affirmativelike.

“And you worked all this out yourself?”

The Digit’s bored with the nodding.

“Digit, you’re a genius. You do me proud. I always knew you would. Tell me though, would you have any idea at all as to who Alfi Spar’s
father
might be?”

“Does it matter?”

“Everything matters,” he snaps, more at himself than me, but his voice echoes shrilly in my ear, the side he zapped. “Look at this number plate.” He’s frozen the film on the shot of the Jaguar driving into the Tenderness grounds. “Any idea who this belongs to?”

“The man in the suit, who gets out and walks into Call-Me’s office.”

“Don’t get
too
facetious, Citizen, it’s not a pretty habit to fall into. Do you know the
name
of the man?”

The Citizen shrugs it.

“Well, see, it just so happens that I have an app here that allows me access to every document belonging to the DVLA. Know what the DVLA is, Didge?”

Shrug it again.

“It’s the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency. Means that in less time than it takes to make you some toast, I will know who this fine old gentleman is. In fact, Mr Didge, this little film is gold dust, I say, gold dust! Do you know why, Didge?”

Gold dust. The only type of dust Virus approves of.

“Why’s that, Mr Virus?” I say, all duty-bound.

“We have the technology,” he purrs. “See these men here? The Sherlock? The man in the Jag? The other one? They have made themselves high visibility, haven’t they? I will have their identities and personal details in a mere moment. Digit, you are a star!” He lays his hand on my leg. “I’m sorry about last night,” he says, all remorse. He sighs and adds, “But, you know, you did rather bring it all on yourself.”

“I know,” I fib. I move on. “So we can expose them all?”

I’m all a-flush. A bunch of kiddliwinks bring down the evil predator ring. Rewarded with all their dreams come true.

“Expose?” Virus frowns. “No, no.
Threaten
to expose.”

Oh, what? I’ll be jibjabbed. Virus can zip me with the zapper all he likes – but these Jimmys are getting long-armed.

“They’re,” I say, “they’re.” I can’t think of a word. Then I know. “They’re
shit
.”

Normally, Citizen Digit is more imaginatious.

“Language, Digit,” says Virus. “I completely agree.”

“Then all you have to do is persuade Jackson Banks to lay off his boy-hunt. The Sherlocks can dive in mob-heavy – and
bam!
The Jimmys get banged up for ever.”

He thinks before he answers. “Digit, these men certainly merit the severest punishment. But, believe me, I’ve had acquaintances who’ve faced stronger evidence than this and still avoided court.”

“Not possible,” I say.

“Possible,” he insists.

“Only if you own the court.”

“That,” he agrees, “plus bribery, intimidation of witnesses, technical loopholes, corrupt judges, Sherlock stupidity, cross-contamination of material evidence, flight to a sunny island. Need I go on?”

“The Citizen comprehends. But, even so…”

“Oh, look,” says Virus, peering at the screen. “Very interesting.”

I await his expansion.

“Turns out,” he says, “your man in the Jag is rather important indeed. His name is Chris Primrose. Guess his job. Go on, Digit, take a wild stab.”

“World-famous hip-hop star?”

“Oh, ho.” He thinks I’m so witty. Not. Virus feeds me the most serious look. “He’s actually a politician. A Member of Parliament, no less. And a front-bencher. Know what a front-bencher is, Digit?”

“He always sits on the front bench?” The Digit was always didgy-doo at tests.

“Bright boy!” He’s all a-mock. “And he does indeed sit on the front bench. Very close to the Prime Minister himself. Call-Me Norman’s nasty little gang is only headed by the Minister for Urban Development. Ohh, I’ve waited years for this kind of opportunity.”

Citizen Digit shakes his head, like a dog spongy with water.

No
I almost say
it’s just Call-Me and his weirdo pals…
But I ain’t such a peanut brain. What I say ain’t much higher wattage. “Are you sure?”

He throws me a look of mild reproach. Of course he’s sure; the computer knows everything. But this can’t be factual. It’s a politician. A minister. What’s he doing joining in with Jimmys like Call-Me?

Virus reads my mind. “Men,” he snarls. “You never know.”

For all his other faults, Virus clearly ain’t no fan of the Jim’llfixits. You can see his headcogs whirring, trying to figure out the best course of acting.

“What’s this mean, then, V?”

“It means we have him. It means blackmail. It means extortion. It means making them sweat. We’re going to have a lot of fun. I’ll fetch you that toast.”

Off he goes, letting the fact of the matter settle into each of our heads. Virus is obviously now as happy as Larry, but the Good Citizen has to think it through a tad.

Shouldn’t we just yell for the Sherlocks?

’Cept a Sherlock was one of them, wasn’t he? Brilliant – the Long Arm gets long-armed!

“That Sherlock,” says me, when V comes back in. “Just wait till his Chief Constable finds out what he’s been up to.”

Virus rolls his eyes. “He
is
the Chief Constable.”

Ah.

Virus hands me a plate of toast. And a napkin. He goes on. “Anyway, the Minister for Urban Development will be, shall we say, closely related to the constabulary in London.”

He throws me a look. I get it. The Digit should know much better than be thinking we can rely on the Sherlocks.

And we’re on the wrong side of the straight and narrow road as it is.

If we
threaten
them, will we be able to make Call-Me Norman stop his evenings of evil?

Will we make money out of it? (Virus will.)

Virus can do all the negotiating, via his gadgets. Me and the Alfi-Boy will sit on the sidelines, watching YouTube and eating toast.

V seems to be waiting for the Citizen to think all this through. Like there’s something he’s missed. A paw in the flan?

A fuzzy, fuggy point of order starts harrumphing around inside my headcase, raising a point of utmost vitality.

Ah. Last night. I blabber-boxed, didn’t I?

“Err, Virus,” I say. “There’s something you might need to know.”

He feeds me his quizzicals. I’ve set him up, haven’t I? Set the Mad Dog on V’s own tail.

“Last night,” I confess, “I let it slip, didn’t I?” I’m in for another zapping, high wattage this time. “I told Jackson Alfi’s whereabouts. I’m sorry!”

I close my eyes. Twice in two days. But I feel his hand, gently, on my shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he says. “Just because Jackson is Norman Newton’s dog, doesn’t mean I can’t get him to perform a trick or two for me.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He came round a while ago. You need to rise earlier, young Citizen. Early birds: worms? Don’t worry. Despite his obvious disgruntlement, we reached an understanding.”

Oh the Digit is slowness itself this sunny morn. I need to catch up.
Previously, at
Cash Counters…

“You see,” Virus continues, “when push comes to shove, Norman Newton isn’t Jackson’s master at all. You need to observe more, young Digit. Money is Jackson’s master. Money! JB is now of the belief that Alfi Spar offers more financial reward if he’s in our hands than if he’s back at Tenderness.”

“You lied to him?”

Virus doesn’t answer that. Instead, he looks at his watch. “I have already dispatched Jackson Banks. I checked the present whereabouts of Alfi Spar. He’s now at a less conspicuous address than Tottenham Nick. Jackson should be with him, right about now.”

“But Jackson Banks is out of control! You have to stop him!”

“Too late.”

“This is ugliful!”

He attempts reassurance. “Call-Me Norman ordered Jackson not to hurt Alfi. I myself reiterated that instruction. And now I can prove to Banks where the profit really lies.”

I’m bunching my fists. “Do you think he’ll bother to obey?”

“You can rely on it.”

But there’s something he’s not telling me. The Digit is being kept out of the loop. Virus gazes at the cushion, checking against stray crumbs. There are no crumbs. He closes his eyes. Again.

The Digit’s wondering. What exactly
is
Virus’s perfect master plan?

I sleep in. Danny’s already gone to work and Scarlett’s realized there’s nowt in for me brekkie. She knocks on me door, says we need to go to the shop. It’s 11.30!

I leap out o’ bed.

“If we’re quick, we’ll be in time for breakfast,” she says.

“Hunh?”

“Trap it, kill it, cook it, eat it. Thirty minutes. Beans on toast. The deadly beast.”

She’s la-la.

Still: beans on toast. What’s not to like?

London corner shops are pretty much the same as Bradford’s. Scarlett spends ten minutes gossiping wi’ the owner. I can’t remember last time I stood in a shop this long, not without getting hissed out. Scarlett likes talking.

The thing wi’ beans on toast is you have to heat up the beans nice and slow. If you just bring ’em to the boil the heat won’t seep through. They’ll go cold. And you need room-temperature margarine, so it melts upon touch o’ the toast, rather than making the hot toast go cold. And lastly; hot toast fresh from the toaster. Be ready wi’ the marge, slop on the gently bubbling beans, grind some black pepper and serve on a pre-warmed plate, wi’ fresh, steaming tea.

Oh, aye, I’d have some o’ that.

Scarlett says I’m worse than Iggy, dancing round her feet while she’s trying to cook. She won’t even listen to any advice, but, to be fair, she makes a cracking beans on toast.

“Danny’s on half-day today,” she says, “so we thought we could spend the afternoon down the park.”

She’s got a big grin on her face. “Unless,” she goes on, “you’d rather play computer games all day?”

Is she teasing? “No,” I say, “I like the park.”

“Just as well, ’cos we ain’t got no computer.”

That sentence literally dun’t compute. “Everybody has a computer,” I say. “What about a laptop?”

“Nope.”

“So you’ve all the info you need on your Smartphone?”

“It can take messages,” she says.

See? Weird.

Then a thought hits us. I need a computer so’s I can check on me evidence. “I need Facebook,” I say. “What do you guys do when you need Facebook? Or email?”

“Don’t panic. We do it the old-fashioned way.”

“Smoke signals?”

“Library. That’s what it’s for.”