Nothing Sacred (19 page)

‘And nobody said anything?'

‘Got away with it all. Didn't matter what,' Ade says. ‘Always had done. His dad'd buy witnesses, make sure they didn't say nothing. Paid Connor's victims off, made it all go away.'

‘All of it?'

‘Untouchable, always had been, Connor. Couldn't do no wrong. You seen him. Fucking film star.' For the first time I sense aggression from Ade, an anger deep inside him. I look at him, his size, and choose my words.

‘And now? You don't see him?'

‘Don't have nothing to do with him. Ain't allowed anyway. Parole, and all that. Besides, them Blakes scare the shit out of me, always did. Soon's I can, I'm leaving. Moving away. Another country. Can't get far enough away.'

I thank Ade, apologise again for taking up his time and for asking him difficult questions. Ade shakes his head, says it's okay, whatever, long as he still has a job to go back to.

I stand up but Ade stays seated. When I leave the hotel I look back through the window of the lounge and Ade is still sitting on the sofa, massive in his chef's whites, looking down at his hands. His lips are moving and I think that he might be praying, to who and for what I do not know.

18

I FIND GABE
working on his car in his garage, the door pushed open. Working next to him is the shaven-headed man I met days ago, who Gabe had called Gavin. It turns out his official title is Major Strauss and they served together in Afghanistan, where Major Strauss had been the battalion commander to Gabe's platoon leader. He is popping out the bodywork of Gabe's car and while he does it he tells me that he has worked on Land Rovers in Northern Ireland, that he cannot recall the number of dents he has repaired. He tells me that British soldiers are worse drivers than Italians. Watching them work I see that they have an easy camaraderie, a product of years serving together; a part of Gabe's life I know little about.

As they work they explain the situation to me as it stands, 7 Platoon and Lance Corporal Creek, recount it in crisp sentences as if they are briefing a junior officer who is still green and needs everything spelling out. But they are right: I have no idea of the world they are dealing in.

‘So the platoon all went into private security?' I say.

‘Most of them,' says Gabe. ‘At least twenty.'

‘Unusual,' says Major Strauss. ‘For all of them to go at once. But after what they'd seen in Kunar they'd had enough, wanted the easy life.' He tested the electric window on the back rear door and it did not work. ‘Fuse,' he says.

‘So what they're doing, that's easy?'

Gabe laughs, counts off on his fingers. ‘Better pay. Better weapons. More respect.'

‘And they get to do whatever they want, make up their rules of engagement,' says Major Strauss. ‘In the British Army, before you pull the trigger you need to be damn sure you understand the politics of what you're about to do. Shoot the wrong person, at the wrong time, in the wrong place, you're going to jail.'

Gabe shakes his head. ‘Joke.'

‘Getting that way,' says Major Strauss, who is now the other side of the car, poking around underneath Gabe's steering wheel. ‘But in private security, there's no rule book.'

‘All depends on where you're willing to go,' says Gabe. ‘A group of mates can win a massive contract in the first year or two of trading, just because they're the only ones'll go there.'

‘South Sudan,' says Major Strauss. ‘There are regulars with two, three years' army experience cleaning up over there.' He stands up. ‘It's not the fuse. My guess is that window's buggered.'

‘Mostly about reputation, though,' says Gabe. ‘Think about it, you're some white-collar boy from a multinational – petroleum, minerals, something like that. Living in a gated compound in Lagos or Khartoum, hostile locals, you're going out in the field three, four times a week. You want people you can trust looking after you.'

‘The Americans like ex-Rangers, the Brits go for Special Forces or, if not, then regular infantry with combat experience,' says Major Strauss. ‘All about reputation.'

‘So the boys from the Rifles have got it all going on,' says Gabe. ‘Masses of combat experience, decorations, readymade command structure. Good to go.'

‘Global Armour?' I say.

‘That's what they're calling themselves,' says Gabe. ‘And the word is they're up for some huge contract in Iraq. Word gets out about what happened in Afghanistan, there's no way they'll win it.'

I nod. For the first time I have a sense of what Gabe is involved in: taking on a group of battle-hardened soldiers, threatening their chances of getting rich, of hitting the big time.

Major Strauss pulls off the trim around Gabe's rear door and looks at the assembly underneath. ‘This,' he says, ‘looks fuck all like a Land Rover.'

We give up on Gabe's car and move to his kitchen, make coffee, sit at his table. Gabe sits opposite Major Strauss and as I sit next to Gabe I once again have a feeling of intrusion, of encroaching on private territory and history. They drink and reminisce about Afghanistan and Gabe reminds Major Strauss of an Afghan army recruit who had arrived at their base fresh from having been given rudimentary training at the army centre outside Kabul. The first thing he had done when on routine manoeuvres was shoot a cow with an RPG; he had missed the first time but had got it on the second attempt, scoring a hit in the cow's centre mass so that it rained steak and there was little left of the cow but hooves and a head. Apparently the recruit had been disappointed as he had wanted the cow for food and the RPG had done too much damage.

‘Why didn't he just shoot it?' says Major Strauss. ‘He had a sidearm, right? Could have walked right up to it, shot it in the head.'

‘Don't know,' says Gabe. ‘Maybe he just liked the feel of the RPG.'

‘He last long?'

‘Gone the next day. Like he'd joined the army just to blow up a cow, soon's he'd done that,
adios
.'

Major Strauss and Gabe laugh and I smile with them; I have never heard Gabe discuss his time in the army like this, treat it with such wry amusement. My initial impression of Major Strauss had been unfair; I had been hostile, jealous that Gabe had put him before me, assumed he was something he was not. But he seems a good man, urbane and jovial but with the strata of hardness running through him that has got him to the rank of major, has made him able to command men on the battlefield.

Gabe stops laughing, turns his empty coffee cup with his fingers. ‘So, Gavin. What's the situation?'

Major Strauss looks at me, back at Gabe. Gabe shakes his head. ‘Daniel's on our side. You can talk in front of him.'

Major Strauss nods and I feel strangely privileged to be included, but also out of my depth in the company of these two men who have seen combat up close, who have taken lives without compunction or guilt.

‘So,' says Major Strauss, ‘Corporal Creek's inquest. I'll be honest, Gabriel, it's not looking great. Not great at all.'

‘You spoke to the generals?'

‘Got as far as their secretaries.' He sighs. ‘They've pulled the drawbridge up, Gabriel. Closed ranks. You know what it's like.'

‘No reply?'

‘Left messages, written letters. Nothing. Right now it's a dead end and I'll be honest with you, I'm not sure what's left to do.' Major Strauss takes a deep breath, lets it out. ‘It's the situation out there, much as anything. Helmand's going under and there are more casualties every day. The government in Kabul is a joke, an embarrassment. We tried to rebuild a nation and it's worse than under the Taliban.'

Gabe nods. ‘We're pulling out?'

‘Probably. Soon as we can convince everybody that we're not running away from it.' He smiles without humour. ‘Which we will be. But the point is, last thing the army needs is any more bad publicity. Reopening an inquest? They don't want to know.'

‘Anything left to do?'

‘Unless you can dig up a witness. We need to apply pressure, give them no choice. Right now, they couldn't give a shit about us.'

Major Strauss picks up his jacket and we walk with him out to Gabe's hall. He shakes our hands, puts his arm across Gabe's shoulders.

‘I'm sorry,' he says to Gabe. ‘I understand why you want this to happen. But you may need to make your peace.'

Gabe nods. ‘Thank you, sir,' he says. ‘I'll be in touch.'

Major Strauss leaves and Gabe turns without speaking, heads back to the kitchen. I think perhaps he wishes to be alone, put my head around the door but he beckons me in.

‘Coffee?'

‘Okay.'

Gabe takes down coffee, filters, talks to me as he is doing it. ‘You go to see this Blake guy?'

‘I saw him.'

‘And?'

I shake my head. ‘Man thinks he owns people. Never met anyone like it.'

‘What's he want from you?'

‘Wants me to represent him.'

‘Why?'

‘Search me. Didn't get that far.'

‘You hit him?'

‘A bit.'

Gabe laughs, fills the coffee machine. ‘Enough to scare him off?'

‘Don't know. Hope so.'

I sit in silence at Gabe's table, thinking about Connor Blake. ‘I asked him about Ryan. What he'd wanted from him. He told me he wanted Ryan to get him out of prison. No idea how, no plan. Put it all on Ryan. Asked the impossible.'

‘Can understand why he killed himself.'

‘Yeah.'

Gabe sits opposite me. ‘This is all happening because you agreed to help, what was her name?'

‘Vick.'

‘Yeah, Vick. Listen, Dan, you're a decent man. Things'll work out.'

I do not reply. Instead, unbidden, a string of images pass through my mind: of Vick, her kids, Maria, all the ways in which things could not work out, could end in catastrophe.

‘She all right? Vick?' Gabe says.

I bring myself back to the here and now, blink the thoughts away. ‘She's seeing her kids. Thinks she'll get them back soon.'

I had spoken to Vick earlier and she had seemed better. Nothing more had happened in her house, she was getting regular access to her children and, she told me, the events of the last few months were beginning to seem like a bad dream. A bad dream that had caused her ex-husband to take his own life.

‘See?' says Gabe. ‘Things'll work out.'

He pours coffee and we sit and drink and plan our next matches, discuss opponents' strengths and weaknesses, formulate strategies. As always with Gabe, I feel stronger, more of a formidable force alongside my old partner. His kitchen is warm and as familiar as my own and eventually I convince myself that I might have seen the last of the Blakes, that they might leave me alone. I am stronger than Ryan, bigger and uglier; I could be more trouble than it's worth. But at the same time, I cannot help but think of Alex Blake. A man who would do anything for his son: cover up crimes, make it all disappear. Where will he stop?

19

THE NEXT MORNING
a slight warmth has at last overcome the cold and the sun is shining, giving a sense that spring is finally marshalling its vast green reserves. Maria and I drive into the countryside with the windows open, the breeze snatching at our hair and the flat land opening out in front of us like an invitation to participate in a worthwhile future.

A friend of Maria's from school is getting married and Maria is maid of honour; we have booked a room where the wedding is being held, are staying overnight. Two days away from the events of the last weeks – the relief I feel is like taking deep breaths of air after having been smothered. Maria catches the lift in my mood, sings along happily to whatever songs come on the radio, makes up words that make little sense but which make me laugh.

The wedding is at a brick country house built in the sixteenth century by Sir Somebody and had been visited by Queen Elizabeth I, a man in a white suit tells us as he shows Maria and me through to the reception, carries our bags to our rooms and points out the view, the four-poster, the bathroom, the mini-bar, until I give him a tenner to go away. Maria is hanging up her dress and it strikes me that this must be what all couples do: go to weddings and stay in hotels. That we are a couple, just like any other; the feeling is something I cannot describe.