Nothing Sacred (36 page)

ON THE WAY
back to Gabe's we meet a stream of police patrol cars, their blue strobing lights illuminating the edges of fields and branches of trees as they barrel past us. Overhead we hear the drone of a police chopper, see its searchlight probing the ground. We do not say a lot in the car. What we have just seen was too monstrous, too sudden, too final. We caused it and it happened, but none of us imagined it would work out so well, so terribly perfectly. At least five men dead, as a result of my phone call. How are these things even possible?

I do not go inside when we get to Gabe's. It will be dawn soon and I need to get some sleep. The three of us shake hands, almost guiltily, aware that we have been through something this night that we will try never to speak of again. Perhaps Gabe and Petroski feel the same way as I do: that we have done something we believe was right, but have at the same time committed grave wrongs. Then I think of Gabe and his time in the army, the ruthlessness that runs through him like a seam of hard mineral, and I doubt it. He will sleep like a baby.

Back at my place Maria's presence is everywhere so I sleep in my spare room, which is bare and cold. Although I think I won't, I fall asleep before it becomes light.

The first thing I do when I wake is call Maria's mother, who tells me that Maria is well although still disoriented and confused. I tell her to let me know if there is anything I can do, that I am sorry that Maria and I, what we had, had not worked out. I make coffee, then put a call through to Jack on the local paper. I take a drink of coffee as it rings, blink, try to force some energy into my body after three hours' sleep.

‘Danny. How you doing?'

‘I'm good, Jack. Listen, I owe you a story. Got a pen?'

‘Yep.'

‘Last night, about ten miles north of Bradwell.'

‘The shootings?'

‘This is in confidence, right?'

‘Lips sealed, hope to die, et cetera.'

‘The police will have found the shooters. Look into them. Connections with Global Armour. British mercenaries operating on domestic soil, carrying out executions. Might be a story in it.'

‘Sounds like something I could sell. You're sure about this?'

‘Very.'

‘Can I ask where you got your information from?'

‘You can ask, Jack. Won't help you.'

‘Fair enough. Thanks for this, Dan.'

‘No problem. Just leave me out of the story.'

‘Never met you in my life.'

It has been days, weeks even, since I have done any proper work for any of my existing clients – if, that is, any of them still exist. After I have spoken to Jack I get in my car and head to my office. I pick up the post, check messages, see that Aatif is being definitively denied the right to remain in the UK. But before I even have time to sit down there is a knock at my door. I walk out into my entryway and through the glass door I can see Sergeant Hicklin. I do my best to hide my irritation at seeing him, open the door.

‘Sergeant.'

‘Mr Connell. You look tired.'

‘Got a lot of work.'

‘Really?' He takes a look about my shabby entrance, the scuffed floor tiles and bare bulb hanging from the water-damaged ceiling. ‘Pays well, does it?'

I do not reply to this, stifle a smile at his guileless taunt. ‘Want to come in?'

‘Brief word. If I may.'

I walk through to my office, shove a hand at the chair in front of my desk as I pass it, sit down behind my desk. Hicklin settles himself, crosses his legs, ankle on knee.

‘So,' I say.

‘So.' Hicklin nods slowly, as if collecting his thoughts, remembering why he is here and what he wants. ‘You hear about the shootings?'

‘Shootings?'

‘Right. Five men dead. All connected, in some way, to the Blakes.'

‘Really.' I try to sound interested, surprised, remind myself that Connor Blake is my client and that this is relevant to me. ‘That's something.'

‘Something,' Hicklin repeats to himself. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. It really is something.'

‘Does it, however,' I say, ‘affect my client in any way?'

‘I suspect he will have known them.'

‘What do you want me to do? Go visit him, rub his back, tell him I'm sorry about his friends?'

‘No, Mr Connell. No. You misunderstand me. I want to know what you know about it.'

‘About…?'

‘You suddenly begin representing Connor Blake. Your girlfriend is attacked, put into a coma. And less than forty-eight hours later, five of Blake's men are found full of bullets. Doesn't sound odd to you?'

‘Sounds circumstantial,' I say.

Hicklin nods. ‘Your friend, Mr McBride. He was in the army. You know we arrested soldiers nearby?'

‘Sounds like you've got a mess on your hands.'

‘You know, Mr Connell, I'm beginning to revise my opinion about you.'

‘Oh?'

‘That layer of arsehole. It's a lot thicker than I thought.'

I do not want to make an enemy of Sergeant Hicklin. He is the only ally I have on the force, the only policeman I can trust. I hold up my hands, show him my palms.

‘Sergeant, I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're getting at. As far as I am aware, Connor Blake had nothing to do with what happened to Maria. I am still representing him. What happened last night has nothing to do with me. Purely coincidental.'

Hicklin nods, stands up. ‘How is she, anyway? Your girlfriend.'

‘She's awake. No permanent damage. And Sergeant? She's not my girlfriend.'

At Ryan's funeral I stand at the back and do not introduce myself to anybody, arrive late so that Vick does not see me. The funeral is held in a church built of local flint and the turnout is sparse. There are perhaps forty people in the church, which is small and gloomy. Ryan took his own life and I wonder if that is why so few people have turned up, reluctant to pay their respects to a man who committed an act against God. The minister speaks about Ryan's time in the army and his new career as a prison warden. He skirts the subject of his suicide, fudges the issue of whether or not he is bound for hell, says simply that he hopes that wherever Ryan is now, he is at peace. I sense that the minister does not hold out a great deal of hope for this scenario.

I can see Vick on the front pew and her children Ollie and Gwynn are next to her, with Ms Armstrong the social worker sitting the other side of them. I guess that she is the responsible adult assigned to accompany the children from where, I know, they are still being held in care. Ms Armstrong wears her usual African headdress, although today it is a sombre navy blue with a lighter blue pattern on it. I wonder how terrible it must be for Vick to be sitting before the coffin of the man she loved, sitting next to her children she is not allowed to look after. Connor Blake has torn a ruinous path through all of our lives in the last few weeks.

As I stand at the back listening to the minister, I console myself with the thought that I have now taken a measure of vengeance. Although – and I acknowledge that I should not be having these thoughts in a place of God – nowhere near enough.

I arrive at Vick's after the last guests have left her house, after her children have been taken back to the care home. When I get there she is clearing up paper cups and plates, wrapping up uneaten food, still wearing her dark skirt and jacket. She looks tired but when she sees that it is me she smiles and flattens her hair, asks me to come inside.

‘I saw you at the funeral,' she says.

‘Yeah. Showed my face.'

‘Thank you, Daniel.'

‘I saw Ollie and Gwynn. What's the situation?'

‘The situation.' She sighs, nods me into the living room. ‘Let's sit down.'

I walk through and sit in an armchair. Vick sits in the sofa facing me, her coffee table between us.

‘The situation, Dan, is that it's still a mystery. Ollie and Gwynn, they say I never touched them. Ms Armstrong, I think she believes us. But still, we don't know what happened.'

‘I know,' I say.

For a moment Vick does not react, as if she has not heard what I said. Then she looks at me slowly, says, ‘You know?'

‘I know everything,' I say. ‘Time you did too.'

With Connor Blake's people taken care of and his father disowning him, lifting any protection, I cannot see how much of a threat he can now pose to Vick or her children. I tell her about Connor Blake, what he did to Karl Reece, tell her that he was held in the same prison that Ryan had worked in. I tell her how he had got to Ryan, had got his people to move Vick's furniture, hurt her children, terrorise them to ensure Ryan's compliance. How Connor Blake had placed Ryan in a situation so dreadful, so impossible to navigate out of, that he had taken his own life to spare hers and their children's.

‘How do you know?' said Vick. ‘How do you know all this?'

‘Soon as he didn't have Ryan any more, he needed somebody else. Somebody else to blackmail, to get him out of prison by any means necessary. Me.'

As I tell Vick about what Connor Blake did to me, about the photographs and the drugs and the attack on Maria, she looks at me in horror and utter dismay. I go through it as quickly as I can and I can see her trying to keep up, trying to make sense of what I am telling her. But perhaps these events can never make complete sense, caused as they were by a man whose morality is so at odds with society's that he might as well come from another planet.

‘Oh Dan. Oh Dan, I'm so sorry.'

‘Not your fault,' I say.

‘If I hadn't come to you…'

‘You couldn't have known. How could we have known?'

‘She be okay? Maria?'

‘Think so. Hope so.'

Vick is quiet for a moment, her legs tucked underneath her on the sofa, thinking about what I have told her.

‘Ryan… I thought…'

‘He was a good man,' I say. ‘He did his best for you, for the kids.'

Vick nods, puts her hands together and bends her head in an attitude of prayer. I do not say anything and when she lifts her head there are tears on her cheeks.

‘So… I can tell Ms Armstrong this? Tell her this is what happened?'

‘You can tell her,' I say. ‘But we don't have any proof. To her it's just a story.'

‘Will you come with me?'

‘Yes. I'll come. But Vick, understand, we don't have any evidence.'

‘No.' Vick is quiet again, running everything that I have told her through her mind, grappling with it. She looks at me. ‘This man. Connor Blake. What's going to happen to him? He can't get away with it. Can he? He… He killed Ryan. And what he did to my children…' Her voice rises as she recounts what Blake has done, how he has destroyed her family.

I hold out my hands, pat the air to calm her down. ‘Don't worry,' I say. ‘You don't need to worry. I'll take care of Blake.'

37

THAT BLAKE IS
in prison has always been the problem. Inside he is safe, untouchable. I cannot get at him. He can taunt me, threaten me, cause harm to the people I love, and I can do nothing but sit opposite him and look into his smug, triumphant eyes. Outside he would not last a minute alone with me. But there he is, locked up under constant scrutiny from the guards.

I have arranged a meeting, told him that I have what he wants and that it is time to call a stop to this thing, get it done. I am going to see him in prison one last time. There will not be a next time, I know this. One way or another.

I pass through the security procedures of Galley Wood and I remember my feeling of near panic when I was here with cocaine hidden in my mouth. They do not X-ray my briefcase and for that I am grateful. I cannot wait to see Blake, feel the pulse-hurrying apprehension I do when warming up before a match. I feel good. Confident. I am looking forward to this, know that I am going in the strong favourite, the form man. For the first time since I met Blake, I can back myself.

The white-haired guard lets me into our meeting room and I sit alone for two or three minutes while he goes to fetch Blake. I look around the room. This is the fourth time that I have been here. I will not miss it, its drab brick and metal furniture and air of gathering oppression as if the steel doors are only just holding back the misery and hatred of the hundreds of inmates beyond. I open my briefcase. I want to be ready.

The door opens and Blake is led in, the guard holding him by the inside of the elbow. Blake is in cuffs and his eye that was black is now green and brown, and he has none of the insolent assurance of the last time that we met.

‘You can take the cuffs off,' I say.

Blake looks at me, down at his wrists, off balance. ‘You what?'

‘Just get them off,' I say.

‘Sure?' says the guard.

‘Yes.'

He shrugs and unlocks the cuffs, unsnaps them, hooks them to his belt. ‘You need me, bang on the door.'

‘Thanks.'