The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) (17 page)

‘Understood, Jack. You don’t have to. I must ask though - what loyalties do you have towards the people in the house we just left?’

We reach the main road, having followed the driveway along the water. There isn’t any traffic, and we are forced to turn left. Over the water, the sun bounces off the steel exoskeleton of the Lowry Centre, creating the illusion of a second sunrise, on this quiet Sunday morning.

‘What do you mean?’ Jack asks, burying his hands in his pockets, as if to keep them from fidgeting.

I’m going to tell him now the other reason why I am so interested.

‘Before you asked me to help you, I had an agenda. It involved a man in London, who had put me in a very sticky situation that saw me arrested. I’m no angel at all, Jack, and while I was in the pen, I changed. The bitterness I had for what happened has gone, and now all I can do is pity the society that put me there. But I won’t give up on it - I can’t. I engineered an escape plan, that would see me marched to the front door and let loose on the quiet, with an insurance policy in place that would give me at least 15 years to get shit done.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘By hook or by crook, I am going to clean up this festering, fetid shit-pile that Britain has become. I’m going to do my part. I’m a soldier, Jack. A problem-solver. A man with specific skills that have no application other than in those specified. I will always fight for my country, and now I feel my country needs me more than ever. I was on my way to London to get started. So tell me again, what loyalty do you carry towards the Berg?’

‘None whatsoever. But why is that relevant?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes! Why?’

‘Because they are exactly the kind of people this country could do without. And when we find out who killed your father, they are the next in my sights. I intend to put them out of business, for good.’

That sways Jack to a standstill, as if I have jolted his balance with a silent, sonic, seismic strike. He looks down, as if the very ground might quake and crumble, and lurch him into an abyss.

‘You... are using me?’ he mutters, his voice low and laced with fissures.

‘No. Not once. Like I said, that is for after we have found your dad’s killer, not before, and not at the same time. I am loyal to you.’

Jack stands still as if movement might make what I have said more real.

‘I am asking for nothing from you, Jack, only that you let me continue. The social niceties back in Felix’s house, the evening drinks... it’s all about gathering intel for their downfall. Don’t believe, for one minute, that I am suckered in by them or their lifestyle.’

Jack eventually looks up at me, cold, distant, pushed, his trust and faith in people ever taking a battering. I feel bad for him, because this hand he has been dealt was never ever what he wanted. He has been force-fed an involvement in something he didn’t want, and he seems ever more conflicted by the depths it makes him sink to. Bound by a history, bound by family. Just bound.

‘Zoe,’ he says.

I look at him. The peroxide mystery rears up for examination.

‘What about Zoe?’ I reply.

‘When you seek to end this business, is it a violent end you are planning?’

‘Violence is always my last resort, believe it or not. But some people only play with fire, and fire is the only way with which to address them. I don’t see that with the Berg.’

‘Zoe,’ Jack repeats.

‘Loyalty?’ I ask.

‘Not loyalty. It’s complicated.’

‘How complicated?’

Jack starts walking again, as if it helps his train of thought. ‘I grew up with her. She is...’

He can’t finish. It doesn’t look like he knows how to, so I try to tease it out of him.

‘You and her have something together?’

‘We grew up together. Back before I knew anything about this. I had always had this hope... Well, you know the rest.’

‘I don’t, but I’ll pretend I do. What is her involvement here?’

I don’t want to tell Jack that if she has any kind of cooperative involvement with the Berg, then she is just as much in my sights as they are.

‘Accountancy,’ says Jack.

‘She keeps the books?’ I reply.

‘Yes. She keeps everything in line, way behind the front line.’

‘Christ’. That’s pretty amazing. She’s not just a merry little helper, she’s an integral cog to this machine. Her importance on my radar just ballooned.

‘Are you going to hurt her?’ Jack looks genuinely worried, and years of hoping look like they may culminate in a violent, heart-breaking resolution, all thanks to himself, for involving this jumped-up do-gooder in his affairs.

‘I’ve no interest in hurting her Jack, understand that. But I have to take her down.’

Now I’m worried. Can I trust Jack not to say anything to her? I mean, how well do I really know Jack? Have I revealed my hand too early? I felt that telling him now was the right time, but Jesus...

I may well have to do something unpleasant to her. Something that would deeply upset Jack, and will surely result in him turning on me, if I haven’t already set the wheels for that in motion. But if Zoe is their book-keeper, she is also a rich source of evidence. All their dealings, will be mapped out somewhere. Profits, expenditures, jobs, employees, corrupted officials - the power of what is locked in her head is surely massive and mighty. And I might be forced to get that information out of her, come hell or high water. Jack wouldn’t like that one bit and I sincerely hope that his mind isn’t racing to where mine is.

Zoe is a delicate looking girl, who carries herself in a certain sensible way. How on earth she ended up in this is utterly beyond me.

‘How old is Zoe?’ I ask.

‘She’s 24,’ Jack responds. ‘Same as me.’

‘How did she become involved?’

‘I don’t know the ins and outs, but Felix took her in. She was very young when her parents died, leaving Felix to pick up the pieces.’

Interesting. Felix clearly has more than one offspring, and another layer to the man is suggested - one that is sensitive and caring enough to look after a child out in the cold. Very interesting. The crime lord with a heart of gold.

Further to that, I would imagine that her loyalties themselves are fiercely attached to the man who placed a roof over her head, when her parents passed away. I know mine would be. So if I want that incriminating information, it will be doubly hard to make her spill any.

I try not to think about it. But if I can get an audio or video recoding of a confession from her, naming all the names and explaining the Berg’s dealings to the letter, then I can just anonymously get that to the police, and they will do the rest. It would have to be the right person in the police. But I think I have an idea about that, about who may be the perfect candidate for the receipt of such information, and how best that information could be used for their downfall.

But the issue of Jack’s father is very much pressing, as is Sparkles. If he isn’t dead, we are marked men.

‘Let’s head to your place, Jack. I have a few things I want to look into,’ I say.

Jack shrugs, but doesn’t appear to resist. He seems saddened by it all, so beaten down by the hopelessness of the situation he finds himself in. I must admit to myself, that it would be hard not to feel used if the roles were reversed.

‘I don’t mean to exploit this position, and the information you have given me, Jack. But when it comes to the things I broke out of prison to achieve, this is an opportunity that is too good to pass, in a place I feel for. If the Berg are everything you say they are, and it seems they are exactly that, then both of us are doing this city and this country a favor.’

We need to get off the streets, and do some digging. And that will be harder. I can see my afternoon getting busier and busier - if we can stay alive long enough to get anything done, that is.

16

We take a cab, back to Jack’s house, and wallow in a deep silence the whole way there. Even the driver seems oppressed by the boggy atmosphere, and doesn’t attempt any chit-chat. We are at the house in ten minutes, and when we arrive, Jack jumps out immediately and wordlessly, while I am left to pay. He seems to think I deserve it, and I don’t quibble.

I follow Jack as he unlocks the door, and enters, slipping his shoes off as he crosses the threshold. Out of quaint respect for long-buried social niceties, I do the same. I think I’ve really pissed him off, and the last thing I want to do now is sully the floors with dirty footsteps. We pad into the kitchen where Jack, unsure of what else to do perhaps, embarks on that great British tradition, when one can get one’s feet up and really wrap your noggin around something - a cup of tea. I find myself unable to slow down the same way, so when the kettle’s on and the Twinings bags are safely in the pot, I walk to the fridge.

‘Can you show me the safe?’ I ask.

Jack walks over, still taciturn, and gives the fridge a sharp yank from the wall, after which it slides easily along, leaving a gap I can poke my head and shoulders through. The safe is a rugged beauty, black brushed steel, and looks like any secret would happily be at home in there. It also looks as if it could withstand about anything, and I can imagine a nuclear strike detonating right here, wiping Manchester off the face of the planet, leaving nothing behind save for this perfect ebony box in the middle of a gigantic, smoking crater.

Jack sticks his hand through the gap, and I hear gears whirring. Then a clunk, and a creak. He steps back to allow me a peak.

‘The only thing I moved is the gun,’ says Jack. ‘The rest is exactly how he left it.’

I glance around the corner, to see a square opening a couple of feet across, with the contents on three shelves lit by a blue neon LED. There are a fair few things in here, suggesting that Royston was not expecting anything to happen to him anytime soon.

Top shelf - three mobile phones, each the same make of iPhone, a blank space presumably where the handgun used to sit, and some documents. Will need sifting through in detail.

Middle shelf - four five-inch cubes, each containing beautiful little fish in exotic colors. Each cube is separated by a black piece of card, and I nearly smile. Felix’s little side-earner, that started it all. The fish all look fine, save for the one on the end, that’s floating belly-to-the-heavens, it’s eyes milky. Next to the cubes is a little pot of fish flakes and second plastic container full with brine shrimp and red worms.

Bottom shelf - cold hard cash filling the whole shelf, stacked up and along. They all look like fifties, and fast maths suggests there may well be close to a million quid in there. Bloody hell.

I leave the money where it is, and take out everything else, placing it on the kitchen counter top. A hot mug is slid across to me. I turn all three phones on, one at a time, and wait for them to boot up. Opening the lids on the cubes, I sprinkle in some shrimp for the fish, who must be starving. They eagerly smash into the falling crustaceans, like tiny, ornate piranhas. I don’t feed Milky on the end there, poor lad. His ship has sailed. The phones sing to life with that happy little Apple jingle, and all look at me brightly, standing to attention, ready to do my bidding.

I take the first one, while Jack sits on the counter opposite me. He seems growing in agitation, so if a cup of tea helps him settle, I wont be disturbing him.

I look at the screen, and try quickly to navigate the interface. I had seen one of these before, but had never owned one. They looked nice, but never practical for an active lifestyle. An indestructible Nokia was always my preferred choice - one that would also have happily survived that nuclear blast I was thinking about earlier. Thanks to my brief relationship with my Samsung, I get the hang of things pretty quickly. I open up contacts. I figure that it’s only the extremely unlucky who get killed by people they don’t know, by accidents or psychopaths. Royston’s line of work was one tinged with inherent dangers by way of association more than anything else - so that now, as the contact list gives me a modest 70 odd names, it reads like an expansive book of extra suspects. I’m pleased it’s only 70 however - it’s a number I can conceivably tackle, with a bit of time.

I scan the names. Bolt, Brian, Christian, Delores, Eustace, Gloria, Grieg, Happy, Harry... None mean anything to me. More than that, none of the names I am aware of are showing up, like Leonard, Felix, Samson, Michael and so on, but that doesn’t really surprise. Any one of the names in the contact book could be pseudonyms.

I do the same task on the second phone and the third, checking contacts. The second one is far more interesting, in that it contains merely the alphabet. 26 contact entries named only by a single letter. And no email details either, simply mobile numbers. Much more promising.

The third phone’s contact list is blank. Nothing at all. In fact, the whole phone is empty. No pictures, no apps, no calls placed, no nothing. That is extremely interesting.

I risk the wrath of Jack, but I need to ask him.

‘Jack, did your dad know a Delores?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, she was his cousin. My kind-of aunt. Not seen her in a while though,’ Jack replies, while staring out of the bay kitchen windows.

‘And Bolt?’

‘Umm... I think he was a guy he used to go to the football with. A Bolton fan. Yeah, that was right.’

We go through all the names quickly, and Jack knows each one as one of his father’s friends or family members. He can’t identify a couple of them, but the picture is already clear. This first phone is for personal use only - a useful tool when organizing the dualities of the life he had chosen.

That poses the inevitable question of the 26 names on phone 2. Call-signs and pseudonyms of 26 lucky people, who clearly got the special treatment. How best to find out who they are though? And of course, what was that third phone used for, if not for business or personal? That makes me question if there a fourth, that perhaps he had with him when he was taken. I could ask Jack, but all three phones are identical. IPhone 4S in black, 32GB. There’s no separating them. Even the home screen wallpapers are the same.

The phone I’m holding beeps audibly, and a little microphone icon appears. I can’t see any way to exit the screen, so I ask Jack.