The Evil And The Pure (22 page)

Another day indoors recovering, staring at the walls, eating, drinking, wounds healing. Examining his body
. He was going soft. He’d never worked out – gyms were for fags – labouring on building-sites kept him trim. But it had been a long time since his last bout on the sites. He was fattening out, biceps not as taut as they’d once been. His brute force was all he had going for him. He couldn’t afford to soften up. He’d have to return to the sites soon if he didn’t catch a break, get back into shape, stay strong.

Gawl hit the King’s Head
and sipped beer slowly, feeling sorry for himself, considering the future. Didn’t want to quit London. Deep down he knew the city wasn’t the problem. He’d been sinking lower and lower, getting old, losing his hunger and nerve, looking for a cushy number to see him through his final years. He’d abandoned too many cities prematurely. Old and experienced enough to know he was running out of options, a change of venue not the answer, needing to take control of his destiny now, while he still could.

He r
olled out of the King’s Head before eleven and headed home, lying in bed in the dark, still thinking, determined not to sleep until an answer presented itself. Getting nowhere with the gangs. His best half-hope of making a big score – Larry Drake – had been butchered for a crime of Gawl’s. That left Fr Sebastian and his coterie of miserable old widows. How many more could he target before they were linked to the Church of Sacred Martyrs? Not many. And what good were they to him anyway? Loose change. Beer money.

Thinking of Fr Sebastian, his thoughts turned to the dealer he’d spotted in the church, Larry Drake’s connection
, Clint Smith. Gawl’s eyes narrowed in the dark. Smith had looked like a weak man, most of his clients of the nondescript variety, some of them lowlife dole queue scum. But Drake had come to him. Other actors might too. Maybe Smith was worth Gawl’s time. Stake him out, see who else visited him, latch on to another minor celeb, take care not to rape their girlfriend this time and queer the deal for himself.

A long shot – Smith didn’t look like the sort who had TV stars lining up around the block – but
it was all Gawl had. The dealer was a regular in the church, simple to stake out. Maybe trail him around, find out where else he dealt, get close to him as he had to Drake, find a way to use him. If that failed…

Fuck it.
He’d spent too long brooding on his failures. Time to think positively. Smith the ticket. He’d already led Gawl to one potential goldmine. He could –
would
– lead him to another.

Gawl finished off the bottle of cider by his bedside, settled back and waited for sleep to claim him, inviting dreams of Clint Smith, major drug deals, a rose-tinted old age — instead dreaming of the past, men he’d broken, women he’d raped and
murdered. He smiled in his sleep.
Good times
.

SEVENTEEN

Big Sandy and Fast Eddie on the beach at Margate, a strange-looking couple, trying to blow off hangovers. Grey skies, drizzle, beach deserted except for the two men reclining in deckchairs, staring moodily out over the churning sea, hair and faces slick with rain, both silent.

They’d left London shortly after killing Drake
and the woman. Lots of media interest, the police having to put on a good show, searching hard for the bodies, looking for scapegoats. The Bush slipped the pair some cash and told them they wouldn’t have to go into exile for long, just a few weeks, as long as nobody came forward to connect them with the blood in the apartment and the disappearances.

He knew it was madness, but Big Sandy called Sapphire on his first morning in Margate and told her to come to him. Shaking bad. He hadn’t been able to sleep. The murder of Drake didn’t bother him – that bastard had it coming and Big Sandy just wished that he could bring him back to life and kill him again – but the woman had done nothing wrong except offer harbour to a friend. Her face haunted him. What he had done to her haunted him. He needed release.

Sapphire had been careful. Three trains instead of a car, the last a tiny local service, virtually nobody on board, as sure as she could be that she hadn’t been followed. Big Sandy and Fast Eddie were sharing a room – safer that way if anyone came after them – but Fast Eddie made himself scarce and booked a single room that night. If he disapproved of Big Sandy’s visitor, he kept his opinion to himself. Killing was hard, even for men accustomed to it. Sometimes you needed to reach out for help and take a risk. Fast Eddie respected Big Sandy enough to allow him that gamble. If it went wrong, he’d share the blame and consequences with his old friend.

Big Sandy had broken down almost as soon as he was alone with Sapphire, not needing to get drunk this time, the guilt and shame having buil
t in him all the way down from London. She held him tight, stroked him calmingly, soothed him as best she could, granted absolution. She’d already heard about Larry Drake, but hadn’t linked his disappearance with Big Sandy. Thrilled to have the inside scoop on the notorious story. Appalled because she feared that this time Big Sandy had gone too far. Drake was a small time celeb, but a public figure nonetheless, and she wasn’t sure Big Sandy’s crew could make this one go away. The press would keep investigating. People would talk. The police wouldn’t let it drop. Scared of being linked to it, of being seen as a liability, of being quietly eliminated by another of the Bush’s men if he found out that she’d been here.

Sapphire gloomy the next day, getting ready to leave. Big Sandy read her mood and tried to
dispel her fears. “Fast Eddie won’t say anything about you being here. He knows you can be trusted. It won’t be the first time we’ve kept secrets from Dave. When you’re in our position, you look out for one another.”

“Thanks,” Sapphire smiled.

Big Sandy ran a finger down her cheek and sighed. “Still, I shouldn’t have summoned you.”

Sapphire shook her head. “You needed me.”

“Yeah. But sometimes it’s wiser not to act on your needs.” He scowled. “I don’t think anyone will try to trace me through you. The cops probably won’t get that far, and I’m pretty sure Drake didn’t have any contacts who cared enough about him to come in search of revenge. But if I’m wrong… if men like me and Fast Eddie track you down and ask if you know where I am… tell them.”

Sapphire stared at him. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You would,” he said sternly. “You
will
. If they get that far, they’ll push all the way. You won’t be doing me any favours if you try to protect me. You’ll just end up dead like…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

“Sandy,” she whispered, eyes filling with tears.

“No need for that,” he said gruffly. “Like I said, I doubt it will happen. But if it does, give me up, tell them everything you know, save yourself.” He didn’t add,
if you can
, not wanting to scare her any more than he already had.

Margate dead in October and November. Big Sandy lonely after Sapphire had gone. Not much to talk about with Fast Eddie, neither a man of many words. Fast Eddie went off with women most nights and got drunk, but Big Sandy kept a low profile — inclined to talk too much when he was with a woman or half-cut. That was fine if the woman was Sapphire or one of her girls, dangerous if it was some stranger.

Unable to bear the boredom, he’d gone drinking last night. Fast Eddie stayed with him to keep an eye on him. An enjoyable night, the pair remembering the past and discussing old friends and acquaintances, but both men hungover this morning. Fast Eddie had suggested a beach cure, the cold wind blowing in off the sea the perfect pick-me-up. It had worked, though as Big Sandy staggered back to their hotel, shivering, he wondered if the cure might not be worse than the curse.

That night, having finally warmed up, he went to another pub with Fast Eddie, this time just for a bite to eat and one or two pints. While he was nursing his second and final drink, his mobile rang. Thought it would be the Bush summoning them home or telling them they had to flee, but it was Julius Scott. “Hi Julius,” he said, shuffling away from Fast Eddie so he could talk privately.

“Hello Sandy. Is this a good time?”

“Sure. Got some hot tips for me?”

“A couple of crackers.”

Julius Scott was Big Sandy’s investments manager. Eight years earlier his ten-year-old daughter had been kidnapped and held for ransom. Julius called the police. They advised him to pay. The kidnappers took the cash then sent him one of his daughter’s fingers and demanded more money. Julius turned to Dave Bushinsky. The Bush set Big Sandy on the case. It took him fourteen hours to track down the kidnappers. Three Brixton boys, small-time amateurs. Big Sandy knocked out the trio and carried the girl downstairs to her father. Started back up to finish the job. Julius said, “I want to watch.” Big Sandy said, “No you don’t.” Julius said, “I need to be sure.” Big Sandy said, “I’ll fetch you when I’m done.” Upstairs he tore the kidnappers to pieces, then brought Julius up. Julius vomited, wept, thanked Big Sandy for sparing him the sight of the actual killing. Big Sandy sent him away, thinking that was the end of their relationship.

Three weeks later, Julius Scott on the phone, saying he ha
d some market tips for Big Sandy if he had cash to invest. Big Sandy not that bothered – he’d never been interested in money – but then he thought about Megan and Amelie. He sent most of his earnings their way, but he never felt as if he was sending enough. If he could make a little more, maybe set up a trust fund for the girl…

Big Sandy discussed it with the Bus
h. Dave thought it was a good idea. He had been handling Big Sandy’s affairs but was happy to turn the purse strings over to Julius, figuring he could keep an eye on things and make some investments of his own if Julius proved himself a sound guide. Big Sandy had been an active, albeit slightly bewildered investor since then. As well as being able to bump up his payments to Megan, according to Julius he was now worth more than three hundred thousand pounds. That would take Amelie far in life, and it didn’t matter to Big Sandy that she would probably never be told where the windfall had come from.

“We took some losses recently,” Julius said, “but I’m sure we can recoup th
em. I want to transfer…”

He
droned on, Big Sandy only half listening. At the end, when Julius asked if he had Big Sandy’s approval to sell off stock, transfer funds and buy new shares, Big Sandy said, as he always did, “Sounds good to me.” He’d tried convincing Julius to do as he pleased – he didn’t have to ask Big Sandy’s permission every time a deal presented itself – but Julius believed in keeping him fully informed.

When Big Sandy hung up, Fast
Eddie asked who’d called. “My stockbroker.”

“Of course it was,” Fast Eddie
snorted. “It’s OK if you don’t want to tell me. No need to lie about it.”

Big Sandy smiled, took a sip of his beer, thought about Sapphire and wished he could go home. Then thought about Megan and Amelie, smile fading, knowing he could never return to the place that in an ideal world he
would
have called home.

EIGHTEEN

Phials lined up his shot, sunk the black
, grinned at Clint, who sighed and handed over a twenty. Phials wouldn’t play pool unless there was money riding on it. The size of the stake didn’t matter – he’d play for a pound if that was all Clint had on him – as long as money was involved. Said pool was like poker, meaningless if played purely for fun. “Want to go again?”

“Maybe later.” Clint drifted round the table, troubled. Phials watched h
im out of the corner of his eye. Clint had been moody the last few times he’d come, working up to something. Phials was anxious to get the talks underway but knew he couldn’t rush it, Clint liable to flee if he got scared.

“
Go to see Shula yet?” Phials asked.

“No.”

“You should. She’d appreciate it.”

“Maybe tomorrow.” Clint shifty. He’d wanted to go every day but hadn’t be
en able to find the nerve.

“Want to watch a movie?
” Phials tried.

“
No, I’m not in…” Clint stopped, cleared his throat then came out with it in a rush. “I asked Duh-Dave about… yuh-you know.”