The Night the Rich Men Burned (38 page)

He’s on the street, stopping about ten yards from the front door of Oliver’s building. A nice street. Three-storey buildings, all made into large flats. Coming to live here doesn’t come cheap. This battered old car doesn’t belong here any more than the battered old man driving it. Ninety-nine per cent of him wants to drive away. Forget it. Take the coward’s way out. There’s nothing to gain from being here anyway. This is going to go badly, and there’s no way around that.

Sitting in the car for nearly an hour. A couple of people have walked past. Arnie still sitting there, still trying to persuade himself that he shouldn’t be here. But that one per cent just won’t be won over. The one per cent that says it doesn’t matter how fruitless this is. Doesn’t matter if it only confirms your worst fears. You have to know.

He’s gotten out of the car. Walking up to the front door of the building. There are doorbells at the side, names of the owners beside them. Closing his eyes and pressing the buzzer. Hoping to God that nobody answers. Then he won’t have to find out.

‘Yes,’ comes the voice.

‘Oliver?’

‘Yes,’ is the reply through the intercom. One word of annoyed recognition.

‘Can I come up? We need to talk.’

There’s a pause of a few seconds. Arnie not sure if Oliver heard him or not. ‘Fine, come up.’

There’s a buzz and Arnie is pushing open the front door. Stepping into the building and taking a look around. A tiled floor, a large staircase in front of him. So this is what that sort of life pays for. Yes, it sure is nice to look at. Up the stairs into the corridor. A nice carpet on the corridor, which would last about a day in Arnie’s building. Finding himself in front of Oliver’s front door. Is a pretty home worth it? Does it matter that much?

The door’s opening just as Arnie is raising a hand to knock. His grandson staring back at him. There’s an angry look there. Peterkinney wasn’t expecting his grandfather to turn up at the flat. Thought he would phone to complain. Whinge about the warning given to Glass. The fact he’s here means it’s been delivered. The fact he’s here rather than phoning probably means he’s very angry.

‘What’s up?’ Oliver’s asking. Standing in the doorway. He’d like to get through this without having to let his grandfather inside. Let the old man vent on the doorstep and then piss off home.

‘Can I come in, please?’ Arnie’s asking.

There’s something disconcerting about a man who should be angry and isn’t. Peterkinney was waiting to hear venom in the old man’s voice. An angry tremble. Thought he’d start shouting straight away. But he hasn’t. He just sounds weary. Sounds like he’s gone beyond the point where angry would do any good. That could be a good thing or a bad thing.

Peterkinney’s stepping aside, pulling open the door. Letting his grandfather in for the first time. Arnie’s stepping inside and stopping. Doesn’t know where to go. Oliver’s shutting the door and walking past him, leading him through to the kitchen. Large kitchen, wide-open space and everything in white. Seems appropriate, somehow. When he thinks of conversations with his grandfather, it’s always in the kitchen of the flat.

‘You’re up and about late,’ Oliver’s saying. Polite conversation. Try and keep the tone civil for as long as possible.

‘I have reason to be,’ Arnie’s saying.

Oliver’s sitting down at the unnecessarily long kitchen table. Gesturing for his grandfather to take a seat opposite, but Arnie’s shaking his head.

‘I won’t sit. What I have to ask won’t take long. I don’t think you’ll want me to stay long anyway. I need to know something, Oliver. I want you to be honest with me. Did you send someone to Alex’s flat today? Someone to collect money, or give a warning?’

Seems like Arnie is going for the old ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ routine. Fair enough. Oliver will counter with a well-practised ‘I had no choice, what could I do?’ performance. Hopefully they can keep the conversation calm and it’ll all be over in a few minutes.

Oliver’s starting with a sigh. ‘Look. I have a business to run. I made that very clear from the start. I needed to know that Alex was making an effort. That he wasn’t messing me around. Playing on our old friendship. And I found out he was,’ Oliver’s saying with a shrug. ‘I found out that he was out partying with his girlfriend. Spending all kinds of money to keep a smile on her face. Not spending any to put a smile on mine. He went out and spent bucketloads the night before he came to me and said he was skint. What am I supposed to do, huh? Makes my business look weak, and makes me look like I don’t know how to run it. I had to act. What other choice did I have?’

‘You sent someone round to beat him up. Deliver a warning.’ Not a question. Just a sad acceptance that his worst fears are correct.

‘I had no choice,’ Oliver’s saying. Saying it quiet. Less and less sure of his position.

‘Your fellow went round to the flat and Alex wasn’t there. Did you know that?’

Oliver’s shaking his head. ‘I haven’t heard from my man.’ A shrug. ‘Lucky for Alex then.’

Arnie’s looking at him and there’s disgust on his face. This is closer to the anger Oliver expected, although its reason remains unknown to him. ‘Lucky? Lucky, you think? Lucky for Alex maybe, not so lucky for Ella. She was there. She was there on her own.’

Oliver’s looking down at the table and shaking his head. ‘Shit, well, that was unlucky.’ Some muscle will take advantage of women in these situations. Treat them in ways they shouldn’t. If the scruffy bastard he sent did something inappropriate, then he’ll ditch him. Doesn’t want his company having a reputation for things like that. Would make him look grubby in the eyes of men like Chris Argyle. ‘Shame for the girl,’ he’s saying, ‘but it was Alex who put her in that position. Borrowing money he couldn’t pay. If she wasn’t badly hurt, then I don’t know, she might consider herself lucky as well.’

Arnie’s just staring at him. Looking down at the seated Oliver. His grandson, but it doesn’t feel like that any more. The words coming out of his mouth would never have come from the boy he knew. The boy he helped raise. This little bastard is someone else entirely. Someone he can no longer bring himself to care about.

It comes without warning. Arnie looking at his grandson. Not intending to react. And then lurching at him, throwing a wild punch. Arnie’s knuckles brush through Oliver’s hair. Doesn’t catch him. Doesn’t do any damage. But Oliver’s dipped sideways to avoid the shot, and is now on his knees on the floor. Looking up at his grandfather. A shocked expression. In a normal situation, he would fight back. Start throwing punches, aim to hurt. He’s done collection work, he knows how to fight. But not this time. This is still his grandfather. The same old man he always was.

‘She’s dead, you silly little bastard,’ Arnie’s saying. Saying and not shouting. Keeping it quiet. Fighting so hard to resist the urge to punch again, because what good is that going to do? ‘The thug you sent beat her to pieces. Killed her. The girl’s dead and you ordered it. It was you, Oliver. You did it. You killed her.’

Know what? It’s not the suggestion that he killed her that annoys Oliver. It’s the suggestion that he made a mistake. He didn’t kill her, the muscle he sent did. The muscle blundered, obviously. Last thing you ever do is draw police attention towards your boss. Oliver knew that back when he was working for Marty. Knew it as sure as he knew anything when he worked for Roy Bowles. The man his grandfather got him a job with. The moralist standing over him and the gunrunner he got Oliver a job with, now in jail after the Jamieson shit-storm.

‘I didn’t mean for her to be harmed. That was never my intention,’ he’s saying. He wants to sound sorry, but he doesn’t. Can’t quite control his tone. He sounds annoyed and he sounds a little dismissive, but he doesn’t sound sorry.

Arnie’s looking down at him, Oliver still on his knees. It would be so easy for the boy to look sorry. So easy for him to sound like he knows what regret is. Just fake it. Just this once. But he can’t even be bothered. On his knees, and he can’t make the effort to be sorry. A shake of the head.

‘I don’t know you any more,’ Arnie’s saying. Turning and walking out of the kitchen. Along the corridor and opening the front door. He knows his disapproval means nothing to Oliver. Doesn’t care. Oliver just stopped meaning anything to him.

8

Arnie was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee when Glass got out of bed. Had a shower, put on last night’s clothes. Went into the kitchen and started making a cup for himself without saying anything. Doesn’t feel like talking. Not to Arnie. Not to anyone. If the world stayed silent forever, Glass would be happy with that. Talking will remind him.

He heard Arnie leaving last night. Heard him coming back. He was gone a while, longer than Glass expected. When he heard Arnie leaving, he guessed where he was going. Going to see his grandson. Going to confront him with the news of Ella’s death. That’s what Glass would have done. Makes sense. Oliver’s family. Go and warn him about the inevitable police investigation. Go and warn him that he crossed a line, perhaps. But that would have been a short visit, and Arnie was gone for a long time. Doesn’t occur to Glass that he spent an hour sitting outside Oliver’s flat before he plucked up the courage to go in. But Glass won’t ask. Doesn’t want to know.

‘You sleep?’ Arnie’s asking him. Painfully obvious that Arnie didn’t. Would be obvious to Arnie that Glass didn’t either if he was alert enough to see it. It’s been too long a night to be alert now.

‘Little bit,’ Glass is saying. ‘On and off.’ Stirring his mug and sitting opposite Arnie. Not looking him in the eye.

A few moments of silence. ‘The police will want to talk to you,’ Arnie’s saying. No doubt they won’t be far away.

Glass is sighing. Taking another sip of coffee. Doesn’t want to speak to the police. Doesn’t want to have to tell them the truth. For so many reasons. The fact that Ella dying was his fault. He borrowed money he couldn’t pay back. She ended up paying for it. Doesn’t want to be a coward either. They’ll ask him if he knows who was behind the beating. He’ll say no. Has to. If he says yes he’s a grass. He’ll be punished severely. Doesn’t want that. He’s afraid of that. And he doesn’t want to talk to the police anyway. They might ask about Alan Bavidge. So that’s plenty of reasons. Add the fact that he doesn’t want to hurt Arnie by having Oliver arrested. All adds up to a justified silence.

‘I don’t want to talk to anyone,’ Glass is saying.

‘You’ll have to, eventually,’ Arnie’s saying. His tone serious. ‘You need to think about what you’re going to say.’

Fishing for a clue. Wanting to know what Glass plans to tell the police when he speaks to them. Wanting to know out of concern for Oliver, Glass assumes. Assumes wrong. Wanting to know out of concern for Glass. Arnie’s terrified that Glass will say something stupid. That he’ll confess all about the man he murdered and get himself put away. He’s prone to emotion. He might blurt something out during a difficult interview. There’s no need for him to throw his own life away over this.

It’s a horrible thing to think. Arnie knows it, doesn’t need to be told. But he has been thinking that this is an opportunity for Glass, if he’s smart enough to take it. This is a chance to separate himself fully from his old life. Didn’t want it to be this way. Didn’t want to see the girl dead. She was a nice girl, and she was desperate to help Glass. But she lived in the criminal world, and didn’t seem to know how to live any other way. Being separated from that is a chance. Arnie won’t say that, obviously. He’s not that crass. But this is an opportunity that he won’t let Glass squander.

‘I don’t know what I’ll say,’ Glass is saying quietly. ‘I think I want to go out for a walk. Clear my head, you know.’

‘Sure,’ Arnie’s saying. ‘Take your phone. If I hear anything, I’ll call you.’

Glass is just happy to be out of the flat. Thinking about Ella. She’s gone. She was what it was all about for him. The life, the thrill, the money, the danger. It was all encapsulated in her. She was the life. Worth every risk, every sacrifice. He destroyed that. Destroyed her and destroyed the life. He knows it’s his fault. His and Peterkinney’s. Can’t get away from that. Peterkinney sent someone to collect the money and they killed Ella. Glass doesn’t need to be told to know. There was nobody else who would have done it.

And he’ll get away with it. Like he always does. People like him always fucking do. They get away with it. They live their lives getting away with the sort of things that people like Glass have to pay the price for. How is that fair? A man like Peterkinney can get away with this. A man like Glass never would. People like Peterkinney have protection. Connections which keep them safe. Other people willing to shield them for the right price. There’s always a price they can afford to pay. Not Glass. He can’t pay any price at all.

He was walking aimlessly, but now that he’s found himself in the vicinity of a pub he knows, he might as well go in. Getting a drink, sitting down. Alone in the corner. Nobody will bother him here. The background murmur of other people’s conversations doesn’t bother him. This is as close to silence as you get in the city. Close enough to silence for Glass to think about his position.

He has enough money in his pocket to sit in that pub for a few hours. So he does. Sits there nursing his drinks. Tells himself that he’s thinking about his position. Thinking through all of his options, but he isn’t. He doesn’t have a lot of options. If he was sober and smart, he would realize that he’s always known what he’s going to do. Known it since he left the flat.

Instinct. Everyone has it. Some instincts are better than others. Some people are a lot better at listening to their instincts than others. If this was Peterkinney, he would have spotted what he was going to do within seconds. Acted on it within minutes. Not Glass. He’s been trying to drown his instinct in booze. Trying to pretend that he isn’t going to do what he knows he’s going to do.

He’s just drunk enough. Not so drunk that he can’t walk from A to B. Not so sober that he’ll be able to talk himself out of this. He’s out of the pub and realizing how much time has passed. It’s gloomy now. Afternoon long since killed morning. Afternoon falling to evening. And he’s starting to walk. Knowing exactly where he’s going. Knowing exactly what risk he’s taking.