Kill and Tell, page 5
‘Stop it, you’re driving me wild!’
Attilio Trapani comes to the door of Blum’s. He looks at the sky and says something to his companion in the yarmulke. They walk to the end of Sicilian Avenue and a car slows down, on Southampton Row. Attilio and his companion get in.
Josie’s rider appears outside Veneto’s and she fumbles in her pocket for money, says to Conor, ‘I’ll call you.’
‘What? Is that it?’
She puts a fiver on the counter and hurries out, clicking her phone off and hitching her skirt, getting a few looks as she hooks her leg over the motorbike’s seat, feeling the force as the rider speeds off, weaving traffic all the way back round to Holborn and right onto Oxford Street, heading west and spending most of the journey on the wrong side of the road, buses coming at them. The sound of horns is constant all the way to Oxford Circus, when they catch up with Attilio’s car, slowing right down and keeping two or three cars between them all the way into and out the other side of Mayfair, pulling up outside Les Ambassadeurs.
Josie knows enough about Les Ambassadeurs to realise this is the end of the line. Herein lies a casino and one of the finest dining rooms in all of London town. For members only. Attilio could be here until two in the morning.
A brace of overly pretty girls in short, shifting cocktail dresses loop arms and smile as they pass Attilio. His companion remains in the car, which moves off. As Attilio disappears into the club, Josie can see he is greeted by the dark-eyed and beautiful Arab who was at Ockingham Manor the other day.
Josie calls Staffe, relates the events of the past two hours, telling him about Attilio’s companion in the yarmulke.
‘Martin Goldman?’
‘Who the hell is Martin Goldman?’
‘The Trapani family lawyer. Blum’s, you say. And now Les Ambass,’ says Staffe. ‘From one side of the West Bank to the other.’
‘What?’
‘I’m guessing he hooked up with Fahd Jahmood.’
‘There’s no way I’ll be able to get in there.’
‘That’s OK. There’s someone I know who’s a member.’
It’s quiet on the line, and she can tell Staffe wants something.
Eventually, she says, ‘You only have to ask, sir. Is it to do with Pulford?’
‘You know me too well. I was going to go up onto the Attlee, see if I could catch up with Shawne Haddaway. I need to see if our friend Haddaway has been visiting Google Earth recently.’
‘That sounds a bit random, sir.’
‘I saw a printout in Pulford’s papers and I know he’s not allowed access to the Internet inside prison. I’ve got a bad feeling about it.’
‘I’ll do it, but you know what Pennington said about staying away from the e.gang.’
‘It’s OK. Leave it to me.’
‘No! I want to do it, sir.’
‘Be careful, Josie.’
She hangs up, calls Conor and from the sound of things, he is in company. ‘I’ve just finished,’ she tells him. ‘There’s something I have to do later, but I’ll come over now.’
‘Aaah, damn. We’re on our way up north – Belsize Park or something. I’ll call you.’
She wants to say, ‘We? Who is we? And why aren’t you inviting me?’ But instead she says, ‘OK. Call me,’ and clicks off.
The sun goes in again, like someone switching a light off.
*
Pulford presses his face against the cold steel window frame. Through the narrow slots of toughened glass, he looks up at the sky. There’s all kinds of madness going off today.
A bang makes him jump and he catches his cheek on the rough junction of the metal window frame where somebody has had a go at dismantling it. The slightest thing seems to get him going lately.
‘Pulford!’ shouts a PO, through the door. ‘Feeding time.’
‘Not for me, Mister Crawshaw,’ he calls. But the door opens anyway and a large inmate fills the frame, holding Pulford’s tray.
‘I said—’
‘Yeah? What did you say, you fucking frag? Why you on this wing, Pulford, if you’re not a fucking snitch?’ The orderly throws the tray on his bed and the mulch of spuds and fish spills onto his sheets. ‘Or a fucking fiddler.’
Pulford knows the orderly. This is Beef, one of the hardest men in the jail, on the verge of acquiring don status, as well as being a senior partner in the e.gang.
‘Levi,’ says Pulford, to Beef.
‘Don’t call me Levi,’ says Levi Salmon. ‘Name’s Beef, you frag.’ Levi Salmon is known as Beef for good reason. He has shoulders like a bull and is over six foot but his waist is narrower than his neck. His trick in the yard is to give a con a free hit. Pulford saw it the other day and Beef didn’t even blink when an armed robber from Canvey Island punched him full on the nose. The crunch of the blow resounded across the yard and the assailant stood briskly back, his jaw dropping. Silence fell in the yard and Beef stepped forward, said something to the con that made his face turn grey. That night, an ambulance came, went, and the armed robber from Canvey hasn’t been seen since.
Pulford peers over Beef’s shoulder, sees Mister Crawshaw withdraw onto the landing.
‘What the fuck you got to be scared about, sergeant? Or do you need to watch your tongue?’ Beef puts his hand to Pulford’s mouth and grabs it, like you would an apple from a tree. He breaks Pulford’s skin where the window had grazed him.
Crawshaw sneers, ‘Careful, Salmon, he’s bleeding. Don’t catch AIDS.’
Beef puts his face right up to Pulford’s. He licks the blood from his wound and whispers, ‘I ain’t ’fraid of fuckin’ nothing, me. You get me? I’m an animal. Everyone says so.’ With one hand still squeezing Pulford’s mouth, Beef reaches behind him, pulls a piece of paper from his waistband and holds it up to Pulford. ‘See this? I gave you a copy.’
Pulford focuses on the piece of paper, sees it is the printout from Google Earth. He raises a hand, grabbing Beef’s neck, but he makes no impression.
Beef says, ‘Mummy’s house. We been there and her next door, Jean, she reckons your mummy thinks you’re wasting yourself in the police. Maybe it’s ’cos you can’t do your fuckin’ job. People like us, we’re above the law and you can do fuck all about it.’ Beef drops the piece of paper and takes something from his pocket. He squeezes Pulford’s mouth even tighter until his lips part. His jaw cranks open and Beef presses his handful into Pulford’s mouth, puts his hand over and holds it there as Pulford gags.
After ten seconds, he lets Pulford go and steps back, laughing as Pulford spits out the mouthful of dog hair.
He spits and spits, but his mouth is dry and he has swallowed some. The taste is rank and it spikes all the way down his throat.
‘Simba,’ says Beef. ‘That’s mummy’s dog, right?’
‘You cunt,’ says Pulford, rushing at Beef, but just before he gets to him, Beef shouts, ‘Thor!’
Now, Crawshaw steps in.
Pulford has his hands on Beef’s throat again, but barely covers half the circumference.
‘Don’t use that language, Pulford,’ says Crawshaw, stepping up and twisting him.
‘Thor,’ says Beef. ‘That’s the name of my dog. A proper name for a dog.’
The PO has Pulford bent double, his arm up the back and his shoulder right on the edge of its socket. His bleeding cheek is pressed to the cold floor and Mister Crawshaw says, ‘You’re on a Governor’s. See how that looks in the case for the defence.’
Eight
Earnest waiters glide through Les Ambassadeurs, heads erect like Deco silhouettes. ‘You remember the first time we came here?’ says Finbar Hare.
The bar is softly lit, and crystal glasses and bottles of Armagnac glisten like jewels. Beyond, through the dining room, a private garden deludes you into thinking you are not in London at all. ‘We were younger then.’
‘And wild.’
‘Some of us still are,’ says Staffe.
‘Quite an admission from the Inspector.’
‘I meant you. Now, about Fahd Jahmood?’
‘There’s a chap I know was sent into the Jahmoods to check out what the sons were up to. Young Fahd over there had fifty million in a checking account in Miami, not even getting interest. A two per cent return on that would bring in a million a year. Enough for most of us.’
Staffe watches Fahd and Attilio. Fahd talks to the wine waitress with his hand on her hip. Attilio fidgets, sipping wine then water and looking around constantly, not exactly at home here; Staffe wonders what would be enough for Attilio these days. What does it cost to be in his new club?
When the wine waitress has put the bottle back in its silver bucket and left them to it, Attilio leans across the table, grabs Fahd by the arm.
Fahd laughs, waving at Attilio dismissively as if he was a fly on his cuff.
Attilio stands, swings an amateur punch at Fahd, which glances off his handsome head, but is enough to have the Arab covering up like a boxer on the ropes.
A butler raises a white-gloved hand and through a door beyond the bar, a tall, athletic man in a suit emerges. He moves slowly, calmly. Staffe shifts in his chair and the leather squeaks. Attilio is standing over his Arab companion, his back arched and his arms outstretched, hands around Fahd Jahmood’s neck.
Fahd’s own protectors converge on Attilio, systematically laying hands on him, kicking him sharply behind the knees. They do it in tandem and Attilio falls like a caber, smashing his head on the table. The heavies get Attilio on his stomach, arms behind the back and fit him up in a pair of zip-tie cuffs, in the manner of secret police.
‘You lying bastard!’ shouts Attilio as the heavies carry him out. He writhes and kicks, and as they carry him past Staffe, Attilio looks up at him with pleading eyes. But his anger is spent; in its place, fear – as he recognises Staffe.
‘Where are you taking him?’ says Staffe.
The man in the suit says, ‘Steer clear,’ and when Staffe shows his warrant card, he swats it away.
Staffe follows them towards the room behind the bar but another man in a suit appears, blocking his path. ‘I’ll come back, with uniforms and warrants.’
The man in the suit looks down at Staffe, shakes his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so’ – and the door closes, onto its private world.
*
Josie looks up at the Attlee Estate, whose concrete is stained by the rain, as if it had been weeping from its windows. Some crosses of St George flap in the breeze alongside drying salwar kameez. Weed is in the air, and phug hip-hop. Somewhere, ‘Redemption Song’ breaks through.
A young teen in a black trackie comes towards the electric gate which buzzes open. He has the pall of crack about him.
‘Wait! I’m coming in,’ says Josie.
‘Fuck off!’ he says, trying to shut the door on her, but Josie is quick off the mark and pushes him back through the door into the estate and flashes her card.
He comes at her and Josie’s heart stutters, but she plants her feet wide apart and lowers her centre, watches his trainers. You can read the next move by watching their feet, and she kicks out at his knee. Not so hard that he would require an ambulance, but it fells him. She tries not to take any pleasure as his face turns grim.
He looks up at her from the ground, cussing. He is white as unbaked pastry but sounds Afro-Caribbean. She reaches out and pulls a handful of wraps from his pocket. He is a handsome boy with blue eyes and long, dark lashes.
Josie empties a wrap and crunches the small rock with her shoe. ‘What flat is Shawne Haddaway in?’
‘Give me my stuff.’
Josie empties another wrap onto the floor, grinds the rock to dust with her foot.
‘C thirty-four.’
‘Have you seen him today?’
He blinks his eyes slowly, to suggest ‘Yes’. Suddenly, he looks his age. Acts it, too, as the adrenaline must ebb and he holds his knee.
Josie bends down, feels the ligaments around the knee. ‘You’ll be OK, just make sure you rest up a day or so.’ She drops the remaining wraps onto his shallow chest, knowing that if she doesn’t return his narcotics, his future will darken, not brighten. ‘And stop using this stuff.’ She puts a hand to his cheek. ‘You’re a good lad. You can’t hide it from me.’
‘Suck me,’ he says.
She laughs, clocks his fake ID on the floor. ‘Shut up, Louis.’
‘How you know my name?’
She puts the toe of her foot on the corner of the ID.
‘Don’t mess with Haddaway, miss.’ He struggles to his feet, bends his leg, rubs his knee and picks up his ID. He stands in the doorway and watches Josie all the way into the lift, stays there as she gets in. As the doors close‚ he says‚ ‘Serious. Don’t go.’
The lift rattles and jolts, the storeys counting up slowly. The stench of humanity is thick and Josie puts a hand over her mouth and nose, takes in the smell of soap between her fingers, thinks about how officially there are only two e.gang members living on the Attlee. One is Brandon Latymer, invisible to the police since Jadus Golding was shot. The other is Shawne Haddaway and she is here to see if Shawne has a computer and if he does, to see what footprints he has left in the virtual world.
Josie gets out at Level Three and steps over the discarded box of a fifty-inch TV. From up here you can see the City glisten not so far away. Dogs bark and the mother-freaking hip-hop is louder. She works her way around the deck until she gets to the Cs.
A drawl of music leaks from inside number thirty-four and Josie peers through a gap in the curtains of the front room, can see nothing, so she knocks, lightly. Waits. She knocks again and takes out her ring of keys, checks the likely candidates and tries one. Along the deck, a young woman pushes a baby out of her flat. She must be fifteen, but looks younger, and as she passes Josie she curls her lip. The key turns and Josie opens the door, says softly, ‘Haddaway. Shawne Haddaway?’
No response.
She follows the low drone of music down the dark hall, chipboard for floor, and darkly stained in places. It could be blood. At the end of the hall, she pushes open the door and the sound of Marvin Gaye spreads joyously from a boombox on the window-ledge. ‘What’s Goin’ On.’ Between her and the music, a young man is flat on his back on a bare mattress. On the floor by his dangling hand, the rudiments of an afternoon on the crack pipe. She taps him on the shoulder and steps back, warrant card in hand. He doesn’t move.
Josie backs tenderly out of Haddaway’s bedroom, easing the door closed and looking anxiously over her shoulder. She checks the bathroom and goes into the open-plan living area, which has a rusting two-ring hob next to a sink piled high with pizza boxes and bottles of Courvoisier. On the floor is a brand-spanking AirBook with its screen up. She powers it up and immediately a screensaver of Rihanna appears. There is no end of choice for unsecured wireless connections and within seconds, Josie is scrolling through Shawne’s web history: an unglittering profile of music downloads, weaponry sites and porn.
In amongst them, Google Earth. When she hovers over the search predictors, only one item comes up. Right-clicking, her stomach turns over.
Josie and Pulford had a thing once. It was three years ago and unsatisfactory and they each laugh about it now, an unrequited petting frenzy and a wordless breakfast at a greasy spoon in Southgate, but she remembers quite vividly the few minutes Pulford spent talking about his mother. His mother who, when her only son moved to the Big Smoke, stayed put. Josie hadn’t known the place she stayed put and Pulford had to tell her it was near Newcastle.
Now, she reads ‘Whitley Bay’ and remembers.
Shawne Haddaway had summoned Google’s might down from the sky and trained a bead on 24 McIvor Street, Whitley Bay. Josie inserts her memory stick, saves, closes down and retires, but she hears a bang from the bedroom and she hears Shawne cursing. Her heart misses one and she makes for the door, but as she opens it, a familiar young man looks Josie in the eye.
It’s obvious that Louis Consadine doesn’t want to be there, but he has three mates with him. One of them has his hand down his trousers. Josie thinks he’s probably holding his heat and she says to Louis, ‘I know you. Remember? I know your name, so don’t do anything stupid.’ Her heart beats double-time and she looks at the youth with the hand down his trousers. He’s barely fifteen. ‘Louis, don’t do anything stupid.’
Louis forces a broad smile but his eyes seem dead. ‘Suck me,’ he says.
‘Suck him,’ says the one with the heat.
‘Grow up,’ says Josie, pushing past them, walking as slowly as she dare, back to the stairwell. She won’t chance the lift, and as soon as she is round the corner she bolts down the stairs, two at a time – chased by her own echo.
*
Maurice swelters in his coat. Its tweed collar snags the hairs on the nape of his neck and the band on the inside of his hat tacks to his forehead with sweat. The rain has gone but the evening air is still muggy.
He puts his hands on the iron bars of the gate to Palazzo Adriano – this wonderful mix of English and Dutch with its curved gables and stained glass. But something is definitely in the rarefied air. Perhaps he was naïve to have come. Tatiana often says he is naïve.
A car drives by and Maurice can tell from the sound of the engine that it is slowing, so he pulls down his hat, waits for it to pass, but the engine peters quickly to nothing. He wants to look over his shoulder but resists. The handbrake clicks and Maurice plunges his hands deep into his pockets, still damp from the rainstorm earlier. The car door opens and slams shut; then another. He holds his breath.
Footsteps get close and Maurice knows he shouldn’t have come – not so soon. He wishes everything could be the way it used to be. He prays for Carmelo’s soul.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Without looking, Maurice knows the voice is police. He wants to be home, with his books and the Olivetti Lettera 35 that his father, Claudio, gave him. It was supposedly an heirloom, but he later discovered his father had won it in a game of cards.
‘Sir? Turn round please, sir.’
