In the Dark (31 page)

Theo had seen the look on Wave's face when Gospel had finished talking, and the look on Ollie's when he saw Wave turning to stare him out. He saw it all again as he thought back, and heard Dennis Brown's voice, high above the ragged, remembered thump of the band in the back room. Words from the song he'd been listening to a few days before.

 
He knew, when Easy looked up from the pool table, that he wouldn't be seeing Ollie again. He could only hope, for the kid's sake, that Easy hadn't been the one to get hold of him. He knew about his friend's capacity for violence. As If had a foot on Easy at least, but Theo knew who his money would be on if it ever came down to it.

Easy left a ball rattling in the jaws, cursed and stood up. ‘You're on, T.'

Theo's mind was racing. If Wave knew that Ollie had been talking to somebody out of turn, perhaps he also knew who that person was. Perhaps he was already taking steps to stop what was happening. Maybe Easy would be dispatched to deal with that situation too . . .

‘T . . .'

Theo leaned down and swiped the black ball into a pocket with his hand.

‘Fuck you doing, man?' Easy said.

Theo put down a ten-pound note and said, ‘I'm going home.'

 
Helen had wandered down to the Turkish grocer's as soon as the lunchtime news had finished. The owner's wife had given her some freshly made baklava stuffed with pistachios. Helen had bought some bread and cheese too, and had taken the lot into the small park opposite to eat.

When she got home there were three messages on the machine. The first two were hang-ups. There had been a few in the last week or so, and on each occasion the caller had withheld their number had waited ten or fifteen seconds before putting down the phone. As if he'd been content not to speak, or too afraid to say anything.

Helen felt fairly sure the caller was a man. And that it was not a wrong number.

The third message was from a woman, a civilian administrative assistant at the Area West Murder Squad.

The senior investigating officer was apparently satisfied with the way the investigation had been proceeding. He had conferred with the coroner, who was happy to authorise burial and issue a temporary death certificate. In light of this, the SIO would himself be happy to release Sergeant Hopwood's body the next day.

Happy
.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The pub wasn't far from being ready, and Clive said that he was sorting out things in SE3, so Frank went in early to the office he rented behind Christ's College School and spent the morning catching up with several of his other business interests.

There was a pile of planning-permission documents to go through and searches on three new commercial properties he was in the process of purchasing. He agreed weekend rates with a new Polish contractor and organised ‘gifts' for two different councillors, whose goodwill would come in handy for a new development he was contemplating in Battersea. He made a few calls and arranged for several cases of decent wine and ‘his and hers' watches to be delivered.

It was all part of the game. Legitimate expenditure. His accountant would write off those purchases as ‘corporate hospitality' when the time came to do the books.

Then he drove out to see Laura's mother. He was alone in the car, driving himself for a change. He didn't want to give any of his employees, not even Clive, access to this aspect of his private life.

She lived in a maisonette, which Frank had bought for her a few years before in the nicer part of Eltham. He'd given her a little car too, just something she could run around in; but Frank got the impression that she didn't leave the house much these days. Though the business was up and running by then, Frank had started visiting as often as he could once he'd found out that he had a sister, and he always came away feeling like he'd done a good thing.

She was thrilled to see him, same as usual. She told him how grateful she was that he'd come to see her, how grateful she was for
everything
, and her eyes were brimming before he was even inside. He could smell the drink on her as she pulled him into an embrace.

They talked about Laura, as always, while Frank drank orange juice and she opened another bottle of wine. She asked him about his business and he told her about the pub. She said it sounded wonderful, that she used to enjoy an evening out, when pubs weren't full of loud music and people watching football.

‘Laura would sit outside, good as gold. We'd bring her out a bottle of Coke and some crisps.'

‘My mum did that with me,' Frank said.

‘There you go then.'

‘He liked a drink, didn't he?'

As soon as ‘he' was mentioned, the tone of the conversation shifted. Frank's old man had walked out on him and his mum, then done exactly the same thing many years later, when Laura was about the age that Frank had been. Laura's mother would often produce a picture of a thin-faced man who looked horribly like Frank. Then she would invariably say, ‘You're more of a dad to her than that useless twat ever was.'

Frank had been looking for his old man for years, handing over good money to private detectives and getting nowhere. He still lived in hope that one day he'd catch up with him.

Show the useless twat
exactly
how he'd turned out . . .

‘He liked a drink, but the drink didn't like him.' There were not too many happy memories for either of them where Frank's father was concerned, and the voice of the man's second ex-wife was laced with booze and bitterness as she spoke. ‘Amazing when you think about it, that you and Laura both turned out so well.'

‘Down to you and my mother,' Frank said.

‘Genes are powerful things, though.' She poured herself another glass. ‘You ever worried about what you might have inherited from him?'

‘Never thought about it.'

‘That why you never had your own kids, Frank?'

‘No . . .'

‘It's not too late, you know.'

Frank shook his head. ‘I don't believe all that.'

‘
Never
too late.'

‘It's up to you how you turn out. There's never any excuse. It's never anyone else's fault if you mess it up.'

‘You didn't mess it up, though, love. You've done so well for yourself. '

‘Right. And nobody can take credit for that but me.'

Half the glass of wine had already gone, and another gulp took care of the rest. ‘You'd make a good dad, Frank.'

Frank stood up and walked across to the mirror above the gas fire. He straightened the chain around his neck and sorted out his hair while she talked about how his father would get sometimes when he'd had a few too many; about how he couldn't keep his hands to himself . . . or his fists. Somewhere beneath the disgust, though, Frank could hear the sadness in her voice. His old man had been a good-looking sod, there was no getting away from that, and Frank knew that there hadn't been anyone important in this woman's life since he'd walked out.

He guessed that, deep down, she still felt something other than contempt for the miserable bastard who had so royally fucked her over.

‘Why did you ever shack up with him in the first place?' he asked.

She pressed the empty glass against her cheek. ‘Rotten taste in blokes, simple as that.'

‘Same as Laura,' Frank said.

An hour later, heading home, he thought about driving into Lewisham. It was only another ten minutes on from his place, after all.

A couple of miles and a world away.

Thinking about Laura had led, naturally, to thinking about Paul, and Frank thought it might be interesting to drive around the streets where some of those responsible for his death still lived, for the time being. Get a feel for the people who had dreamed it up. For the stick men . . .

Besides which, there might be more than a few people looking to get out of the area quickly, things being what they were. Property-wise, there might be some bargains to be had.

 
Jenny picked Helen up just after six. As they pulled onto the main road, Helen looked back, thinking that she'd noticed a black Jeep four or five cars behind them. Jenny asked her what she was looking at and, unable to see the car any more, Helen gave up. It was difficult to crane her neck round, and for all she knew it could have been any four-by-four.

She felt scared and stupid and told herself to calm down. Tried to enjoy the view, lit up and laid out to one side of them as they drove south to Crystal Palace: the Eye, St Paul's, Canary Wharf.

Jenny had booked a table in a gastropub she had seen reviewed in
Time Out
. Wooden floors, weird paintings and something jazzy from the speakers. It was earlier than Helen preferred to eat dinner, and she guessed that she'd be raiding the fridge again before bedtime, but she knew that Jenny had to get home to sort out her kids, that Tim was not great at looking after them, or himself.

‘It'll look like a war zone by the time I get back,' Jenny said.

Helen ordered grilled squid followed by lamb chops while her sister went for pâté and a chicken Caesar salad. They shared a bottle of sparkling water and talked easily enough.

The argument they'd had the previous weekend had not been forgotten, and Helen had been expecting the atmosphere to be a little tense, so she was amazed when Jenny apologised. Helen was usually the one who made the first move, unwilling to live with the guilt that her sister was so good at generating after any disagreement.

‘Don't be silly,' Helen said. If anything, being on the receiving end of an apology only increased the guilt. It was as though she had a bottomless reservoir of it.

‘I've been feeling terrible about it.'

‘Don't worry.'

Jenny took Helen's hand and squeezed, and it was done and dusted. This was how it had always been between them. Cat and dog, or best mates.

‘It's fine, honestly,' Helen said. ‘I was just all over the place.'

‘It's understandable—'

‘I
am
all over the place.'

Jenny nodded. ‘Of course you are.'

On the way from Tulse Hill, Helen had told her that Paul's body was being released to the undertaker's, that the funeral would be in a few days. They'd talked about whether Jenny should bring the kids and eventually decided against it. They'd all be travelling over to Paul's parents' place in Reading for the ceremony and a few drinks afterwards, and they discussed whether Helen should stay over; how much more she might alienate Paul's mother if she decided to travel back.

‘We'll all help,' Jenny said.

When she'd mentioned her state of mind, Helen had not been thinking about the funeral. For a second or two, she came close to telling her sister everything - Linnell, Shepherd, the stuff she thought was on the laptop - but decided against it. She felt a need to tell
someone
, but knew that she would be more comfortable talking to Katie or even Roger Deering - someone with no axe to grind - than she would ever be talking to Jenny or her dad. There was no logic to it, she accepted that.
She
could think whatever she liked about Paul, could decide that he'd done despicable things behind her back, but she couldn't bear the thought that anyone else might judge him.

In the end, Helen decided to go down a road that was well known to her sister. ‘It's Adam Perrin,' she said.

Jenny put down her water. ‘You're not inviting
him
, are you?'

Helen laughed, though it had crossed her mind that he might turn up. It would be easy enough for him to get the details, after all. ‘I think he might have been calling.'

They'd met on a residential course, a little over a year before. He was there with several other firearms officers and had seemed the least obnoxious as they had laughed and talked too loudly in the hotel lounge. Helen had been drinking rather a lot around that time, putting it down to stress at work, but she certainly wasn't looking to get involved with anyone. She'd enjoyed the chat, the flirting. He was well built, with short blond hair. Different from Paul . . .

‘You
think
?'

‘Calling and not saying anything.'

Jenny looked as confused as Helen felt. She didn't know why the man she'd had the affair with had come into her mind. Why she'd been imagining their phone conversation, the stinging comments that she'd hoarded up, waiting for a chance to deliver them:

‘Sniffing round widows. That's very classy, even for you
.'

‘Don't be stupid, Helen
.'

‘Yeah, well, I was drinking then
. . .'

It felt good to lash out, even if it was only in her imagination.

The waitress arrived. They sat back in their chairs and let her lay down the plates. Jenny waited a minute, got stuck into her starter, then said, ‘You should see him again.'

‘
What?
'

The place wasn't busy, with only a few other tables taken, but the sound carried easily and both of them turned down their volume.

‘I don't mean straight away, for Christ's sake.'