Andy Brennan had arrived.
Larkin gave him directions to Bolbec Hall and went to meet him.
Andy Brennan was a mouthy South London photographer who had been sent to Newcastle with Larkin in order to cover a drug dealer’s funeral. The situation had escalated out of all proportion and led to the murder of Larkin’s ex-girlfriend, Charlotte, who had been involved with some very heavy stuff. Larkin and Andy hadn’t got on well initially, but Andy had been a good friend and ally when
Larkin needed him. When the whole, nasty little affair was over, Larkin had stayed on in Newcastle while Andy had taken off: “Have camera, will travel.” Larkin, strangely enough, found that he missed him.
It was Andy whom Larkin had phoned to ask him to take over Houchen’s job. He had needed some persuading, but had eventually agreed to drop everything and head north. Perhaps he sensed that wherever Larkin was, things seemed to happen. He could be an annoying little bastard, but Larkin had to admit he was looking forward to seeing him again.
As Larkin stepped out of the rickety lift he heard a familiar voice issuing forth from the main office.
“Yeah, but it’s all cosmetic, innit? I mean, Melinda’s all right as far as it goes, but you should ’ave seen ’er before the op! Nothin’ spesh. Same with The Spice Girls. I mean – be honest – you wouldn’t look at most of ’em twice unless you’d ’ad a few, now would you? No, natural beauty’s the thing. Some people ’ave it …”
Larkin rounded the corridor. Andy sat on the corner of Joyce’s desk, eyes gazing straight into hers, a sexually self-confident smile on his lips. Joyce, for her part, was swinging one leg back and forwards sensually; the tip of her tongue was visible at the side of her mouth. Natural beauty or not, her arousal was visibly deepening.
“Can’t you come up with any better chat up lines than that?” said Larkin.
Andy turned suddenly when he heard Larkin’s voice and Larkin got his first good look at him. Andy’s hair was now cropped in a George Clooney; his goatee was still intact though, and he was starting to look too old for his expensive trainers, baggy combat jeans, and full-on clubbing T-shirt. He jumped off the desk and ran to embrace Larkin.
“Hey-hey! The miserable bastard himself!” Andy shouted, flinging his arms around Larkin, who – surprising himself – hugged the man back. “Good to see you, mate!”
“And you, Andy. Wish it could have been in better circumstances.”
“Yeah, well,” said Andy, “not your fault. Well, now you’re ’ere, we’ve got to see this Bolland bloke. He said to wait for you.”
They moved off together, towards Bolland’s office.
“See you later,” called Joyce, waggling her fingers flirtatiously at Andy.
“You certainly will, darlin’.”
The meeting with Bolland was a formality. He could have got a photographer locally, but since he knew the details of Larkin and Andy’s previous work, he was inclined to bring them together as a team again. Once they had discussed terms and conditions – Andy staying firmly freelance – Bolland turfed the two of them out to get some work done. They had got as far as the “Eiresatz” shopping-mall pub when the afternoon sun and the promise of a pavement table proved too much for them.
“So what’s the score, then?” asked Andy, settling down to his pint.
Larkin didn’t know where to start. “Well … how much did I tell you on the phone?”
“Your partner had died unexpected like and you wanted a replacement ASAP. So I dropped everythin’ and up I came.”
“And it’s good to see you.”
“You too, mate.” They raised their glasses.
“So what we workin’ on, then?” asked Andy.
Larkin filled him in on Jane’s doubts concerning Noble, the subsequent trip to the amusement arcade and the fact that something was going down at five thirty on Friday.
“That’s today,” said Andy.
“Good to see your brain’s not completely coke-addled,” Larkin replied.
“Fuck off. So what we gonna do about it?”
“
We
aren’t going to do anything.
I’m
going to take you to the arcade and put names to faces, then
you’re
going to follow them with your trusty camera and find out what’s happening. You brought your car, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but talk about in at the fuckin’ deep end,” said Andy, sulkily.
“Has this spoilt your plans for the evening?”
“Well, I thought we could go out, you know, even get that receptionist piece — ”
“You mean Joyce.”
“Yeah, whatever, get her out or somethin’.”
“This could be a big story, Andy.”
Andy looked wistfully at his pint. “Yeah, right.” He brightened up a little. “Reckon I am the perfect man for the job, though.”
“How d’you reckon?”
“This is what I’ve been doin’ recently. Industrial espionage an’ stuff. Private surveillance, that sort of thing. Big corporations wanna keep one step ahead of the game so they employ people to, A, spy on the opposition, and B, spy on people on their own side who may be selling trade secrets. That sort o’ thing. Handsome money, too.”
Larkin was genuinely surprised. “How d’you get into that?”
“Well, I was doin’ this porn shoot — ”
That was more like it. “You do surprise me.”
“No, really, I’d been doin’ some straight model work, fashion stuff, and they asked me to do this porn mag shoot. So I did a few and, I tell you, they nearly put me off for life. Gynaecological fuckin’ nightmare. Fuckin’ butcher’s shop.” He took a swig of his beer, relishing his role as sleazy raconteur. “Then this other bloke who was workin’ on the mag – don’t know what it was called,
Big Jugs And Fat Arses
I should think, judgin’ from the picture content—”
“You were saying?”
“Oh, yeah. So this bloke said ’e could get me some surveillance work. An’ ’e did.”
“Good. I’m happy for you.”
“So ’ow come you’re not trailin’ this Noble bloke?”
“Because he knows me by sight, because I’m going to be gathering stuff on him at this end, and also …” Larkin scrutinised Andy, trying to gauge his likely reaction to what he was about to say. “I’m looking into Houchen’s death. It might not have been an accident.”
Andy shook his head and sighed. “I can’t leave you alone for five fuckin’ minutes, can I? What you been up to this time?”
“Well …” Larkin opened his mouth to speak. “Well … Get the drinks in and I’ll tell you.”
“Oh, fuckin’ ’ell,” said Andy. “ ’Ere we go again …”
For Andy and Larkin, settled in the pub, the afternoon began to slip away. Larkin avoided explaining Houchen’s death, knowing he couldn’t go into it cold; there were things Andy had to know first. Once uncorked, the whole lot would come pouring out. Instead, he kept the conversation general: reminiscing about mutual friends and old work colleagues, trading insults – getting acquainted with each other all over again.
But inevitably they drifted towards specifics. And Larkin, feeling more comfortable than he had done in ages, was able to speak freely.
“It goes back to when you left,” Larkin began. “I sat around the house – Charlotte’s house – in a right old state. Hated being there, couldn’t bear the thought of moving out …” His eyes misted over at the recollection. For whole days he’d just lain on the bed, sobbing, inarticulate with grief. “I tried to get up, to do things, but every time I tried, this black cloud would pass over me and remind me of what had happened. Back to square one.”
He took a long gulp of beer. Andy knew better than to interrupt.
“One day, Dave Bolland turned up. He was an old mate from way back. We studied journalism together. He asked if I fancied writing about my side of what happened. Needless to say, I told him to fuck off. He kept on at me. He saw the state I was in, said it would be cathartic. A means of getting it all out of the way, starting again. Eventually I told him I’d give it a try – to get him off my back more than anything.
“Once I’d started, well, it consumed me. It was difficult at first, taking myself back there, but once I got going I spent day after day reliving it, writing it down, sparing nothing … I gave it to Bolland
and he sold it to one of the broadsheets for a small fortune. He wanted me to turn it into a book – had offers there too – but I said no. I’d written it, it had done its job, and now it was time to move on. So he offered me a place with his agency. I took it; thought the routine might help to keep me sane, give me a bit of focus. It did.
“But at the same time, there was this little … kernel, I suppose – this seed of rage growing inside me. I was finished with the grief, but I couldn’t get rid of the anger. I’d see Sir James Lascelles and his cronies grinning on TV, in the papers, everywhere. It made me feel sick. Everything I’d been through, and it was all for nothing. The bastards were still getting away with it! And I couldn’t change things, because they’re a fuck of a lot more powerful than me.
“Anyway, I got partnered with Houchen. To be honest, he didn’t seem like my kind of guy. Then one day, we were talking about this Rebirth Of The Region thing – you heard about that?”
“No. Should I have?” asked Andy.
“Not really. But it’s big up here. Like everywhere else, there’s been a change of faces in charge and the new guy at the top in this area’s called Alan Swanson. He got swept in to power on the strength of his Rebirth Of The Region idea. During the election he made it sound like he was going to turn Newcastle into some utopian vision where disease, poverty and inequality would be banished forever. Naturally, people went along with it. To be honest, right then they’d have voted for a fucking tuna fish sandwich if it had promised them change, but Swanson’s bullshit was all they were offered.”
Larkin took another swig of his beer. “Of course, it was all complete bollocks. Another jobs-for-the-boys stitch-up, playing on the gullibility of the electorate. So anyway, Houchen and me were talking, saying what a disgrace the whole thing was, and how people couldn’t – or didn’t want to – see through it. And he asked me what I would do if I had some dirt on one of the councillors involved with the project. Just a bit of relatively harmless sleaze, you understand. I told him I’d use it as a lever to make him keep his promises. He liked that answer, came back a week or so later with a proposition.”
“And what was that?” asked Andy.
Larkin told him about setting the councillor up with the transvestite hooker. Andy’s jaw just about hit the floor.
“You’re a fuckin’ nutter, you know that?”
“Had to be done, Andy.”
“Why?”
“Because the wrong people keep on getting away with things,” said Larkin. “You know that as well as me.” He felt himself getting angry; this wasn’t the response he had been expecting from Andy. He of all people should have understood.
“Yeah, but mate,” started Andy, “you’ve got to know the difference between what you can and can’t change.” He shook his head, exasperated. “This other guy, Houchen. What exactly did he get out of it?”
“Don’t know,” said Larkin. “Maybe it just appealed to his sense of justice. Maybe it gave him some sort of kick. Perhaps it was just a way of filling in his evenings. I don’t know – he was a hard guy to read.”
Andy looked sceptical. “So – your moral crusade had any results yet? Done any good?”
“Dunno,” said Larkin, huffily. “And as I said, we only did it once.”
“And now Houchen’s dead. Any connection?”
“There might be,” said Larkin. And, finally, he told Andy about the answerphone messages.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Exactly. And I’ve been to see our target, who swears he had nothing to do with it, and I believe him.”
“So who does that leave, then?”
“Well,” said Larkin, “I didn’t tell you the full story about Noble.”
“What’s he got to do with this?” asked Andy, taken aback.
“Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot. Noble mentioned to Jane that he has friends in high places. Now because he reckons he’s Minister for Youth, Swanson was the first one who sprung to mind. At first I thought the idea was ridiculous – a politician covering for a child abuser – but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.”
“To you, maybe,” said Andy, sneering in disbelief.
“Just listen,” said Larkin, his face grimly set. “Swanson’s planning to create community centres for the young, after-school homework clubs, schemes for under-privileged kids – that sort of thing. He wants to take a hands-on approach. If he’s using that as a front to get close to kids, he could be capable of anything. Even murder, if it meant saving his reputation and keeping his job.”
“So how are the two things connected?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
“But you do think they are? You think they all meet up each Tuesday to plot against you and Houchen? You haven’t got any proof!”
“No,” said Larkin, his eyes steely. “But I will have, eventually.”
Andy laughed. “You’ve brought this one on yourself! Wasn’t your fault last time, I grant you, but this – my giddy aunt …”
“I don’t see the problem with what I’m saying!” Larkin was infuriated.
“No, you don’t, do you? Why can’t you accept that some things are never gonna change? For one thing, there’s not a conspiracy round every corner – all right? If Swanson is dabblin’ with kids and we find out, great. We’ll get a good story out of it. But this councillor, now, that’s different. Shake the bloke down, print some pics in the papers, he resigns, everyone pats themselves on the back for being fearless crusaders for the truth, you get another one in. Whole thing starts again.” Andy leaned forward. “That’s the way it is. They’re politicians! You can’t ask them to stop being that, any more than you can ask a rattlesnake to stop rattling. Some things are just the way they are. Accept it.”
Larkin stared dead ahead. “We shouldn’t have to accept it. I
won’t
accept it.”
Andy shrugged. They sat in silence for a while, slowly sipping their beer, until Larkin spoke, hesitantly.
“What if I got something on him? What if I prove that Swanson had Houchen murdered? You wouldn’t think I was so naive then, would you?”
Andy sighed. “What time we got to be at this arcade?”
“
Would
you?”