“But the evidence!” enthused Bolland. “The two boys, the video
tapes, the photos … Harvey might have wiped the security tapes, but there’s computer disks with customers’ names and addresses. Once Harvey gives up the access codes the police’ll be able to reap that little harvest. No,” he continued, wagging a finger at Larkin and Andy, “mark my words, this is huge! Bigger than huge!” He reached across and enfolded Larkin in a bear hug, squeezing too tightly for comfort.
They must have taught him this at his male bonding class
, thought Larkin, raising his eyebrows at Andy over Bolland’s shoulder.
“Love ’im! Love ’im!” Bolland, thankfully, released Larkin from his grasp. “What did I tell you, Steve? If there’s an award winner in this agency, it’s you!”
“Yeah, but,” said Larkin, “there’s still the court case.”
“And then there’s the Third Man,” chimed in Andy.
“Oh, they’ll find him,” said Bolland with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Once they’ve got the others, it’s inevitable. No, this is your moment of glory. You deserve it – bask in it!”
I might if you’d shut up and give me the chance
, thought Larkin. But he said only, “Yeah. Right.”
Bolland started to gibber excitedly once more, but his eulogies were cut short by the trilling of Larkin’s mobile. He answered: it was Jane. No pleasantries – she came straight to the point.
“I’ve just had the police on the phone. It’s Noble. He’s dead.”
That news was shocking enough, but what she told him next had Larkin grabbing Andy and running from the pub as fast as possible.
Bolland stared after them, taken aback. He shrugged and smiled to himself. “There you go,” he said. “When the Batphone rings, the dynamic duo swing into action.” He downed his drink and wondered where they were going. And how much money it was going to make him.
When the Vitara attempted to pull into Noble’s street, Andy found the amount of people thronging the place made access almost impossible. Clearly the crowds had sensed something important was happening, something that would make the news. Carefully Andy steered the jeep through the crowds, only to stop short at the inevitable cordon. The police had used so much marker tape, they could have gift-wrapped the street for Christmas.
Larkin and Andy parked the vehicle where it had come to rest and hopped down. Already the TV news teams, both local and national, were hovering; cameras poised like electronic scalpels, waiting to rip open whatever story was there, spill its guts all over the public. Print journalists were also gathered; Larkin caught the predatory eye of Carrie Brewer. She didn’t waste much time before heading in his direction.
“Thought dead children weren’t your thing?” she said as unpleasantly as possible.
“Frightened someone else’ll get your exclusive?” Larkin replied.
Andy’s assessment of the situation was razor-sharp. “One exclusive in the day’s quite enough, don’t you think?” he said. Brewer recoiled as if she’d been slapped.
“Have you met Andy?” Larkin asked innocently. “I can tell the two of you are going to get along famously.”
She attempted to recover her composure. “I don’t know what you expect to find here. Even I can’t get anything out of them.”
“Really?” said Larkin, raising his eyebrows in mock-surprise. He pulled out his mobile, punched in a number. “I’m here,” he said when it was answered and listened for the response. He hung up, pocketing the phone. Revenge was going to be very sweet.
Less than a minute later, a uniformed constable called his name. He made himself known, and the policeman allowed Andy and Larkin – who tried not to look too smug – under the tape. Carrie Brewer’s jaw just about hit the ground. Larkin couldn’t resist blowing her a kiss as he went.
“Bit of a childish victory,” said Andy as they followed the policeman towards Noble’s flat.
“I know,” agreed Larkin, “but bloody satisfying, even under the circumstances.”
“Now don’t think I only brought you in here to give you an exclusive,” Moir said, as soon as Larkin and Andy reached Noble’s front door. “You’re here as witnesses. I’ll be wanting statements.”
Larkin was shocked to see Moir: he looked terrible. Clothes more dishevelled even than usual, hair like greying straw, eyes bloodshot, black-rimmed. Most disturbing of all, the big man’s hands had a nasty touch of the shakes. Larkin suspected he was tottering on the edge of burn-out.
After Jane’s call in the pub, Larkin had phoned Moir; he’d been asked to come, with Andy, straight to Noble’s flat. Moir’s tone had told them to expect, not only the worst, but also a hard time.
At first glance Noble’s flat looked much as Larkin had left it, leaving aside the white-suited hordes of SOCOs. “We’ll talk in here,” Moir said, and led them into the living room, where he sat heavily on one of the dining chairs, visibly glad to take the weight off his feet. He checked no one else was in earshot before he spoke. “Place look as you left it?”
“Pretty much,” said Larkin. “So what happened?”
“Well, we began to make a routine enquiry into the abuse allegations brought about by your friend
Ms
Howells,” Moir started, folding his hands into his lap, trying to conceal the shaking. “The uniforms were told Noble hadn’t turned up for work today, so they came round here. No reply. Fearing he’d done a runner, they entered forcibly and found … I’d better show you.”
Moir stood up and walked to the bathroom, Larkin and Andy close behind him. The tiny off-white tiled room was full of people; print-lifting, photographing, sample collecting. Noble was getting more attention dead than he had ever had when he was alive.
“Bit busy still – we’ll have to watch it from here,” said Moir.
Swallowing hard, Larkin looked in. He knew the naked body in the bath had once been Noble, but it was hard to imagine. The skin was soft-looking, blue-white, beginning to bloat. An arm hung limply over the side of the bath, vicious slashes visible at the inside of the wrist. Blood had stained the tiled walls in a collection of magnificently abstract arcs, trickling down the grouting, dying the carpet a coppery brown. The bath water was deep pink. Noble’s head was thrown back, eyes staring, mouth gaping. Shit floated on the water, evidence of the moment when his muscles had finally given up the fight, the moment when he had died.
“Fuckin’ ’ell …” said Andy, his face twisting at the stench.
“Want to take some pics?” asked Moir, cynically.
“No way,” Andy said, shocked for once. “I doubt my usual publishers would touch this stuff. I hate to think who would wanna publish it.”
“Fair enough,” Moir replied. “Shame – the general public should see this. It would put them off Hollywood’s idea of self-destruction.”
“So this was definitely a suicide?” asked Larkin. “On the phone, you mentioned a note — ”
Moir gave a cryptic smile. “Follow me,” he said, and led them back to the living room.
“We found it on the screen,” he said, pointing to the word processor. “Unsigned, of course. We printed a copy off.” He produced a sheet of A4 paper from inside his coat, sealed in a plastic evidence bag. He laid it flat on the table. “Have a read,” he said.
Larkin and Andy both bent over.
I admit I killed Jason Winship. I can’t live with the guilt any more and have decided to end my life.
They straightened up. “Short and sweet,” said Andy.
“And very convenient,” added Larkin. “Does he know where Lord Lucan and Shergar are as well?”
Moir nodded. “My sentiments exactly. But until our investigations turn up anything else we’ll have to go with it.”
“What about his shrine? Have you seen that?” asked Larkin.
“You mean that little wank cupboard off the bedroom?” Moir replied. “Yeah – we found it.”
“The polaroids round the mirror,” said Larkin, “they were taken
in Harvey’s cellar. Might be worth checking them out, trying to trace the kids involved.”
Moir looked confused. “Polaroids? There weren’t any polaroids.”
“Really,” said Larkin. “Then either Noble tidied them away to preserve his posthumous reputation, or some visitors with a line in self-protection have done it for him.”
“Fuck!” spat Moir.
“Quite,” said Larkin. Uneasy, he crossed to the window. The sky was rapidly darkening, and the spectators were beginning to drift off. Once they’d realised that nothing dramatic was going to happen, Eastenders had begun to look more attractive. Noble had had his fifteen minutes of notoriety.
As Larkin idly stared, trying to make sense of it all, the tape in the street was lifted by a couple of uniformed officers to allow the entrance of a car: a top-of-the-range Rover, sanctioned for official purposes. It purred to a halt outside the house, next to Noble’s Fiesta. And from the back stepped Alan Swanson.
An unpleasant frisson ran the length of Larkin’s spine. “Andy – we’ve got company.”
Andy joined him at the window, and quickly did a double-take.
“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” said Larkin. “Hey, Henry, how did that pisshead describe the bloke seen when Jason was abducted? Middle-aged, flash bloke, flash car? Come and look at this.”
Moir joined them at the window. Swanson was surveying first the dwindling crowd, then the house; his expression was grim. “Swanson. Heard he was coming. He’s going to talk to the media. High-profile case like this, specially where kids are involved …” Moir trailed off, looked at Larkin. “You’re not thinkin’ …”
“Why not? He fits the bill, doesn’t he?”
Moir shook his head in disbelief. As the three men watched, McMahon emerged from the other side of the car; he too wore an expensive suit and a sombre expression. They came together on the pavement, exchanged words. Swanson shook his head, his face drawn.
“Look at the state of that,” Moir said, referring to his boss. “More like a politician than the politician. They could be brothers.”
“We all are, under the skin,” said Andy.
The other two stared at him blankly.
“Apparently not,” Andy said weakly.
McMahon and Swanson made their way to the front door of Noble’s flat.
“I think we’d better make ourselves scarce,” said Larkin. But before he and Andy could make a move, McMahon and Swanson were in the room.
“Henry!” McMahon moved over to Moir, enthusiastically pumped his hand. “Congratulations! Stroke of luck and we all get a result! Marvellous!” He stopped dead when he saw Larkin and Andy. “And who’s this?” An icy coldness had entered his voice.
“Stephen Larkin and Andy Brennan. From The News Agents. They put us on to Noble.” Moir glanced quickly at Larkin. “They’ve been giving us a statement.”
McMahon regarded them as if they were insects, a cruel light in his eyes. Suddenly his mask of joviality was back in place. “The press. Well done, Henry! You’ve recruited them to our cause!” He crossed to Larkin, all smiles now. “I’ve heard of you. I like your attitude. You know, this is an unrivalled opportunity to write up a major story from an eyewitness point of view.” He stared straight into Larkin’s eyes, Larkin, unflinchingly, stared back. “I trust you know how to write it
properly
,” McMahon said, a touch of frost back in his voice.
Yeah
, thought Larkin,
the last thing you want me to do is upset your doctored crime clear-up figures.
“I know exactly what to write,” he said.
McMahon clapped him on the back, everyone’s favourite uncle. “Of
course
you do! You don’t need me telling you how to do your job!” He gave a short burst of forced laughter then fell silent; Larkin knew an exit line when he heard one.
“We’ll be off then,” Larkin said. “Cheers, Henry – nice one. Think on what we said, though.”
“I will,” muttered Moir, clearly uncomfortable in McMahon’s presence.
Larkin and Andy made their way out. In the doorway hovered Swanson, seemingly undecided whether or not to enter. Perhaps he thought that publicly entering a known paedophile’s house would tarnish his image. Bring him a bit too close to reality for comfort.
Larkin nodded to him as he passed, then stopped, turned. “Mr Swanson?”
Swanson moved to face him. “Yes?”
“You don’t know me. My name’s Stephen Larkin, I’m a journalist. I was wondering if I could possibly have a word with you some time?”
“Of course,” Swanson said readily. Larkin was taken aback. What was that look on his face? Anticipation? Resignation? Fear? He certainly hadn’t expected Swanson to co-operate. What was his agenda?
“Call my office. We’ll talk soon.” Swanson caught Larkin’s eye, held his gaze. A politician’s honest sincerity. Then he took a deep breath and stepped inside Noble’s house of horrors.
As they made their way back to the Vitara, Andy voiced his bewilderment. “That was fuckin’ spooky, wasn’t it? ’Im turnin’ up, wantin’ to talk an’ all that – must ’ave a guilty conscience.”
“Yeah,” Larkin replied, a gleam in his eyes. “Still, we’ve got the bastard.”
Near the Vitara, Larkin saw Carrie Brewer; she was standing at the barrier, doing her damnedest to flirt with a uniformed constable. The man – hardly more than a teenager – was beetroot with embarrassment, desperately trying to escape her attentions.
Larkin seized the opportunity. “Hey, Carrie – how’s that dose of NSU you couldn’t shift?”
Brewer turned to face him, glaring. Her hold broken, the policeman was able to scurry away. “Why don’t you piss off?” she shouted.
“Gladly. Just off to write my leading article.” He smiled winsomely.
“Arsehole!” She stomped off angrily.
“Wouldn’t mind givin’ ’er one,” Andy said ruminatively.
“Who, Carrie Brewer?” Larkin was gobsmacked.
“Yeah, I know she’s a bitch an’ all that,” Andy said, his brow furrowed as if he were wrestling with a particularly thorny philosophical problem, “but sometimes you can’t beat a good vengeance fuck.”
Larkin shook his head. “I hope you’re a one-off.”
“Naw,” said Andy smiling, “I’m a clone. There’s thousands — ” He broke off suddenly and stared. “Who the fuck’s that standing in front of my jeep like he owns it?”
Larkin looked. He saw the figure of a skinhead, so still he seemed
to be on guard duty. “Don’t worry – that’s just Ezz. A friend of mine – sort of.”