Long Way Home (32 page)

‘They were probably scared they’d be next,’ Zigic said. ‘It’s impossible for us to understand what it feels like living under those conditions. Of course we think we’d fight back in that situation, but we wouldn’t.’

‘I would.’

She snatched up her lighter and headed for the door.

‘You can smoke that here.’

‘I need some air.’

Zigic went to the window and saw the press vans being repacked, the print hacks already leaving. They’d be back tomorrow morning, wanting something sensational for the lunchtime edition, and he wondered how much shock and outrage it would provoke when the full story emerged. Foreign workers kept as slaves a few minutes from the centre of Peterborough, the casual brutality and senseless murder.

He wanted to believe it would lead to change. Tighter controls on gangmasters, better enforcement. He wanted a groundswell of public outcry and questions in the House of Commons, but he knew, deep down, that it would cause nothing more significant than some brief hand-wringing from a minority of well-meaning but ineffectual people. An article in the
Guardian
perhaps, recommendations from a charity or two. The people with real power were profiting too much from the situation to want to improve it.

He picked up the coffee pot and put it down again. He wanted a proper drink. If he was the kind of copper who kept a bottle in his desk drawer he’d be in it now and that was purely why he didn’t. There were too many moments like this.

There was a pub two minutes’ drive away but it would be full of hacks and off-duty uniforms and he couldn’t face the atmosphere of aggressive bonhomie.

He went back to Jaan Stepulov’s board and thought of Gemma Barlow, home again now, waiting for Phil to get in so she could confront him or debrief him. Confrontation was more likely, Zigic thought. She was genuinely shocked about the jewellery and if she suspected Phil before that would have hardened into certainty this afternoon.

He remembered her almost admission and wondered if he should have pushed her more. Could she be pushed, though? She’d shut down so swiftly and completely that he doubted it, but the possibility that he’d lost a crucial new piece of information for the want of the right question was irritating as hell.

Ferreira came up behind him, hair blown about and smoke on her breath. She nodded towards the board,

‘You think Phil’s home from work yet?’

THE HOUSE WAS
empty when Phil Barlow got in.

He hated this, coming home to dark, deserted rooms, no kiss on the doorstep, no hot water in the tank to wash the day’s filth off him. He dumped his keys on the hall table and checked the answer machine. One message, a reporter from the local paper wanting to speak to him. He hit the delete button and went into the kitchen for a beer.

It sloshed into his stomach, no food to absorb it. He’d thrown his sandwiches out for the birds at lunchtime, couldn’t face eating them. He hadn’t eaten properly for days, spent the weekend in front of the television with Sky Sports News playing the same dozen stories on an unending loop. He’d drunk himself to sleep on the sofa and woken up hearing sirens.

Upstairs he took a quick shower in lukewarm water, put on the clothes he’d left on the bedroom floor last night.

He went into the kitchen for another beer and took a look in the freezer, starting to feel a bit peckish. There was ice cream and frozen peas, one of Gemma’s old Weight Watchers carbonaras that smelled like sick and tasted just as bad.

He called Domino’s and ordered a twelve-inch and some potato wedges, then went back into the living room and watched
EastEnders
, seeing that Gemma had Sky-plussed it to watch when she got in. She’d be round her mum’s then, curled up in her stuffy lounge, surrounded by cats and Capodimonte, on her third glass of wine. Her tongue would be loose from the drink and the stress, spilling secrets which had nothing to do with this situation but which her mother would store away for a later date. She’d been trying to break them up for years, telling Gemma he was too old, didn’t earn enough, couldn’t give her a baby. This would be a dream come true.
Do you want to be married to a murderer, Gem-Gem?

As the end credits rolled he called her.

Her phone rang straight through to the message service.

‘Hey, babe, it’s me, call me when you get this. I love you.’

He flipped through his contacts and found her mother’s home number. His thumb hovered over the call button, but he couldn’t face talking to the old bitch, even for a minute.

The doorbell rang and he hauled himself up off the sofa, checking the time. The delivery guy had made it quick, no chance of arguing the cost.

He opened the front door and Clinton Renfrew was standing there with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets, chin thrown up like a challenge.

‘Alright, Phil, mate? Mind if I come in?’

Renfrew muscled past him, eyes on everything. He was wearing a soft, black leather jacket over a khaki camouflage T-shirt and jeans stiff with newness, a pair of box-fresh white Pumas.

‘Nice place you got here,’ he said. ‘Area’s a bit downmarket these days but you wouldn’t know it once you’re inside, would you?’

He walked through to the living room, taking in the size of the television and black chandelier, nodding to himself, hands still in his pockets. He went over to the photographs on the bookshelves.

‘This your lad?’

‘Craig, yeah.’

‘Got his mother’s looks,’ Renfrew said. ‘Lucky for him.’

He didn’t want Renfrew talking about his son. Didn’t even want him to know Craig existed.

‘How’re your kids doing?’ he asked.

‘No fucking idea. I ain’t seen them since I got out. Their ma’s taken them back to Corby, don’t even know her address.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Renfrew shrugged and sat down on the sofa, pushed back like he was settling in for the evening, one foot tucked under himself.

‘Offer us a drink then – where’re your manners?’

‘Beer?’

‘Got anything stronger?’

‘No.’ He had.

‘Beer it’ll have to be then.’

Phil went into the kitchen, feeling trapped, certain he knew what Renfrew had come for and scared what he’d do when he told him he didn’t have it. He took the last bottle of Stella out of the fridge and snapped the top off with the handle of a spoon. The opener was missing, somewhere in the murky dishwater.

‘Where’s your old woman?’ Renfrew asked as he took his drink. ‘Not left you, has she?’

‘Gone to the gym. Yoga.’

The doorbell rang again but Phil just stood there, looking at Renfrew stretched out on his sofa, drinking his beer, dressed in clothes which had been paid for with the money from his jewellery.

‘Think you better get that.’

The delivery guy asked him for the money in a thick accent, garbling the words. Phil emptied his wallet to pay for the food and found Renfrew hunched on the edge of the sofa when he returned to the living room.

‘Smells good. Haven’t had my tea yet.’

Phil dropped the pizza box on the table and Renfrew tore off the first slice, ate it in a couple of greedy bites, a blob of sauce hitting the floor between his feet. He was going for another when he gestured at Phil.

‘Sit down then.’

He took the footstool on the other side of the table, watching Renfrew stuff a potato wedge into his mouth.

‘You wanna eat this before it gets cold.’

He picked up a slice and made himself bite and swallow, not tasting it.

Renfrew wiped his greasy fingers on the arm of the sofa, went for the beer bottle he’d left shoved down between the seat cushions.

‘Missed this when I was inside. Funny the stuff you want when you can’t have it.’

Phil nodded, not knowing what to say.

He just wanted this to be over but he didn’t know how to end it.

If he was a different kind of man he’d throw Renfrew out. He knew that wouldn’t work though. Renfrew was lean and hard, always had been a fighter, ever since he’d known him, years back while he was dating his sister, a doll-like blonde with a volcanic temper. She started fights in pubs, men or women, she didn’t care. He’d seen her beat a bloke twice her size for looking at her tits.

If he tried to play the tough guy with Renfrew he’d end up in hospital. Or worse.

‘This about the job?’ he asked, trying to sound relaxed, just two old friends talking.

Renfrew drained his Stella, Adam’s apple bobbing.

‘Don’t reckon the building’s my kind of thing. Out in the cold, dust up your arsehole all day long. That’s not for me.’

He felt relief wash over him but it was short-lived.

‘Bloke I know from up Hull’s got something he wants me in on,’ Renfrew said. ‘Need some start-up capital though. Can’t go in empty-handed.’

‘What is it?’ Phil asked.

‘Best you don’t know.’ He shook the empty bottle at Phil. ‘I’ll have another.’

‘None left.’

‘Fuck me, your missus doesn’t keep much of a house.’

Phil punched his fist into his palm, sat there with every muscle in his body clenched.

‘What do you want from me, Clint?’

‘That’s not very friendly.’

‘We’re not friends. We were never friends. And you’re blackmailing me. We both know it so let’s just have it out now.’

‘She due back?’ Renfrew asked. ‘You scared of her and all?’

‘How much, Clint?’

‘Couple of grand should do it.’

Phil stood sharply. ‘I haven’t got that kind of money.’

‘Don’t gimme that bollocks.’

‘We’re skint, man.’

‘You own this place, don’t you?’

‘The banks owns it.’

‘Getting it’s your problem,’ Renfrew said. ‘Use some fucking initiative.’

‘I can’t manage two grand.’

‘Look, I’m being decent about this cos we’re mates. If you were anyone else it’d be five. Five’s my usual price.’

‘You didn’t do anything,’ Phil shouted.

‘Not what I’ll tell the police.’

‘So tell them, see if I care.’

Renfrew was on him in a heartbeat and Phil tried to step back but there was nowhere to go. The hard edge of the mantel dug into his back as Renfrew pressed his face close, speaking in a low voice through his teeth.

‘Don’t try and bluff me, Phil. I’ve got nothing to lose. You think on that.’

Renfrew retreated less than a foot, still close enough to do some damage but Phil knew he wouldn’t now. Nothing serious. He just wanted money. Money he didn’t have to give him and couldn’t hope to scrape together. They were at the limit of their overdraft, had six credit cards between them all maxed out and the only thing he owned of any value Renfrew had already taken.

There was the savings account. It was Gemma’s more than his but she’d opened it in joint names, asked him to chip in whatever he could manage to make up the money from her little job at H&M. There must be a few thousand in there by now, he didn’t know exactly, only that she didn’t have enough for the next round of IVF yet.

She’d kill him if he touched it. Renfrew would kill him if he didn’t.

‘I need some time.’

‘Friday,’ Renfrew said, poking him in the chest. ‘You don’t have it by Friday you know what’ll happen. And it won’t just be you. I’ll tell them your missus was involved and all. They’ll send you both down.’

‘Alright. I’ll try.’

‘Don’t try. Get.’

‘Alright,’ Phil said. ‘I’ll get it. But after that –’

‘What?’

Phil forced himself to meet Renfrew’s eye.

‘This has to be a one-off.’

Renfrew smiled, grease glistening on his lips, and turned away. He closed the lid on the pizza box and carried it off with him, balanced on his palm, well away from his fancy new leather jacket. He banged the front door home hard as he left and the sound shook through Phil’s skull.

What did that mean, that smile?

He knew. Didn’t want to admit it but the pressure in his chest and the gnawing pain in his stomach insisted. Renfrew wouldn’t be bought off forever with a measly two grand. It might buy him a few weeks’ peace but eventually there would be another knock at the door and another demand.

Renfrew owned him now.

Outside a car door slammed and he rushed to the front door, wanting to stop Renfrew talking to Gemma. A second door slammed before he could open up and he heard raised voices, Renfrew shouting and a woman replying.

He yanked the door open and saw Renfrew flat on his face on the front path, DS Ferreira with her knee in his back, snapping on the handcuffs. A squad car was parked at the kerb, blue lights bouncing between the houses and Phil clung to the door handle to stay upright.

Inspector Zigic gestured at the scene, perfectly placid. ‘Now, you’re not going to give us any trouble, are you, Mr Barlow?’

CLINTON RENFREW WAIVED
the offer of a solicitor and Zigic wasn’t sure if that was a positive sign or not. Either he was going to say absolutely nothing and let them waste their time or he knew he was so far in the shit that a solicitor wouldn’t make any difference.

He asked for a cup of tea though and a packet of cigarettes, grinned when Ferreira refused.

‘You don’t trust me with a lighter, hey?’

She prepared the tapes while Renfrew went for his tea, holding it in his left hand, his right one was bandaged from where he cut it hitting the ground, landing on a shard of broken glass in the gravel between the slabs on the front path.

They’d decided to start with him. He knew the game, understood the benefit of trading honesty for leniency. Phil Barlow could wait. The longer he sat in a holding cell, alone with his thoughts and his fears, the more likely he was to cave. They’d found him out now, that was going to play on his mind.

‘Last time we spoke you denied knowing Phil Barlow,’ Zigic said. ‘Why did you lie to us?’

‘Didn’t want to drop him in it.’

‘How would admitting you know him do that?’

‘Phil’s an upstanding citizen,’ Renfrew said, his voice laced with sarcasm. ‘Wouldn’t want you thinking he associated with ex-cons.’

‘So how do you two know each other?’

‘He went out with my sister for a bit. Till she got shot of him.’