The Informant (29 page)

Sean grasped her by the elbow. Tolya was heading back to the car, he got in the driver’s seat. Kaz knew if she was going to make her move it had to be now. She was still holding
Sean’s gaze, fiercely, defiantly. Without warning she swung back her foot and kicked him hard in the shin. He yelped, but before she could break free he pulled back his fist and landed a
pulverizing right hook squarely under her jaw. The force of the blow sent her reeling. Her head cracked into the brick wall behind and she went down in an unconscious heap at his feet.

Sean flexed his knuckles and rubbed his shin. He bent over her, the back of her head was badly gashed, her lip was bleeding. She was out cold. Tolya got out of the car again and came round. He
looked concerned.

‘She dead?’

Sean huffed. ‘Nah, she’ll wish she was, time I finished with her though. Vicious little bitch. Open the boot.’

Tolya seemed about to speak, but he struggled to find the right words. Sean glared at him.

‘You heard me – open the fucking boot!’

Kaz opened her eyes into darkness; everything hurt. She was lying on her left side, cheek pressed hard against rough carpeting, the floor beneath was rumbling and rolling. A
moving vehicle? A car boot? She could smell petrol and taste blood. Suddenly her whole world careened to the right, flinging her feet first against thinly covered metal. Her right ankle buckled
over and was rammed by the weight of her whole body into the side of the boot. The pain shot up her leg like a bolt. She howled, wrapped her right arm and hand around her head reflexively as the
vehicle swung the other way, flinging her head-first at the opposite side of the boot. Her knuckles and fingers, clutching the top of her head, took the brunt. Again pain stabbed from her hand up
her arm and she realized she was going to be sick.

The vomit flew up into her mouth, into the back of her throat and nose; she made a supreme effort to lift her head in order not to choke. At the same moment her bowels went into spasm. Her jeans
filled with a surge of hot shit, while a milky, coffee-flavoured puddle of puke engulfed her mouth and nose. She spluttered, struggling to raise her head a little more. The vehicle lurched, she was
thrown on to her back. Then it stopped. As the engine faded all she could hear were keening sobs. It took a second to realize they were coming from her, shuddering up from some subconscious well
she never knew existed. The boot opened and she was engulfed in what seemed dazzling sunlight.

‘Fucking hell, she’s shat herself!’ The voice was unmistakably Sean’s. ‘Phoar, what a stink! Get her out of there.’

Kaz held her hands and arms protectively in front of her face. Someone grabbed her arm, then her shoulders, half lifting, half dragging. She guessed it was Tolya.

‘Fucking state of this boot. Look at it, shit and puke everywhere. I should make you clean it out. Not so cocky now little cousin, are you?’

As soon as her feet hit the ground her ankle crumpled and the pain shot up her leg. She collapsed in a heap. Sean was looming over her.

‘And to think I wanted to fuck you. State of you, you’re disgusting.’

She gazed up, focusing on his face. He was wearing aviator sunglasses, the black leather jacket was brand new, his sparse grey hair freshly razored to a number one. A middle-aged gangster from a
bad Brit-flick, though he obviously thought he looked cool. Kaz’s heart was still pounding, her breathing was sharp and shallow, she managed to hold her head up and stare right back at him.
Despite the throbbing in her jaw, she forced herself to speak.

‘He’s gonna kill you, you know that?’

Sean laughed. ‘What, little Joey? Nah. I don’t think you know him as well as you think.’

The Mondeo drove off leaving Kaz lying on rough concrete. She could see from the markings it was some sort of car park. She rolled over on to her hands and knees and began to
crawl. The surface was pitted and gritty, her palms were soon red and sore. Somehow she made it to the nearest wall and used it to haul herself to her feet. Her right ankle was either broken or
badly sprained. Any amount of weight on it was too painful to bear. She dabbed her mouth with her sleeve, a crust of vomit had already dried into the blood on her chin.

Looking around she realized she was several floors up on the deck of a multi-storey car park. She could see City buildings, part of the dome of St Paul’s, but from the south side of the
river. As she turned slowly, clutching the wall for support, her heart soared: she was in the car park behind Joey’s building. She could see the back of it. She fumbled in her pocket, pulled
out her mobile. The screen had a small crack across one corner, but as she pressed the button it still lit up. A keystroke gave her the shortcut to Joey’s numbers. She called them each in
turn. The landline in the flat clicked to voicemail after two rings, the mobiles rang and rang somewhere out there in the electronic ether. There was no answer.

Kaz leant on the wall and the tears started to come. Blood and snot bubbled from her nose. As she tried to wipe it away with the back of her hand she became aware of the pain in her jaw. Even
moving her mouth slightly was excruciating. Then through the blur of tears she saw someone staring at her. A woman had emerged from the lift ten yards away. She wore the neat blue uniform of a
cleaning company, the same one Joey used, and she was struggling to carry a vacuum cleaner, a bucket, a mop and tray of cleaning materials. She stood looking at Kaz, tottering under the weight of
her burdens.

‘You all right love?’

Kaz tried to speak, but there was something in her mouth. In spite of the pain, she managed to spit and two teeth ended up on the concrete in front of her with a trail of bloody saliva dripping
from her lips down onto her shirt. The woman dumped her equipment and rushed over. She was in her fifties, small and rotund with a Jamaican accent.

‘Oh my Lord! What in the world has happened to you child?’

Kaz took a deep breath and tried to answer. But shock had kicked in, her body was shaking all over. She could tell from the appalled expression on the woman’s face that she didn’t
look good. Her exploring fingers found the gash on the back of her head. She started to sway. The woman pulled out a phone and began to press the buttons. Kaz wanted to shout, but her voice came
out in a croaky whisper.

‘No police.’

‘Don’t fret. I’m calling an ambulance, get you to hospital.’

Kaz nodded her gratitude, then she allowed her pain-racked body to slowly sink into a sitting position, back against the wall.

The woman stayed with Kaz for the fifteen minutes it took the paramedics to arrive. She said her name was Delia, she lived in Elephant and Castle. She didn’t ask what had happened. It was
apparent the poor girl was the victim of some species of violence, presumably a mugging. It didn’t require discussion. She sat down beside Kaz and gently took her hand. She exuded an easy,
natural empathy and spoke with a tone of motherly concern that Kaz had never encountered in her own family. She bemoaned the envy and the anger on the streets, the youth saw what they wanted and
took it. They thought the world owed them a living. But the blame couldn’t be laid just at their door – greed was a poison that had spread from top to bottom. Greed and drugs, she saw
it every day and she prayed.

When the paramedics arrived in their green jumpsuits and lifted Kaz on to a stretcher, Delia whispered a silent prayer for her deliverance. Then she returned to her vacuum cleaner, mop, bucket
and tray, loaded them into her battered Nissan Micra and went on her way.

The nearest A & E was at St Thomas’s, across the bridge from Westminster. Kaz arrived in the afternoon lull and was seen by a doctor almost immediately. They cleaned
her up, put her soiled clothes in a white plastic bag under the trolley and sent her for X-rays. Examination of her ankle convinced the doctor it was probably a very bad sprain, he was more
concerned about the blow to the back of her skull. She admitted she’d been punched and had lost consciousness, she was unsure for how long. They didn’t press her for details, but the
Sister had forms to complete and asked for someone, family member or friend, they could contact. Kaz gave them Joey’s number, then after a moment’s hesitation, she added Helen
Warner’s contact details.

The X-rays and the waiting around took the best part of an hour. Kaz dozed intermittently on her trolley. In hospital she felt safe and her brain could start to unscramble the events of the
morning. Sean had come after her to punish her and it was clear how he’d planned to do that. Fortunately her incontinence had put him off. Even as her head, jaw and ankle throbbed she found
this vaguely amusing – she’d defeated a rapist by filling her pants with shit.

But there were more serious questions she needed to ask. How did Sean discover she’d been trying to grass him up? Had he indeed made his own deal with Woodentop? Was that what Bradley had
tried to tell her?

When they wheeled her back into the main department to see the doctor again, Helen was waiting. There had been a shift change and a nurse she hadn’t previously seen escorted Helen to the
cubicle.

‘What the hell happened?’ Helen’s face was tense and pinched with concern, she raked one hand through her hair. ‘Was this Joey?’

Kaz shook her head. ‘Sean.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cause he’s Sean.’

‘I’m calling the police.’

Kaz grabbed her hand. ‘No . . .’

‘Karen—’

‘You wanna know how I ended up like this? Turnbull’s made a deal with Sean.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Not sure I do. But I’m not making myself any more of a fucking hostage to fortune by running to the police. Got that?’

Helen stroked Kaz’s hand. ‘Okay okay, don’t get upset.’

The curtain of the cubicle was pulled back and a doctor appeared. He wasn’t the same one Kaz had seen previously. His appearance was oriental, his accent American.

‘Karen, I’m Doctor Chen.’ He smiled broadly as he flicked open the file. ‘And the good news is your head is harder than we thought – no skull fracture. The jaw is
badly bruised, but also fine. You have concussion and so the next few days you need to take it real easy. We’re going to put a couple of stitches in the back of your head, some tube on that
ankle then you can go home. Also we’ll give you painkillers. Any questions?’

Kaz glanced at Helen; she had a shedload of questions, but none he could help her with. ‘No. And . . . thanks.’ She managed a smile.

Chen nodded amiably. ‘Your friend’s right. You should go to the police.’

Marcus Foxley’s appointment as Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime had initially attracted a slew of negative press coverage. He was too young and inexperienced, that was
the line most commentators took. Foxley regarded this as unfair, he’d simply started young, becoming the leader of an outer London borough in his twenties. Foxley’s dad was a
shopkeeper, like his heroine, the blessed Maggie. But Foxley senior had run a string of sports goods shops, sold out to a big chain for a tidy sum and educated his kids privately. Marcus had hoped
for a well-paid job in the City, but a third in Economics put paid to that. So he got on his bike, literally, and built himself a career in local politics. Frequently pictured astride his cycle in
a jaunty helmet, he campaigned for road safety.

He was the first to admit that at the outset he didn’t know much about the police or fighting crime. All he knew was the voters worried about it. But he found the Met’s senior
officers to be a friendly and helpful bunch. He always welcomed the opportunity to hear their views, and informal lunches were a good way to do that.

Checking his watch he was surprised to see it was already four o’clock. The waiters were clearing tables, most other diners had already left. He was feeling pleasantly replete;
they’d got through several bottles of wine and port between the three of them, although Detective Chief Superintendent Alan Turnbull had stuck to mineral water. Foxley was glad that he
wouldn’t be picking up the bill. Expenses were always a political hot potato. But what did the voters expect? A trip to the local burger bar?

Their host, Duncan Linton, had a waiter at his elbow and was tapping his pin number into the card reader. Foxley smiled to himself. Okay, the restaurant was Michelin-starred, making it quite
pricey, but old Duncan could afford it. He could afford quite a lot if the
Sunday Times
Rich List was to be believed.

Foxley became aware of a voice to his left. Someone was speaking to him. It was Alan. He found he had to concentrate hard to pick up the words. Something about his bike?

‘. . . so Duncan’s called you a cab, okay? You with me Marcus? Leave the bike here.’

Foxley turned his head to focus on his companion. He liked Alan Turnbull, he was one of the best. Turnbull’s boss was Fiona Calder, the Assistant Commissioner, but she was a bit scary
– reminded him of a fearsome teacher he’d had in primary school. Small women could be like small dogs, dangerous and unpredictable. He preferred Alan. Alan was a bloke you could talk
to. Foxley let his weary brain float back to the early part of the meal. He’d ordered scallops as a starter. And what had they been talking about? Oh yeah, outsourcing. Just how much of the
police service should be privatized. A touchy topic. In public everyone agreed. Behind closed doors a vicious political brawl was in progress.

Duncan Linton ran a private equity fund. He explained to Foxley that really he was a facilitator, a bloke who looked for money and opportunities and introduced them to each other. Alan of course
was a policeman, which is why it was a bit odd for him and Duncan to be such good mates. Or maybe it wasn’t. Foxley had to be honest with himself, he’d had a tad too much to drink. So
he probably wasn’t quite as sharp as normal. But he knew that it was his job to listen to all points of view and that’s what he’d done. Linton had done most of the talking, but he
and Turnbull were involved in some kind of private scheme. That was the nub of it, although temporarily Foxley couldn’t recall the detail.