– One down in Peckham last summer. And the guy in Vauxhall.
– Vauxhall was a hit.
– Was it?
Hawthorn watched Mrs Field. She was about five foot eight tall in her heels, late forties, attractive, her grey hair cut short. She was dressed in a black business suit. She glanced up and caught his eye. He looked away.
She kept them waiting some time. When she came to the door she looked them over. She said nothing, and allowed Hawthorn then Child to introduce themselves. They went into the room. She introduced her daughter. Her face was marked by tears and she seemed very young. Mrs Field asked where Rivers was. Child told her about the boys from
Totten-ham
and the trail that was being followed northwards. She nodded, rubbed at her eyes.
– Random is never really random, she said quietly.
– What do you mean? Hawthorn asked.
She looked up at him, a little surprised, and then she almost smiled.
– I don’t mean that it wasn’t random. I just mean that it doesn’t feel random when it happens to your son. It feels very specific then. Very specific.
– When we spoke to Daniel this morning … Hawthorn began.
– You spoke to him?
– Yes. We got here just as he did. We were able to speak to him very briefly in the emergency room.
– Oh. I didn’t know. How was … I mean … was he in pain?
Hawthorn lifted his shoulders a little.
– Well yes, he was in pain. Of course he was in pain.
– They were preparing him for surgery, said Child. He was given painkillers very quickly. They were looking after him very well.
– I know. Of course. It’s just difficult for me to think about. Was he very frightened?
– He was actually quite alert, said Hawthorn. He seemed strong. It was a good sign. They said it was a good sign.
She pushed a smile towards her daughter. Nodded.
– When we spoke to him, Hawthorn went on, we asked him what had happened. He told us that a car had pulled up alongside him and shots had been fired. But he told us that it was an old car. An old-fashioned car. And when we asked did he mean a vintage car he said yes. A vintage car.
She frowned.
– But these boys … were they in a vintage car?
– No.
– The simple explanation, said Child, is that Daniel, in shock, perhaps coming under the influence of the first of the painkillers and what have you, imagined that he had seen a vintage car.
– Yes, she said quietly.
– But it’s a loose end, said Child. And my colleague is keen to tie it up.
– Do you know anyone with a vintage car? Have you heard Daniel mention knowing anyone with a vintage car?
She was quiet. She didn’t move. Then she shook her head slowly.
– Does a vintage car mean anything to you at all?
– No. Not really.
– Not really?
– Not at all. That I can think of.
– There are no … you don’t know anyone who drives, who owns, a vintage car?
She appeared to think about it for a moment.
– No.
Hawthorn nodded.
– Does Daniel own the house on Nestor Lane?
– Yes. He does. He inherited it from his grandfather. His father’s father.
– How long has it been in the family?
– I really don’t know. 1930s I think.
Daniel Field lay flat on his bed. His torso below the chest was bound in bandages. Various lines and tubes and cables came and went from his arms, and under the covers which lay on his lower body. There was dark bruising on his left shoulder. His face seemed slightly swollen. There was a scratch on his left cheek that Hawthorn didn’t remember from the morning.
Mrs Field and her daughter had already spent twenty minutes with him before the daughter came out and told Hawthorn and Child to come in.
– Did he tell you anything about the shooting?
– Just what you said. An old car. Then Mum got him to stop and sent me to get you.
He was pale. Dull blue veins were scribbled across his skin. His hands were clean.
His mother touched his arm above his wrist. He opened his eyes. It seemed to take a moment for him to focus on her. She kissed his forehead.
– Go on, Daniel.
– What?
– Tell us what you remember.
He looked confused for a moment, and he looked around her, into the gloom. He looked at Child and Hawthorn, and his sister, then back at Hawthorn.
– Oh, he said. Yeah.
He closed his eyes, and Hawthorn thought that he’d drifted off. But his mother stroked his arm, and after a moment he started to speak softly.
– There was … a black car. Low down. With those running boards. And those old silver door handles. Like in a black-and-white film. The window was down. I couldn’t see anyone. Just a flash. I don’t remember a bang. A flash, and I didn’t know … nothing happened. I thought it was a camera flash. I thought someone was taking my picture. The car was lovely. Silent, low down. Sweeping. Then there was another … flash and … boof … I felt like I’d been … punched in the stomach. Then I was on the ground, and the pain came, and I felt like something really bad had happened in my stomach, or
somewhere
. Inside me. Something had exploded. But I heard no noise. No bang … nothing. Like the sound was down. I thought someone was taking my photograph while my insides were exploding, and I hoped they’d call an ambulance, but then they were gone and my hand was covered in blood, and I realized that I’d been shot. By the car.
He opened his eyes briefly and looked at Hawthorn, as if to check that he was still there. Then he closed them again.
– I thought it was the stupidest thing that could ever have happened.
Child shrugged in the corridors.
– You’re not happy, are you? he said.
– He saw what he saw.
– He saw what he thought he saw.
– He’s been completely consistent.
– And vague. A low dark car. With running boards. A lovely car.
– Silver door handles.
– Silver door handles.
– It’s no more vague than descriptions we get from people who don’t know cars. We explicate.
– We what?
– Explicate?
– I don’t think that’s the right word, Hawthorn.
– We put them together.
– Extrapolate?
– Yeah.
– We work it out. But. You know. I’m not sure we have a model book that goes back to … whenever. If he insists on it the CPS will have a bit of a problem.
They wandered through the corridors. Hawthorn assumed Child knew where he was going.
– What it is, said Child, is that you don’t want to go back to Mishazzo.
Hawthorn looked at him.
– What?
– It’s a hallucination, or whatever. Rivers has it tied up. You want a loose thread so that we’re not back following that idiot all day long. Looking at windows. Going slowly insane.
– It’s not that.
– And Rivers is being a prick. I know that. It wasn’t our fault we lost the driver. So I get it. Really. If there was anything believable about it I’d go along. But what do we do with a vague description of some sort of vintage car, when we’ve got CCTV of the Hyundai, and two crack-high idiots weaving their way north? I wouldn’t put it past them to have just thrown the gun on the back seat.
– Still. We can’t just decide things that don’t fit are
hallucinations
.
– No. We usually don’t decide anything about things that don’t fit. They just don’t fit. So we leave them out. Least with this there’s an explanation why it doesn’t fit.
He hunched his shoulders and took a turn without
looking
. Hawthorn glanced at a sign board. He saw nothing about an exit.
– It’s like Jetters, Child said. He thought he heard
ochre
. We know he didn’t. But he was convinced that’s what he heard. So, should we start looking for an ochre-coloured car?
Hawthorn was hating this conversation now.
– It’s different.
– No it’s not. It’s people imagining things. We start
investigating
what people imagine …
He trailed off, looked over his shoulder.
– Where the fuck are we?
Hawthorn shook his head. They turned another corner.
– It’s not even plausible, Child went on. The vintage car. You know there was a camera pointing all the way up Plume Road? From down near the tube. Looking all the way back up. You can see the junction with Hampley Road. It’s in the distance, but you can see it. This is a traffic camera so it’s digital whatever. It has the timer on it, and it’s clear. And at exactly the right time, the Hyundai comes around that corner. Nothing before. Nothing after. No vintage cars. Just the Hyundai. And no vintage cars.
Hawthorn looked at him. He hated it.
– You know what those things are like.
Child laughed.
– No, I know what they’re like when they don’t fit. I know how suddenly when it’s the wrong thing on the camera the timer mysteriously gets scrambled, or a bird shits on the lens, or somebody deletes the wrong file. But this is
straightforward
. It’s simple. There are no other explanations.
Hawthorn looked at him.
– There are several other explanations.
– Such as?
– There are dozens.
They were near the café. They paused at the junction of three corridors and looked around.
– Name one.
– There are hundreds.
Hawthorn took the turning to the left, towards a flickering light.
– Do you know where we are? Child asked him.
– No, he said. There are millions of explanations. There’s an infinite number of explanations.
Child sighed and pushed his glasses up the ramp of his nose.
– Well you can do the paperwork then.
Hawthorn went online. He looked up film titles, book titles. He tried to discover the history of the house on Nestor Lane, and of Nestor Lane itself. He looked at cars. At pictures of cars. He found some that seemed about right. He printed off the photographs of seven of them. He tried to put all the
photographs
on one page but couldn’t work the software.
Child had gone home. Two men had been arrested in Bolton and were on their way back to London. No sign of the gun. They denied everything. They knew nothing about any shooting, they said. But Rivers had put them in separate vans with someone to talk to.
Hawthorn asked Frank Lenton to show him the CCTV footage. Plume Road looked long; a strip of grey with white highlights and black shadows. It was still as a photograph. He watched the wrong junction the first time. Frank replayed it. A speck of something half bright crawled around the corner from Hampley Road. It looked low down to Hawthorn.
– That’s it?
The car hesitated and then turned north, away from the camera, its rear lights like pinprick stars that faded as soon as he looked at them. He wasn’t sure that they weren’t just reflections.
– Yeah. They can zoom in on it.
– Can you?
– No. I don’t have the gear.
They watched it a few times. Hawthorn squinted. He tried looking slightly to the side, to catch it out of the corner of his eye. He tried to stare at it directly. He tried to pretend he didn’t know it was coming. But every time he saw it, it looked like nothing. It was formless. He could imagine it into any shape he thought of. He could make it disappear by imagining that it wasn’t there at all – that he didn’t see it. The road was empty and was not a road. He found himself looking at the smudged screen.
– Thank you, Frank.
The city fell apart into silence and darkness and cold, and Hawthorn took a bus to Finsbury Park and then walked up to Crouch End and ate pasta in the Italian place by the green. It was quiet. He tried to take his time. He tried to wait before each mouthful. He couldn’t decide what to think about.
He called his brother. They talked about the weekend. They talked about their father. They talked about Tess’s new computer. Hawthorn asked his brother what he knew about vintage cars.
– What kind of vintage?
– Pre-war. 1930s I think.
– What about them?
– Do you see many?
– Nah, I don’t think so. If there’s an event maybe. The London to Brighton, you see them then. There’s a restored nineteen forty something cab I see around. I don’t know the cabbie. I used to have a regular fare from Chelsea to Ealing, was a vintage car dealer I think. Driving ban. Why?
– Ealing?
– Yeah. Ealing. Why?
– Case.
– Theft?
– No, not really. I’ll tell you about it at the weekend.
– You all right?
– Yeah, I’m fine.
He was on his second coffee. They were starting to close up.
– How’s the thing?
– What thing?
– The crying.
Hawthorn made a face and looked out of the window.
– It’s fine. Do you remember the models? Dad’s models? Soldiers and cars and that?
– Yeah, I do. I remember the soldiers. Lead things. Painted. They were Granddad’s, I think. Haven’t seen them in years.
– There used to be cars too. Heavy. Solid. Were they lead?
– Lead paint. Cast iron. Probably be worth something now. Did you not get into trouble about them?
– Yeah. I broke a few. I used to crash them together. Chipped them. Knocked wheels off and that.
– Violent little tyke, you were. You get a thrashing?
– No, I got a talk.
– Ah. A talk.
– I still remember it. Made me feel like a bastard.
– Which you were.
– Which I was.
– We should ask him about them. You going to come over on Saturday?
– Yeah, that’s the plan.
– All right. Tess says love, and the kids.
– Love back.
In the roads on the hill he looked at the city lights and the airplanes circling over south London like a lid closing on a jar. He stamped to keep his feet warm and tried to get lost. He took a bus to Muswell Hill and took a bus back again. He had another coffee in a tiny Turkish place and pretended to talk about football. He sent text messages that were vague. He thought about various people. He sat on a bench in Highgate with a view over everything and let himself cry a little. It wasn’t so bad. It stopped after about ten minutes. He
wondered
why he didn’t want to go home. It was not far. He could go home and have a shower.