The Loyal Servant (32 page)

‘Terrified of what Larson might do to them.’ Tate shook her head.

‘We can’t let him get away with it.’

‘We?’

Caroline looked away.

Pete lowered the tray onto the coffee table, but wouldn’t look at Caroline. ‘I’ll go and sit with Ben,’ he said. ‘Let Claire get back to her homework.’

‘No, Pete. I think you should stay right here,’ Caroline said. ‘You heard that didn’t you? About Larson?’

Pete chewed the inside of his mouth and stared at the carpet.

‘Isn’t it time for you to do something?’ Caroline laid a hand on his arm.

He put a hand over hers and looked into her eyes.

‘Please, Pete.’

Tate quickly swung her feet back on the floor and sat up. ‘What’s this? Have I missed something?’

‘Come on, Caz. It’d just be me against Larson and his army of lawyers. Who’s going to listen to me?’

‘You’ve at least got to try.’

‘Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about?’ Tate got to her feet.

‘We might have another throw of the dice… maybe… with Pete’s help.’

‘We’ve already been through this, Caz.’

‘What if I told you Larson… or people very close to him, were responsible for all this?’ She threw a quick glance at Tate.

‘The break-in?’

‘And what happened to Ben and Claire yesterday.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Pete searched her face. ‘What are you saying, Caz?’

‘The people who have stopped me and Angela digging up any more information.’

‘They did this?’

Caroline nodded. ‘They were behind it.’

‘And they killed the dog?’ He tipped back his head and sucked in a breath. ‘That was Larson’s people?’

‘Most probably.’

‘Fucking bastards.’

Caroline looked into Pete’s face and saw some of the old fire back in his eyes. Still squeezing tightly on his arm, she turned back to Tate.

‘I think my husband has something he wants to tell you about Larsons.’

44

Frank Carter stubbed out his fifth cigarette and looked at his watch.

‘Has a habit of being late, freaky Freddie, doesn’t he?’

‘Maybe he turned up, took one look at you, and scarpered.’ Angela was sitting two tables away from Frank outside The Flying Horse on the corner of Wilson Street.

Frank fidgeted on the wooden bench attached to the table. ‘We’ve been here over two hours now, Ange. I’ve got a strange sense he’s not gonna show.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m freezing my bollocks off.’

‘I’ll wait on my own.’

‘I can’t just leave you.’

Frank got up and sat down at her table. He leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. ‘How much did you say you had on you?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘But you’ve maxed out all your credit cards – am I right?’

‘If you really want to help me out…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Go and get me another vodka and tonic.’

Angela continued to sit at her table, Frank at his, for another 45 minutes before she reluctantly accepted Freddie Larson wasn’t going to make an appearance.

‘I’m sorry, Ange. I wish the feckless git had come through for you, I really do.’ He stood up and stretched his arms over his head and wandered towards her. ‘Do you want me to run you anywhere? I don’t like the idea of you walking the streets looking for a cab with that much wedge on you.’

She blinked slowly at him.

‘All right! I know you can look after yourself – nothing wrong with being a bit careful though is there?’

‘You can take me to Liverpool Street Station – I’ll get a taxi there.’ She wearily threaded her arm through the straps of her handbag and levered herself up.

‘Has him not showing totally fucked things over for you, then?’

‘He wasn’t my only iron in the fire.’

‘Maybe the lure of Daddy’s millions was just too tempting. Sir Fred can’t have much life left in him, can he? Perhaps Freddie’s taking the long view. He doesn’t want to risk upsetting the old man talking to you.’

‘I can’t imagine Freddie’s a big advocate of delayed gratification. My money in his hand now versus a handout from Valerie Larson when Fred finally snuffs it? There’s no contest. He’d be bloody stupid to think Widow Larson would go the Lady Bountiful route.’

Frank shrugged. ‘Maybe the waster was too off his tits to even remember he agreed to meet you.’

‘Doesn’t really matter now, does it?’

‘Suppose not.’

They started walking towards Frank’s car. ‘Did you remember to bring that charger I asked you for?’

‘I’ve got half a dozen of them in the car – wasn’t sure which one you needed.’

‘Cheers, Frank.’

‘Don’t tell me I’ve actually done something right.’

‘There’s a first time for everything, Frankie.’

As soon as she closed the hotel room door behind her, Angela Tate kicked off her shoes. She padded across the plush carpet and sank onto the bed, shaking a blue and white striped plastic bag from a half bottle of Three Barrels. She snapped off the cap and took a slug straight from the bottle, then forced herself off the bed again in search of a glass.

Two double brandies later, she sorted through the collection of power supplies Frank had given her and plugged in Jason Morris’ digital video recorder. She flipped the camera on and was rewarded with a charging battery symbol and no way to access the welcome screen. She left it charging on the little desk in the corner of the room, switched on the television and settled herself on the bed, determined to get rat-arsed as quickly as she could.

The local news bulletin ended and she flicked over to Newsnight without even thinking. One of her mobiles rang just as she was nodding off. She emptied her bag onto the bed and flipped each phone over until she found the one with the illuminated screen.

Caller unknown.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Miss Tate?’ A woman’s voice – for a moment she’d hoped it might have been Freddie.

‘Yes – who’s this?’

She heard a sharp intake of breath.

‘How did you find out?’ The woman sounded angry.

‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘You had no right to tell him.’

‘I’m sorry – who is this?’

Angela pulled the phone away from her ear a couple of inches, her thumb hovering over the call end button.

‘Fred didn’t need to know.’

Fred
?

By the accent, Angela could tell she didn’t have Valerie Larson on the other end of the line. She ventured the next best guess.

‘Betty Larson?’

‘Why did you have to do it?’

Angela pulled herself upright on the bed and muted the television. Betty must have kept the business card she gave her. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Larson. You need to need to explain what—’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me. How else would he have found out?’

‘Who? Found out what?’ She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and eased herself to her feet, hoping a brisk walk around the room would wake her up. ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you just please tell me.’

There was a long pause, followed by a coughing fit.

‘Mrs Larson? Are you all right?’

‘I’ve just had that woman on the phone – calling me all the names under the sun. She’s got such a filthy mouth. I don’t know how he could ever have married her.’

‘Are you talking about Lady Larson?’

‘Lady? There’s nothing ladylike about her.’

‘Why was she phoning you? Has something happened to Fred?’

‘What? I don’t know! She wouldn’t bother getting in touch with me if it had.’

‘Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll call you back? This call must be costing you a fortune.’

‘I wasn’t born yesterday – I’m not giving you my phone number.’

Angela peered through the blinds at the night-time traffic on the Westway, the triple glazing muffling the sound from outside, making it seem as if the cars were floating along the tarmac.

‘I’m really not following. What has her phone call got to do with me?’

‘She called me to gloat.’

Angela let out a sigh. ‘Why don’t you call me back when you’ve calmed down?’

‘I don’t need to calm down! Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? All these years – he never needed to find out.’

‘Please…’ Angela spoke as quietly and as reasonably as she could. ‘I truly don’t know what I’m supposed to have done.’

‘Freddie won’t see a penny of his money now, you do realise that? Fred will stop paying for his treatment and he’ll end up back on the street, stealing, begging, whatever it takes to get hold of that evil filth.’

Angela sank down onto the sofa next to the window and tried to catch her breath. Fred had already stopped paying for his son’s treatment.

‘Please tell me what’s happened.’

‘How can you carry on pretending you know nothing about it? How did you find out?’

‘Find out what?’

‘That Freddie isn’t Fred’s son!’ Betty Larson yelled at her and set off another coughing fit.

Angela could hear Betty gasping for breath. The worst of it subsided after a few moments.

‘Why couldn’t you leave well alone? What has Freddie ever done to you?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Larson – I still don’t understand. Why do you think I had anything to do with it?’

‘Digging around where you have no right to.’

‘Please believe me – this is the first I’ve heard of anyth—’

The line went dead.

Angela sat very still for a moment, staring at the lifeless phone in her hand. Freddie not Larson’s son? The way Betty Larson had been talking it sounded as if she’d known all along; kept it secret from Fred for 40-odd years. Angela glanced at the contents of her handbag strewn across the bed. The envelope meant for Freddie still bulging with twenty-pound notes. Had anyone even told him?

She blinked hard and got up, grabbed the kettle from the dressing table and filled it from the bathroom tap. She emptied two sachets of instant coffee into a mug and sat back down and watched the noisy little kettle start to boil. Over the sound of gurgling, spluttering water, she heard a faint bleep. It took her a while to realise it wasn’t one of her mobiles discharging, but Jason Morris’ digital video camera finishing its charging process. She padded over to the desk and found the film roll icons had reappeared on the welcome screen. She selected the one she’d tried to watch before. The video resumed at the point she’d left it previously.

‘Now I know that I need to get some proper evidence.’ Jason Morris pointed a remote control towards the screen and the image froze on his face, fixed in a wide-eyed grimace.

‘Oh come on, Jason!’ She quickly navigated back to the welcome screen and selected the last film Jason must have recorded before he died.

Again his face filled the screen, his expression anxious.

‘Tony kicked off again today.’ He gulped noisily. ‘He threatened to set his pit bull on me. Tried to make it seem like he was joking, for the benefit of everyone else in the room, but the way he looked at me…’ Jason stared towards the light off to his left. It was casting strange shadows across his face. ‘Fuck – he suspects something – I know he does. I’ve been watching my back all evening, making sure I’m not on my own with him.’ He buried his face in his hands and made a low moaning noise. Then he took a deep breath. He pushed his hands over his head and looked up towards the ceiling.

In the background Angela could make out the sofa she’d seen through his living room window. Propped up against the wall next to it was Jason’s bike. Before it got mangled under the wheels of a van.

She shuddered.

‘I feel like I’m totally out of my depth now – no way did I imagine they’d have such high profile backers. They’ve seemed like such a bunch of amateurs all this time.’ He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. ‘I wanted to get one of the meetings on video, but they’ve started patting everyone down as soon as we get through the door. It’s too fucking risky – especially with Tony breathing down my neck.’ He stood up and walked across the room, out of shot for a moment. Then he returned with an open bottle of beer in his hand. He stood behind his chair and leaned a hand on the back. ‘I fucking hate to admit defeat – but I’m giving it to the end of the week then I’m out. I can’t live like this anymore. Constantly looking over my shoulder, expecting a knife under the ribcage whenever I see Tony.’ He drank half his beer before continuing. ‘All I can do is give Evans the names of the main players, but God knows what he’ll be able to do with the information.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Arrogant bunch of wankers.’ He shook his head. ‘Walking around like they’re untouchable. Thinking they can get away with murder.’ He drank more of his beer. ‘Shit! They probably can.’ He stared into space for seconds, his eyes fixed on something beyond the camera. ‘I bumped into the big man himself tonight,’ he eventually said. ‘So blasé, he was actually wearing his
uniform
under his jacket.’ He ran his hand over his head and collapsed back down on the chair. ‘Had a cosy little chat with the deputy assistant commissioner about the
cricket
for fuck’s sake. Turns out Barry Flowers is a big Essex fan.’