The Mercy Seat (28 page)

Eventually her tears subsided. She dug in to her handbag, brought out a tissue. Dabbed her eyes, her cheeks. Blew her
nose. Noticed that her ashtray-berthed cigarette had burned itself out. She lit up another.

The shakes had returned.

‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice cracked and scratchy, like an old record.

‘Not you that has to apologize,’ said Mikey.

She nodded, dragged deep.

‘So what did you do about …’ Mikey’s voice barely registering, unobtrusive.

‘Got rid of it,’ she said. ‘That’s what I was telling tonight. When I saw you. But he didn’t want to know. Had more important things on his mind, he said.’ Another deep drag. ‘But I saw that look in his eyes … that triumph … he couldn’t hide it …’

She shook her head.

‘That’s what turns him on,’ she said. ‘He finds people’s weaknesses an’ exploits them. Like he did with me.’ Her voice took on a harsh, angry edge. ‘He gets off on corruptin’ folks. Twistin’ them all out of shape, emptyin’ them until there’s nothin’ left.’

‘He uses your fear against you,’ said Mikey. ‘He knows I don’t want to go back to prison. That’s his threat.’

Janine looked at him. ‘Back to prison? What d’you mean? What were you in prison for?’

Mikey stopped dead, mouth open. He didn’t know what to say. Decided on the truth. Because she had been straight with him.

‘Murder,’ he said as simply as possible.

Immediately her expression changed. Her eyes widened with fear. She clutched her handbag as if about to run.

Her reaction saddened Mikey, even though he had been expecting it. He tried to smile, hoped it looked reassuring.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It was a long time ago. And these things are never black and white.’

Janine didn’t look reassured.

‘You’re quite safe with me. You really are.’

She said nothing.

‘Look,’ said Mikey, ‘Keenyside’s the dangerous one. Not me.’

She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go now.’ She made to stand up.

‘Wait.’ Mikey stood also, reached across the table and placed his hand on her arm. She looked at it but made no attempt to remove it.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Thank you for talking to me. I thought I was the only one he …’ Mikey sighed. ‘Thank you.’

Her features softened. She smiled.

‘At least I know I’m not alone,’ she said and patted his hand.

‘Thank you,’ said Mikey.

‘I’d better go.’

Mikey nodded. ‘We’ll get him. Don’t worry.’

She sketched a smile, left the pub. Mikey made his way to the bar, ordered another pint. Thought about what Janine had told him. Her experiences, horrific though they had been, had helped him. They legitimized the thoughts he had been having about Keenyside. Morally vindicated his dark, vengeful fantasies.

He took his pint back to the table, sat down. Looked at the dead butts in the ashtray. Thought of Janine.

Smiled.

Began to plan.

The shift finished,
Get Carter
groupies off home happy.

Mikey gathered his things together, prepared to leave. The mockneys approached him.

‘Hey, great show, Mikey.’

‘Yeah, good one, mate. Really real.’

‘Felt it, yeah.’

Mikey smiled. ‘Thanks, lads.’

He looked at the three of them. He didn’t mind them, really. They weren’t bad lads. Just the way they were. Some people couldn’t do anything about the way they were.

And some could.

‘Comin’ for a beer, Mikey?’

‘Yeah, hittin’ the town, meetin’ some mates.’

‘What you say, mate? Love to have you along.’

‘It’s a kind offer, lads, but no thanks. I’ve got plans.’

He made his goodbyes, left. The mockneys watched him go.

‘Mikey seemed in a well good mood.’

‘Yeah, like he’s found, like, I dunno, like a new purpose in life. Or somethin’.’

‘Yeah.’

‘An’ ’e was good today an’ all. Played a blinder.’

‘Knockout. Best ’e’s done. You know what? For the first time I really believed he could murder someone.’

‘Yeah …’

They put that thought behind them, headed off to a bar.

‘Idiot. You fucking, fucking idiot.’

Keenyside was screaming down the phone. Hammer sat on a bench on the Town Moor, listened impassively. His face betrayed no emotion. But his eyes burned like a medieval hell.

The sound of Keenyside’s heavy breathing subsided in his ear.

‘What happened?’ the policeman said eventually.

Hammer told him again. As simply and monosyllabically as possible. Keenyside listened.

‘No one saw anything,’ said Hammer as a way of finishing.

‘Really?’ asked Keenyside. ‘Then why are they trying to get an eyewitness to work up an e-fit of you? Why are they looking for Vauxhall Vectras? Why are they doing all this if no one saw anything?’

Hammer’s heart came close to skipping a beat. ‘Tell me who this eyewitness is,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure they can’t—’

‘No,’ said Keenyside firmly. ‘Not this time. The best thing you can do is take a few days off. Get some R and R. Make yourself scarce for a while. I’ll cope with things at this end.’

‘Whatever. You’re paying me.’

‘Yes, I am. And I don’t want any more fuck-ups. We need him to make that call soon. We’ve got to get this over with. I’m being investigated at work, that rent boy’s still missing, apparently Joe Donovan was sharing a bed with that journalist you killed—’

‘Donovan? Coincidence.’

‘Yes. And I don’t believe in coincidences.’ Keenyside sighed. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll handle things here. I’ll call you when I need you. Let’s hope you haven’t fucked up big time.’

He cut the connection.

Hammer replaced the phone in his pocket. He didn’t mind taking a few days off. He could go and have some fun. Then come back, take care of business.

And Keenyside. He was starting to annoy him.

Hammer walked to the car, drove away.

Jamal woke up, stretched.

He had nodded off. Not surprising, the amount of crack he had smoked.

He was back in the car again, had gone there straight after running away from Caroline’s flat. He had nowhere else to go. Joe Donovan had been trying to contact him, but it wasn’t safe enough to call him back. He was also scared that
the police could be after him for Si’s murder. So the car had presented the best option.

He felt rough. Knew he must look dreadful. The short, fast high from the rocks long gone, just the long, empty down to replace it. The depression. As if he didn’t have enough. Nearly all the money he had taken from Father Jack was gone. Up in smoke some of it, the rest to a gang of kids who had sold him the rocks, then held him down and gone through his pockets, punching him all the time, calling him Paki. They had taken the money and run. Jamal had been confused more than anything else. Even the car wasn’t safe now.

He stood up, stretched again.

Down from more than the rocks.

He needed money. It would be so easy to call Joe Donovan, let him sort it out, make him keep his promises. But he couldn’t. It was too risky. So instead he would have to go back to work. Earn it.

Sighing, he pulled his now-battered jacket about him and set out for the bridge. Walking over to the city, heart heavy, body weary, ready to find the places where he would be wanted.

Donovan knew it was a dream. But that didn’t make it any more bearable.

He was back in the department store. With David. Sea of humanity all round him. Everything monochrome.

He knew what was going to happen.

The same dream, back again. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t change it.

There, then gone.

There, then gone.

The crowd slowed down, changed from fluid sea to dense, immovable mass. Donovan’s legs wouldn’t work. Body wouldn’t move.

Then the dream changed.

The air became colder, Donovan’s breath coming out in plumes of steam. Monochrome turned silver and grey. Stark, shivery hues. The crowd parted. And there stood Maria. Draped in the sheet she was covered with in the mortuary, skin pallid, drained, throat a livid, black mess.

‘Maria …’ Donovan heard his own voice.

She stared at him, eyes devoid of emotion, of life.

‘Please,’ he heard himself say, ‘come back. I want you back …’

Then David was at her side. Standing close like mother and son. Same pale skin, blank eyes.

Donovan shook his head. ‘No …’

Maria spoke. ‘The future.’

Donovan tried to cross to them but couldn’t move
quickly enough. David lifted his arm and, with dream logic, the scene changed again.

Father Jack’s house. The crowd behind Maria and David turned, stared at Donovan. Hatred, the threat of violence in their eyes. David pointed a finger at Donovan.

‘He let the children go … Get him …’

And they were on him. Donovan couldn’t move, couldn’t find the will to defend himself, to run. The mass of bodies fell on him; pummelling, ripping, scratching, screaming.

They pushed Donovan to the floor.

Like the world was crushing him.

Donovan didn’t fight back.

Just let it happen.

Donovan woke, fighting for breath.

Coughing, like he was swallowing his tongue.

He lay back on the bed, breathing deeply. His body filmed with a slick of sweat, he threw the covers back. Opened his eyes.

Behind the heavy curtains, dawn threatened. Thin beams of light crept into the hotel room, deepened the shadows for his ghosts to hide in. He lay there, unmoving. The day brightened, the light strengthened. The ghosts retreated. Back into the shadows.

Back inside him.

He pulled himself out of bed and into the bathroom, wearily abluted. His body, his head, ached. Longed for a rest that sleep couldn’t give him.

He stepped into the shower, turned it up high; water hit his skin in hot needles.

His mind ran back over the events of the previous day. He steeled himself for what he had to do next.

* * *

The
Herald
promised to e-mail him with all the information they had on Colin Huntley. His laptop was on the desk, plugged into the hotel’s broadband connection.

He looked around, waiting. Sighed. He couldn’t stand being in the room. He couldn’t sit down, couldn’t concentrate on anything.

His CBGBs T-shirt was on the floor next to his holdall. Where he had thrown it in his haste to be naked with Maria on Saturday night.

Emotions welled inside him: sadness, anger, loneliness. He picked up the T-shirt, screwed it into as small a lump as possible. Threw it as hard as he could against the wall. It landed with a sound too soft to be a slap, slid slowly down the wall, came to rest on the unmade bed in a crumpled heap.

Donovan, drained by the throw, crumpled next to it. He picked it up, put it to his nose. Her scent still clung faintly to it. He breathed in, trying to give it artificial respiration, will her back to life.

He smelled her perfume … felt her skin …

Another breath …

Sensed the air from her mouth blow softly on his skin …

Another breath …

Her fingers trace their way …

He stopped. Opened his eyes.

Felt nothing but alone.

Pushing the T-shirt into his face to catch the tears.

Sat there, silent but for sobs, immobile but for deep, shuddering breaths.

Rode the wave out. He stood up.

His head spinning, all mist and fog. His stomach writhed like a snake pit.

He glanced at his holdall. The barrel of the revolver was sticking out, catching the light, winking at him.

Tempting him.

He could just walk over, pick it up, spin it and …

No. That wasn’t the way.

His mobile rang.

He sighed, annoyed yet grateful for the interruption. He answered it. Peta.

‘Listen, Joe …’ She was struggling with her words. ‘I just heard from Dave Bolland. About Maria …’

‘Yeah,’ said Donovan, sighing. ‘Yeah. She’s dead.’

He couldn’t believe what he was saying was real. Only increasing repetition of the words confirmed it for him.

He nodded. ‘Dead …’

The tears came again. Peta waited, the silence on the line electric.

‘Look,’ she said eventually. ‘If there’s anything I can do. Anything Amar or I can do. Please, just … anything.’

He broke the connection. Sighed. Looked again at the gun.

It no longer winked at him, tempted him.

He threw his CBGBs T-shirt at it, hiding it.

He switched his mobile off. The only person he wanted to hear from was Jamal. Donovan had left messages but the boy wasn’t answering. It worried him, but there was nothing he could do about it. He would turn it on later, try again. The rest – police, Sharkey – could wait.

He checked his laptop. He had mail. He settled himself down before it. Sighed to shake the fog from his head.

Began to read.

Dr Colin Huntley was a biochemist working for NorTec, a chemical company with its main British base in Northumberland. Most of their work was in the commercial and industrial sector, creating, testing and supplying various solvents and detergents. Boring stuff, it seemed to Donovan,
although a full client list revealed that beyond the usual household name-owning multi-nationals there nestled the MoD.

He tried not to let his imagination run away with him, read on.

The plant had suffered what looked like an attempted break-in three months previously. It was quite a low-level thing, the reports said, the wire-mesh fence cut, CCTV cameras put out of action, but the building’s security didn’t seem to have been breached and nothing apparently was taken. The conclusion the police had reached at the time was that it was some kind of eco protest that had broken down, perhaps the perpetrators losing their nerve. The police had looked into it again in the light of Colin Huntley’s disappearance but had concluded there was nothing to link the two events.

He read on.

Colin Huntley lived in Wansbeck Moor.

Donovan sat back, thinking.

Wansbeck Moor. The place seemed familiar to him for some reason. He read on, hoping that reason would come to him.

Wansbeck Moor was an exclusive upscale enclave in one of the most picturesque, yet accessible, areas of Northumberland. An entirely artificial community of executive houses built round a sculpted village green and containing shops, a school, a golf course and a village pub. It was one step away from being a gated community, although the price of the houses alone ensured exclusivity. Any outsiders would have been quickly noted.