The Mercy Seat (39 page)

He felt trapped, like he was back in prison.

‘Keenyside …’ He didn’t realize he had spoken. ‘You fucker …’

His bones gave way. He sank to his knees, flopped on the floor like a dying fish. Tears began welling behind his eyes.

Then he heard the sirens.

Faint, in the distance, but becoming louder, getting nearer.

Coming, he knew, for him.

They would never dare venture on to the estate under normal circumstances. Only if they were riding a dead cert.
And when they came down, they came down hard. Well tooled up. Riot gear. Dogs, even.

Mikey got slowly to his feet. Shook his head.

He had to get a grip. Had to get out.

He ran into the bedroom, felt under the bed. Found it. His gun. He slipped it into his overcoat pocket, felt round even further. His old tin box containing what money he had. He slipped that into his other pocket.

Then he was out of the door and off, adrenalin pushing his legs faster than he had ever used them. The fear of prison an effective deterrent.

The sirens became louder. Dogs started barking again.

Mikey set off round the darkened alleyways of the estate, hoped his knowledge of the shadow-overhung thoroughfares would be to his advantage.

Hoped he could get as far away as possible from the police.

Hoped he could be free.

Mikey ran for his life.

Intermezzo coffee bar. Nine thirty the following day. Friday morning.

TFI. But little sense of relaxation.

Donovan sat with his back to the red-padded wall of a booth sipping his large cappuccino. Peta next to him doing likewise. Opposite on stools were Nattrass and Turnbull, neither drinking, wearing work clothes and expressions of extreme annoyance.

Turnbull, Donovan noticed, was very ill at ease. He kept turning round, eyeballing the
Guardian/New Statesman
/European-novel-reading clientele, providing himself with a sub-audible running commentary of sneers and grunts on eavesdropped conversations. Despising anyone who wasn’t part of his buttoned-down world.

Peta, he also noticed, seemed to be enjoying Turnbull’s discomfort. She also seemed to be sitting very close to Donovan. Thigh against thigh. He affected not to notice.

Nattrass’ focus was on the table. Purely business.

On the sound system: a compilation of the best of the Pixies. ‘Debaser’. Worth it, thought Donovan, just to see Turnbull’s face.

Donovan swallowed his coffee, replaced his cup on the saucer. Sat forward.

‘Before I tell you anything,’ he said, locking eyes with each of them in turn, ‘I want certain assurances.’

Turnbull snorted. ‘You got anything to tell me, you tell
me. Otherwise I’ll do you for withholding information in a murder enquiry. At the very least.’

Donovan turned to Nattrass. ‘Told you this meeting should have just been you and me.’

Nattrass didn’t blink. ‘What sort of assurances?’ No questioning inflection. Just hard and flat.

‘Ones that say this information was given free and willingly. And that none of the charges your judicially zealous colleague here was about to list can be used against the bringers of this information.’

Turnbull bristled, was about to argue; Nattrass silenced him with a look.

‘Define “bringers”,’ she said.

‘Myself, Peta here, Amar Miah and a boy named Jamal Jenkins.’

Nattrass kept those unblinking eyes on him. ‘Anyone else?’

He thought of Sharkey. ‘No.’

Nattrass looked between the two of them, weighing it up. ‘All right,’ she said eventually. ‘Deal.’

Turnbull shook his head. Peta favoured him with a cloyingly sweet smile. This, Donovan noted, seemed to upset him more than the deal, the
Guardian
readers and the Pixies put together.

Donovan took another mouthful of coffee. Started to talk.

He told them everything. From his point of view, using the chronology of the facts he himself had experienced. He kept nothing out, held nothing back. No truth concealed, no opinion or supposition hidden. He no longer possessed the luxury of selectivity. Events had moved beyond that now.

Peta confirmed events, clarified situations. Supplemented Donovan’s account.

Nattrass and Turnbull listened. Sometimes in amazement,
sometimes in anger, sometimes in awe. Never non-committally. They made notes. Asked for clarifications, repetitions.

They took everything in.

Finished, Donovan picked up his coffee, sat back, put it to his lips. Replaced it on the saucer. ‘Cold,’ he said. He looked between the two police. ‘Well?’

Turnbull spoke first. ‘I think we should bring this Sharkey character in. Throw the book at him.’ His face twisted with disdain. ‘Or does he qualify for your protection?’

‘Do what you like with him,’ said Donovan. ‘He’s a cunt.’

Peta and Nattrass both stared at him.

‘Excuse me?’ said Nattrass.

Donovan shrugged. ‘Well, he is.’

Nattrass shook her head, studied her notes. ‘This meeting,’ she said. ‘When’s it taking place?’

‘Today.’

‘What?’ Anger turned her face an immediate purple.

‘Today. Six o’clock tonight. In the café bar on the ground floor of the Baltic. The big one with the glass front.’

Nattrass and Turnbull stared at him.

‘We need more warning than that,’ said Nattrass.

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Donovan, ‘but there’s nothing I can do about it. I just found out myself a few hours ago.’

Nattrass shook her head. ‘This is almost too much to take in.’

‘D’you know Alan Keenyside?’ asked Peta.

‘Not much. Met him once or twice,’ said Turnbull. ‘West was his patch. Seemed OK to me. Decent bloke.’ He shook his head. ‘Hard to believe all this …’

‘I know a DCI works out of that station,’ said Nattrass, ‘since we’re sharing information. Says the dirty squad are after him.’

‘What for?’ asked Peta.

‘You name it,’ Nattrass said. ‘Bent as they come, if the rumours are true. Drugs, mainly. Fit-ups, ripping off dealers, setting up his own network. Been after him for years, apparently. Finally got someone in his squad to turn.’

Donovan nodded. ‘So he’ll be desperate for this deal to go through.’

‘Thinks the cash will enable him to put a bit of blue sky between himself and the investigation,’ said Nattrass. ‘He’s not going to be a happy bunny, is he?’

‘You heard about that filing clerk worked out of that station?’ said Turnbull. He went on to tell them about Janine’s death. ‘OD’d in some dealer’s flat in Scotswood last night. Apparently her mother said she’d had trouble with drugs for a while. Some secret bloke got her hooked.’

‘Not so secret now,’ said Peta.

‘Wonder if Keenyside was behind that too?’ said Donovan.

Nods, murmurs of assent.

‘What did you say his name was? His henchman? Hammer?’ said Nattrass.

Donovan nodded.

‘I remember him. Yeah. Maria Bennett … Caroline Huntley … Yes. That would fit.’

‘So?’ said Donovan.

‘Well, if memory serves correctly, he used to be a leg-breaker for the Spalding family.’

‘Chief leg-breaker, I think,’ said Turnbull.

Nattrass nodded. ‘They’ve got ranks. How nice. Now what was his name?’ She closed her eyes, tipped her head back. ‘Henderson. That was it. Craig? Christopher?’ She opened her eyes again, head forward. ‘Christopher Henderson. A mad bastard, even by gangster standards. Real fuck-up. Had this party piece. Could hammer a nail through just about anything with his bare hands. How he got the nickname.’

‘So how did he end up working for Keenyside?’ asked Donovan.

‘Good question. When the Spaldings were put out of business, he disappeared. Really disappeared. Like into thin air. We tried to trace him, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

Donovan smiled grimly. ‘Check your records. I’ll bet Keenyside was on the arrest team for the Spaldings. I’ll bet there’s been a few misfiled reports over the years. A few favours done in return.’

Nattrass shook her head.

‘Why don’t we just arrest him now?’ asked Turnbull.

‘Because we’ve got no proof,’ replied Nattrass.

‘Question is,’ said Donovan, ‘what are you going to do to get it?’

Nearly thirty-five minutes and another round of coffees later, Nattrass and Turnbull partaking this time, they had the outline of a plan.

The Pixies had given way to American Music Club. Turnbull was ignoring it completely. They all were. The world beyond their table had ceased to exist.

They discussed options, worked through scenarios. Came up with plausible obstacles, talked through strategies to cope with them. Conscious of time, budget, legality. Of organization and requisitioning. Conscious of needing to get a clear result.

Donovan, they decided, would still front the meet.

‘This is against my better judgement,’ said Nattrass, ‘and I still have to clear it with my Super, but I can’t see any other way at such short notice. I can only ask you to do it. I can’t force you.’

‘I know,’ said Donovan.

‘I wish we could use one of our own. But it’s too risky.
He might recognize them. And we don’t have time to bring in someone from another force. Get them briefed. So it looks like it’s you.’

‘Yep,’ Donovan said, ‘looks like it’s me.’

‘Usually, we’d have an undercover specialist who’s trained for this kind of work. They know, legally, what they can and can’t say to get the deal to go through.’

‘Avoid entrapment,’ added Turnbull.

‘Still,’ said Nattrass, ‘you’ll have this lawyer with you.’ She said the word as if handling it with tongs. ‘Hopefully he should be able to guide you.’

Nattrass insisted that both of them be wired for sound. ‘I can’t risk placing men round the place. He’s a copper; he’ll know what to look for. So we’ll track you through CCTV. Give you earpieces that fit right inside the ear. You won’t know you’re wearing them. More important, neither will Keenyside.’

Nattrass would try to requisition a firearms team. A calculated risk in a public building. ‘But he’s a dangerous man.’

‘Not to mention Hammer,’ added Peta.

They discussed a signal to move in, a verbal code: ‘What an absolute pleasure it has been to make you a millionaire, Mr Keenyside.’

‘No problem,’ said Donovan.

‘Why a place like the Baltic?’ said Turnbull.

‘Because it’s somewhere educated, cultured. Somewhere an undercover cop would stand out a mile,’ said Peta, giving Turnbull another cloying smile. ‘No offence.’

He stared at her, hard. ‘None taken.’

They talked some more. Planned some more. Got everything straight. When they started re-treading, Nattrass stood up. Held out her hand. ‘Good luck.’

Donovan took it. ‘Thank you.’

They agreed time and place to meet. Speed was of the
essence. Turnbull and Nattrass had a lot of coordinating to do in a very short space of time. They left.

‘I’d better get going too,’ said Donovan. ‘Lots to do.’

Peta frowned. ‘Like what?’

Donovan smiled. ‘Like buying a suit. Coming?’

She smiled in return. ‘I think I’d better.’

They left Intermezzo. Jim White: ‘A Perfect Day to Chase Tornadoes’ fading out behind them.

Mikey had spent the night in Leazes Park. He hadn’t felt like going home.

Getting out of the estate and away had been difficult but not impossible. Down alleys, over fences, through gardens. He wasn’t worried about being shopped by a resident – none of them talked to the police – but he didn’t want to leave a trail that could be followed, cause any damage, or disturb a tenant who wouldn’t take kindly to having their garden invaded. Or, worst of all, invade the territory of a dog. They bred them fierce round there.

Leaving the estate and crossing the road, he had managed to board a city-centre-bound bus. Out of breath, shaking and mad-eyed with fear, he was surprised the driver let him on. He sat well away from the other passengers, looking out of the window and avoiding eye contact. When he saw Leazes Park ahead, he got off.

The night was cold and hard. He had stayed in the shadows, well away from the gays and the gay bashers, with only the rats, the darkness and the inside of his head for company.

He huddled under a tree. Couldn’t sleep. Tried to remain still, not to attract attention to himself. Curl away from life.

As soon as he felt morning arrive he was up and off. He raided the tin money box, found, to his surprise, nearly sixty pounds in it. He pocketed the cash, threw the box away.

Looked for a café to take on food and warmth.

Sitting there drinking tea, came a revelation. The police would never find him if he stayed like this. Kept beneath the radar. A non-person.

And a wave of emotion engulfed him. Both pity and self-pity intermingled.

He thought of Janine. Dead. He a non-person. Neither living any more.

He thought of his plan. Of the future. Of the things he now wouldn’t have.

Blue sky. Green fields.

Love.

The emotion hardened. Became crystalline.

Keenyside.

He was responsible for all this. The one who should be punished.

Mikey felt the gun in his pocket, burning against his thigh, weighing on it like a hot brick.

There was nothing left, nothing to lose any more. No other way to fight back.

He left the café. Breath bad, hair and clothes dirty and smelly. Citizens dropped eye contact, moved aside.

Please don’t stop and talk to me. Please don’t make me acknowledge you exist.

He was now a citizen of that separate, invisible city.

The secret city.

He walked up Westgate Road, all the way to the police station. Stood on the opposite side of the road.

Mikey watched. Plotted and planned.

Waited for Keenyside.

His car in the car park. But no sign of the man himself.

That was OK, thought Mikey; that was fine. He would wait. He was good at waiting. He’d had a lot of practice.

Minutes to hours. Patrolling the same spot. Taking only short toilet or food breaks in a café with the same view.
Detaching his mind. Just watching. Planning: the walk up to Keenyside sitting in his car, a tap on the window, a smile and a shot. A walk away.