The Norway Room (22 page)

‘How do I do that?'

‘Old mates, dummy. Have a night out with your old mate Jack Stevens. He's still Dowd's assistant, isn't he? Just let me know the way things look. Then when I put the word out in the next couple of days that I'm taking on a few doormen you come along for the interview. If you don't turn up – well I'll know, won't I? It'll be like clinking glasses and saying cheers. Fair enough?'

‘Fair enough.'

As Sadie walked past, Crawford reached for her wrist, lifted her hand and kissed it. She smiled beyond him at Carrow. ‘Darling, you can put someone on here in about ten minutes, but before you go, do me a favour and pop behind the bar for a couple of bottles, for me and my friend Craig here, will you love?'

Both men watched Sadie crouch down and collect the bottles. Placing them on the counter, she looked at Carrow. ‘Would you like the top off?'

‘Not immediately.'

‘Just let me know when you're ready.'

‘Get out of here you shameless hussy,' Crawford laughed.

‘Yes, sir. Whatever you say.'

They watched Tania going through her routine on the pole. Darren came over and opened the bar. Soon there were several other men around them. ‘I'm going to have a word with Kieran, find out why he's on that bloody phone all the time. Darren, look after him.'

When Tania finished to loud cheers, Sadie came back on stage for a bit of banter with the crowd. She mentioned a couple of stag nights that were in, built up the next session of three girls dancing together, and told the men to treat all the girls with respect.

This is all right, Carrow was thinking. He felt relaxed now. This world. Girls. Money. Perhaps he could be part of it. For a while anyway. Despite the effect the booze was having, there was still a voice somewhere telling him to be careful, going on about a line he shouldn't cross. But another couple of swallows of Prague Blonde and he could hardly hear it at all.

Crawford returned. ‘He's going to be out the door if he's not careful,' he muttered.

‘Who?'

‘The fucking Irishman. Kieran. Please boss, can I have a few hours? Got to rush off. These last few weeks he's been all over the place. It's some bloody woman he's taken up with.'

Carrow pushed the thoughts away. He was starting to feel pissed. ‘Listen, boss.' Crawford noticed the word. ‘I know this may be a bit awkward now that Kieran's done a runner for a bit, but you know what you said about letting Sadie off early?'

39

Carrow heard only the television as he padded down the stairs and opened the kitchen door. Sadie, in a pink towelling robe, her red hair tied up on her head, was at the counter filling lunch boxes. Three children seated at the counter looked towards him. There was a moment when everyone was still, taking things in. Another one with a thing for black men, Carrow thought. ‘Morning all.'

The two girls at the table looked at each other. ‘Told you,' one said to the other. ‘Told you she'd got someone back. I heard them.'

The boy rose from his seat pushing his cereal bowl across the table. ‘Mom!' he wailed. ‘You said. You promised you weren't going to be a slag no more.'

‘Shurrup, Marley. This man's a friend from work.' She looked over to Carrow. ‘Do one for a minute, will you?' As she moved across to her son, Carrow noticed the television screen. The Mendy. A police car outside Walton Tower. ‘That's where I live,' he told them. ‘On the Mendy. What's happened?'

‘They found a baby. Dead,' one of girls said. ‘Dumped in a bin. It's been on twice already.'

‘Mom you said—'

‘Okay, Marley.' Sadie tried to take the boy in her arms but he squirmed away from her. ‘Carra, give us a few minutes, will you? I'll bring you a drink up. My friend's taking them to school for me. They'll be gone in ten minutes.'

‘I'm not going to school,' Marley yelled, jumping away from his mother. He grabbed his cereal bowl from the table and flung it towards Carrow in the doorway.

‘Marley!'

What we are most concerned about is the mother. She is probably in need –

‘He's going to be a right little bastard now, Mom.'

‘Shurrit you.'

‘Leave him alone, Chloe. Marley—' Sadie crouched down to her son. ‘Look at me.'

Carrow turned and went back upstairs.

The water wasn't hot enough. What he needed now was it steaming hot. So hot it burnt. He wanted to wash everything away and he could only do that if the water was so hot it hurt. Instead he just soaped and soaped, kicking the sudsy liquid towards the drain.

A terrible feeling had overtaken him. Dirtiness. Disappointment. He was sliding into a situation he wouldn't be able to get out of. All this craziness over Ruthie Slayte and now he was here shagging some kids' mother. Two voices in his head.

One saying: Why are you getting so stressed up, mate? It's okay. You're a young bloke on the make. That's what you are, that's what you do. An opportunity comes along and you take it. Like all blokes do.

But there was the other voice: is this who you really want to be?

He couldn't see his old mate Jack Stevens ending up in this situation.

It was a good night, he told himself. She was happy. You were happy. Nobody got hurt.

There was a shadow behind the shower curtain, and the girl from last night was back. ‘Brought you a drink.' She put a mug of coffee in the washbasin. Turned to Carrow. ‘I'd planned for us to do that together. I was looking forward to soaping you down. The kids will be gone in a few minutes. I'll get you something to eat, then I'll just have to see if I can get you dirty again.' She let the curtain drop.

The gym makes everything better. Carrow set ten kilometres as his target and programmed it into the running machine. Kill or cure. He hit Start at 13k: a steady pace. Finley Quaye was playing. For five minutes Carrow held the rhythm of the run. It wasn't hard. Finley played his part, warbling away nicely over his reggae rhythms, a place for Carrow to latch on to. It's always the mind with exercise. You've got to find a place to park the mind. Finley was doing the trick. Those old mellow notes. He would stay with those, then at five kilometres up the speed to 16k – just for two kilometres, then he'd come down a bit. And it was good. Going fast. Going. His body working: all of it, racing, pumping away. A fierce synchronicity. Straining away on the machine. Sweat draining everything out of him. Every unclean thing. His breathing. His heartbeat. That's all there was now. He couldn't hear Finley any more. It was just the sound of himself. Heart. Blood. Lungs. Feet slapping into the rubber track of the treadmill. But then the thoughts arrived. Signing up with Crawford and what that would mean. Ruthie Slayte. He tried to stop thinking – just run, run. Three little kids round a breakfast table. A baby dumped in dustbins on the Mendy because some poor kid couldn't cope. The place had been full of coppers when he had gone back to Toga's for his kit. And more TV vans than there had been in Essex Street last night. Eight kilometres. Perhaps he should let Jack know about Crawford. That his mob was definitely not in on it. Then they could concentrate on the Chinese. Last night he was only able to give a statement about his job at the club. Like all the others. Then just a quick hello with Jack – we must meet up stuff. There hadn't been the opportunity to say anything else. Could he be sure Crawford wasn't involved? He'd give Jack a ring, see if – but the pain was too much. His chest was blinding him. His teeth hurt. His
teeth
hurt. All of them. Every one. He took the deepest pull of air, another gasp, but no, he couldn't. His fist banged down to reduce his speed. 16, 15 flashed past. Stay at 14. Try 14. But his fist didn't move. 13, 12. He pulled it away. You can't go lower than 12. Just for a minute. No. No lower than 12. There was air in his lungs. Eight point eight kilometres. Not much more to go. He took the incline down to 3. He'd stay at 12 until the ten, and then see if he could blast out a further kilometre. Finley was back. So for now. Just listen to Finley.

Weren't you looking the other way when they took the kid?

Crawford's words from last night were back in Carrow's head. He had fallen asleep after the gym and dreamed of Magnus. A dream he had had many times before.

But the general impression – over here anyway – was that you were on the payroll somewhere.

It was where the Dutch police had started from of course. Hours and hours of questioning. Techniques he knew. Sympathetic. Comforting. Then hostile. Downright aggressive. Direct accusations that he was involved.

He knew what they were doing and he knew that they had to do it. He was clean: he had nothing to do with the kidnap. But was he guilty in another way?

He had relived every second of the attack, time and again, but couldn't see how he could have done anything more to protect Magnus. He was sure he couldn't have reacted more quickly – they were armed. A little braver then? But that was stupid – he could have done nothing dead.

The thing was, the subject of them being armed had come up in discussion during one of Martin Okker's regular meetings with his security team. Marjie's cousin who had firearms experience from his army days was in favour. Train all the team and apply for a civil licence as armed guards. Carrow had argued against it. It just wasn't necessary; it was over the top. There had never been any threat made against the Okker family and, if they should suddenly find themselves confronted by someone armed, the last thing they needed was to be in the middle of a gunfight. And the police knew all about the discussion. Why had he not wanted the team armed, they asked. So he repeated to them the view he had expressed. And repeated. And repeated.

He knew that the police believed him a long time before he was officially cleared from the investigation. He knew Martin Okker was sincere when he told him he didn't hold him responsible, that he hoped they would remain friends, that he was welcome to pay a visit any time.

Carrow rose from the settee. He needed a shave. He was having a drink with Jack Stevens tonight and didn't want to turn up looking like a criminal. But the thoughts were still with him as he stared at his lathered face in the bathroom mirror, as he dragged the razor across it.

He had never answered Martin Okker's letter. He had wanted to but hadn't known what to say. He had thought of sending a Christmas card from Jamaica but hadn't. He had watched his mother die in Jamaica and wondered if all the worry of his troubles in Holland had played a part in her poor health. Can disappointment give you cancer?

Back in Birmingham he told himself that
this
was where he belonged. Rub everything out. Start again. But he could not shake the feeling that there was no way left to redeem himself.

40

Carrow hadn't told his dream to anyone before but he told it to Jack Stevens.

‘I'm in some bushes, hiding from someone. I never know who. I'm watching boots wading through a marsh. Squelching through. Muddy water. Reeds. I'm just watching. Getting more and more scared. Then I see a hand. Gloved. And I know it's a copper's glove. Then the other hand. The hands start to part the reeds and I know what's coming: there's the kid, curled up in the dirty water. But I only see him for a second. Just get a glimpse. Then it's his mother, Marjie. She's screaming her head off and she's so close to me I can see inside her mouth. Course, that's when I wake up. Sweating. Like I've done a run. That scream. It always wakes me up. Bang awake.'

Carrow lifted his pint and took a gulp. The Country Girl, next to Selly Oak Hospital, wasn't as busy tonight as Carrow remembered it. When he and Jack had shared a flat together they came here a lot. It had always seemed to be packed with nurses just off shift from the hospital. ‘No uniforms in for you tonight,' Jack had said, when Carrow arrived earlier.

This had started them off on an hour of reminiscences about working together on the force and sharing a flat together. Jack's career had traced a steadier trajectory than Carrow's. Inevitably the story of the time Carrow got his squad car nicked on the Mendy came up. ‘It still gets told, that story,' Jack told him. ‘It's a legend. If you came back on the force, you'd have to change your name. Or as soon as you said it, it'd be, Carra? You're not the bloke got his car nicked?'

Carrow changed the subject. ‘So, where are you with the case? The Norway.' Up until now everything had been personal – catching up, remembering old times. Funny stories. Carrow had laughed more than he had in a long time.

‘Everything points to a gangland killing.'

‘Turf war.'

‘In a way. But it may not be quite as straightforward as that. There are two witnesses, daytime colleagues of yours from the club who saw enough of the gunman to be a hundred per cent certain that he was Chinese. We don't think that happened by accident. Nowhere near CCTV and just enough to show ethnicity. Nothing else in their descriptions is particularly helpful.'

‘Could be a decoy.'

‘Sure. Someone wants us to believe that it's the Dragons who are responsible – they're the only Chinese outfit of any importance operating in the city now. The gunman is yellow so we go after the Dragons. But equally, it may in fact be the Dragons. And rumour has it there was a security team in —' Jack looked at Carrow.

‘Yes,' Carrow nodded. ‘Mostly at night, but there was usually a bloke around in the day when staff were in.'

‘Armed?'

Carrow smiled at his friend. ‘Rumour has it.'

‘Well rumour has it that the security cleared off half an hour before the gunman arrived. Those we've interviewed say that one minute he was there, then, when the action kicked off, nowhere to be seen.'

‘A better offer?'

‘The Dragons want the Norway. That's established. Stretton won't play. More than that he fights back. He gets the club tooled up with East Europeans. So, the Dragons can't have the club. But they can have him. And in so doing stop anyone else having it and—'

‘Send out a powerful message that if you ever receive an offer from the Dragons, it's best to accept, because they can always top your security budget.'

‘Exactly. The old Corleone message.'

The two men said it together: ‘I'm gonna make you an offer you can't refuse.'

‘And the decoy theory. Who would set that up?' asked Carrow.

‘Crawford is the obvious suspect. It's common knowledge that he was interested in the club. Very different dealing with him though. Just as corrupt, but different tricks. He rang Dowd. First thing this morning. Crawford says he's heard Dowd's on the case. That he knows his name will come into the frame because Kingston Trading – that's the name of what he describes as his development company – has shown an interest in
acquiring
the Norway. Then he gives Dowd the usual stuff: all strictly legit business practices, how shocked he is at what has happened, abhors that sort of stuff. Would we like to go over and have a chat with him? – and his legal team, of course – he's happy to grant us access to all records, happy to assist in any way possible.'

‘That sounds like Crawford. Eager to see justice is done.'

‘And obviously everyone we get to talk to will have a rock solid alibi. As will all the Dragons' men.'

Carrow liked the way this was going. Like the old days, back at the flat when he and Jack would sit at night and chew the fat about cases they were involved in. ‘Too early for the forensics to have come through, I suppose?'

Now Jack hesitated. Then, ‘It was a very clean job. Two shots. One in each target. Just two shots fired. Both bullets retrieved.'

‘Gun at the bottom of a canal by now.'

‘A certainty. There's no way the bullets will have come from a gun with form, not if either the Dragons or Crawford's mob are involved. Far too professional.'

Carrow lifted his empty glass, pointed to Jack's, still a quarter full. ‘Same again?'

‘Go on then. Three. That's quite a lot for me these days.'

‘It always was, mate.'

As he waited at the bar Carrow looked back at his friend. Jack was obviously doing well. The immaculate navy blue suit. Quality white shirt. Silk tie. Maroon. Carrow watched him take his phone from his jacket pocket to check his messages. He hadn't seen Jack since he got the Holland job, but he was enjoying tonight. It was like the old times, talking through a case with him. Except now they were working on different sides of the line. While Jack was climbing the ladder Carrow had fallen off. And he wasn't sure how he was going to pick himself up again.

Listen boss
– his words to Crawford last night. Didn't they mean he had made his choice? That's what Crawford had thought.

There was a young woman waiting behind Carrow at the bar. He let her go first. Not out of chivalry, or any attempt to impress – no, he wanted a moment. A moment to consider how far he should go with Jack. Should he come clean? Tell him about his dealings with Crawford? All the bits and pieces he knew about Stretton, the Bulgarians. Could he come up from the murky waters he had been swimming in, take a gulp of clean air and clear out all the filth?

Jack had almost finished his pint of lager while Carrow's glass was still full. Carrow had talked, Jack had listened.

‘So you see the position I've got myself into. On the verge of joining the mob. Or as close as it gets.'

‘So is this why we're here, me and you? What was it you said in your text? Let's catch up. We've left it too long. Old mates. We should get together again.'

‘You sound pissed with me.'

‘I think I probably am. Yes. All this stuff about the Norway, not that any of it is confidential – it's all out there for the press. Was that collecting stuff for Crawford, for the boss?'

This was Jack at work. The tone. The way he was sitting now. This was interview room stuff.

‘Do you think I would have gone into all those details if it was? This
is
about being mates. I'm telling you where I am. As a mate. Trying to make sense of it for myself.'

‘Well it doesn't make much sense to me. It doesn't sound like you're in a good place, Carra. Think about what you are doing. You become part of Crawford's outfit and where does that take you? You know the story, mate.'

It was good for Carrow to hear that word
mate
tucked in there; a touch of reassurance.

‘Okay,' Jack continued. ‘There's the money. Some good times, no doubt. A buzz. Plenty of women if you're around the clubs. But not many come out with a pension plan. A few years down the line you end up doing a long stretch, or like Stretton with a bullet in your brain, or just a sad old has-been hanging around the gangs doing the jobs no one else wants.' There was a stridency to Jack's tone now that didn't seem too far away from anger. ‘I suppose it's possible that you might end up in Jamaica running legit businesses for Crawford but – No, even as I say that, I can't believe it. It doesn't work like that with those blokes. They made their choice about which side of the line they're on a long time ago, and they stay there. You join him and that's where you'll be.'

He paused as if waiting for Carrow to argue with him, deny what he said. ‘You had the makings of a good copper. You were decent, probably still are. You put the business of the nicked patrol car behind you. It's more a funny story now than anything. You did good work after that. You left for another job, one a lot of people envied. It turned into a tragedy. But you came out of that clean. I reckon you could come back if you wanted. Dowd would put a word in, so would I.

‘Look Carra, you know this already, but I'll say it anyway. The other side of the line is attractive. Good fun, easy money. But in the end it's always about corruption, hurting people, taking things away from people. And being the sort of person who can do that.'

He stopped abruptly. Took a breath. Lifted his glass. Finished his lager. ‘I've got to get back. I want to see the
Ten O'Clock News
. Dowd did a piece to camera. It might not make the national, but it'll be a definite for the
Midlands News
.'

Carrow finished as much of his pint as he wanted and pushed the glass away. ‘It's been good tonight, Jack. The things you've said—'

‘Why don't you come back? Watch it with me.'

‘The old flat?'

‘Much the same, cleaner and tidier though than when you were there. There may even be a couple of lagers in the fridge.'

‘They're probably mine.'

‘Could well be.'

They went back together. It made the national bulletin but only as a small item. The angle was simple – local police investigating a double shooting in Birmingham's clubland. The interview with Dowd wasn't used. A glimpse of the staff waiting outside Pinks the previous evening, but Carrow couldn't spot himself. Then there was footage taken this morning: Jack and Dowd in Essex Street, some of Mrs Stretton and her daughters laying flowers on the steps of the Norway.

‘Dowd wants her to do a press conference,' Jack said, ‘but she's not up for it. He says he'll give it a couple of days to see how things go, then try her again if necessary.'

The local Midlands news that followed led with the story and used the interview with Dowd. ‘The brutal shooting of Keith Stretton and Trudy Loop in their place of work is a truly terrible act,' he started. ‘Cold. Calculated. Shocking in the extreme. It strikes at the heart of our community.'

‘He didn't waste any time,' Jack continued. ‘Every PR directive that comes in now states:
stress community; refer to community values
.'

‘I want to assure the people of Birmingham, however, that West Midlands Police are pursuing our investigation of this brutal crime with all the urgency, vigour and professionalism that they have come to expect from us.'

‘Nice one, Sean. They'll like that upstairs.'

The interviewer asked about the possibility of links with organised crime in the city. As Dowd explained that organised crime was a problem in all big cities, Birmingham no exception, and that all possibilities were being investigated, the screen was filled with a close-up of the blue lamp above the Norway Room before the camera pulled back to show the whole of Essex Street. As the reporter explained that Mr Stretton had left a wife and two daughters, the screen showed them outside the club, placing their flowers on the steps. The shot went into close-up and Carrow knew immediately that he recognised Mrs Stretton from somewhere, grey hair pulled back, into a bun, he was sure he knew that face, had seen her before. A second later he got it – the coat.