Bad Men (16 page)

Pearce called Baxter. Asked what time Wallace finished work. Baxter told him to hang on, he'd ask May.

Couple of minutes later he came back on the line. "It varies," he said.

Pearce felt as
if somebody had punched a hole in his chest and left their hand inside. Not a good feeling. Last time he'd felt like this was at his mother's funeral. Took a couple of days before he'd felt the hand retreat. And even then, it left a big messy hole.

A cab appeared and the front door of number six opened shortly afterwards. After strapping her kid into a child seat, a woman got into the taxi. She looked flustered and tired.

Wallace lived next door, number eight, a main-door flat. Alone. The windows were boarded up at street level, which suggested that the lower floor was unoccupied. Either that, or Wallace really liked it dark. Or his windows had been broken and he hadn't got round to fixing them.

With the house now empty, there was nothing stopping Pearce from barging on in and making himself at home. Give Wallace a nice little surprise when he opened the front door. Tempting.

Of course, when he thought more about it, he realised there was one thing stopping him. He had no idea how to break in. At least, not with any subtlety. He could kick the door in, but somebody might see him. And anyway, if he caused any visible damage, Wallace would know there was someone waiting for him inside.

He'd just have to keep his distance for now. Sit on the wall opposite, pretend he was talking to somebody on his mobile so as not to look too suspicious. Then take Wallace as he was entering the house.

Yep. That smacked of military precision.

Ah.

Was
that the best time to ambush him?

Maybe better to let him settle, relax a bit. Then Pearce could do what he did all those years ago with Priestley. Ring the bell and when the fucker answered, catch him in his slippers with a drink in his hand. A man in his slippers is an easy target.

Although Wallace was unlikely to be quite the pushover the drug dealer was.

This piece of shit had a rep. Well, a rep of some kind.

And maybe he wouldn't be all that relaxed. After all, Pearce had called at his office, and no doubt that visit had been commented on by the pushy blonde.

Well, fuck it. Pearce felt the knife inside his coat pocket. He wanted to get this over with. There was fuck all he could do about Wallace's state of preparedness. There was only so much you could do to stop justice running its course. No matter how prepared you were.

He knew there'd be people who'd condemn him for what he was about to do. People who'd no doubt sympathise if he told them what had happened to his nearest and dearest, and his resulting violent reactions. But because Hilda was a dog, they'd think he was unjustified in doing the same thing.

Just a dog.

Well, fuck them. Hilda wasn't just a dog. Hilda was
his
dog.

"Wallace is the
best suspect we've got," Jacob said to Flash for the umpteenth time.

"We need to get a confession out of him," Flash said. "That's the only way to be sure." He scooped a dollop of cream onto a fourth scone.

"I doubt Pearce'll be up for that."

"After what Wallace did to his dog?"

"Wallace is going to deny he touched it."

"But Pearce is hardly likely to believe him, is he?" Flash took a bite of his scone, chewed for a while, then said, "Look, I'm sure Pearce won't object to a few minutes of torture. Probably quite like the idea."

"You'll need to call him, then. He might have other plans."

The doorbell rang. Flash got to his feet.

"That'll be Norrie," Jacob said. "Door's open. He'll let himself in. You call Pearce."

Pearce was pretending
to have a conversation on his mobile when it rang. He pressed the green button and said, "Speak."

Flash Baxter. Again. He wanted a favour. He asked Pearce if he'd torture Wallace.

"You want me to do what?" Pearce said.

"Get a confession out of him."

"You're off your fucking trolley."

"Hang on a minute. Let me ex—"

Pearce hung up. He preferred talking to himself.

Jacob could tell
, even before Flash said, "I think that was a no."

"Never mind," Jacob said. "It was a long shot."

Flash grabbed another scone.

Norrie took one too, said, "Jacob, boss, these are good, great, brilliant." Then he bit into it.

Flash said, "That dog's got fleas."

Jacob gave him a look.

"Swear to God." Flash plopped his bitten, half-moon-shaped scone on the table, rolled back his sleeve and exposed the pale underside of his skinny arm.

"What are we looking at?" Norrie asked.

Flash was a skinny runt. Ate as many scones as he could stuff down his throat, yet stayed pencil-slim.

Flash said, "Spots."

"You see spots, Jacob?"

Jacob shrugged.

"Look." Flash pointed to a small blemish on his wrist. "There's one." He moved his finger down a couple of millimetres. Jacob couldn't see anything. He did, however, notice that there was dirt under Flash's fingernail. "And there's another."

"Oh, aye," Jacob said.

"Hundreds of them."

"Right enough. And they're flea bites, are they?"

Flash reeled back in his seat as if Jacob had bad breath. "What else?"

Norrie said, "So Pearce told you to fuck off" – he looked at Jacob, said "Fifty pee, boss," and continued – "about what?"

Flash told him.

Norrie said, "You were going to torture a con ... fession out of him?"

Jacob said, "Medieval, eh?"

Norrie nodded. "Why do you need a confession, lads?"

"Flash thinks there may be some doubt as to who shot his brother."

"You're joking, right? Wallace had motive and opportunity and a fucking – excuse my language, Jacob – gun."

"Looks damning, right enough," Jacob said.

"Next you'll be telling me somebody else cut Louis's throat."

Flash said, "I hadn't considered that."

"You think there's only so far Wallace will go?" Norrie said. He was getting animated, waving his hands about, scattering crumbs. "Slits dogs' throats, alright, but draws the line at kneecapping? Get your head in gear, Flash. This is Wallace we're talking about."

"Pearce might kill him," Flash said. "Just wanted to be a hundred percent sure."

Norrie said, "I'm a hundred percent sure. How about you, boss?"

Jacob said, "Hundred and ten."

Norrie looked at Flash and shrugged. "So what exactly is Pearce doing at the moment?"

Jacob said, "Waiting for Wallace to get home."

"And then he's going to do what?"

"He thinks Wallace killed his dog," Jacob said. "When Pearce's sister died from a heroin overdose, Pearce stabbed her dealer twenty-six times with a screwdriver. When Pearce's mother was knifed in a post office robbery, Pearce made sure the guy who did it took a dive from a high building with a bullet wound to his crotch."

"But Wallace has a gun," Norrie said.

Flash said, "Maybe Pearce has a bulletproof vest."

Jacob said, "Pearce thinks Wallace will have chucked the gun."

"Let's hope so," Flash said.

"And how is the dog?" Norrie asked.

Flash picked up another scone, started to cut it in half.

Jacob shook his head.

Flash said, "What? I can't have three?"

"Eat up. And answer Norrie."

"May's fallen in love with it," Flash said. "She's soft like that. Anything with fur, her mental age takes a nosedive. Sinks about ten years."

"The dog's safe with a six-year-old?"

Flash gave him a look as if they were in a minister's house and Norrie's pecker was poking out of his flies. Then he gave a little nod and said, "Funny." Jacob felt his eyes water, and thought it strange that of all things, this was making him feel sad. God, could be anything. He saw someone being hit on TV, and he knew it was only a soap opera, and he started blubbing. He had to be tough. All front. Didn't matter that behind the front was mush. No spine, that was Jacob's problem. He hadn't been prepared to take on Wallace. But Rodge had. Jacob missed the big lug.

"All right if I have another scone?" Norrie asked.

"Catch up on Flash," Jacob said, getting to his feet. "And teach him how to count while you're at it. I'll be right back."

Pearce's arse had
gone numb sitting on the wall. He'd had to jump off it and stride up and down the pavement for a while, working the stiffness out of his legs. They were fine now, as was his arse, but he had a rhythm going that he didn't want to interrupt. Head lowered, scuffing the heels of his boots as he plodded along trying not to step on the cracks in the pavement. Got dull after a while so he added a variation: every second time he passed it, he kicked an empty milk carton.

Waiting was no fun. Pearce wanted to get this over with.
Come on, Wallace, you fucker.

Traffic rumbled steadily past. He was getting good at picking out the different vehicle sounds without looking up. Motorbike. Transit van. Ah, this was a difficult one. Bus, maybe a lorry? He glanced up to see which it was. Right first time. Single-decker. And it was jammed full. A kid near the back, four or five, with a shaved head, gave him a smile.

The milk carton. Was that once or twice he'd passed it? If in doubt ... he belted it. It hit the front bumper of a parked car and shot high into the air. Smacked down on the bonnet. He held his breath, expecting the car alarm to go off and draw attention to him.

It didn't.

He picked the carton off the bonnet, dropped it on the ground and nudged it with his foot. Everything returned to normal.

Although it wasn't normal.

Killing someone wasn't normal.

He should have smiled back at the kid on the bus. Too late now.

That milk carton. What was he thinking? Could have spoiled things there.

Concentrate on Wallace.

Put the carton in a rubbish bin.

Wallace. You couldn't help make the comparison, could you? Well, Pearce couldn't. When he thought of Wallace, he thought of William Wallace. Braveheart.

If Wallace looked like Mel Gibson, Pearce was in for an easy evening.

Couldn't see a bin.

No time anyway, because at that point he heard what he'd been listening out for. A car was approaching, slowing all the way. Pearce moved back from the kerb and watched the Range Rover pull into a space alongside number eight.

Guy got out. Medium build. Suit. Slip-on shoes. Glasses. Looked like he wouldn't harm a fly. Or a baby. Or a wife. Or a dog. Didn't look like Mel Gibson, though.

Already undoing his tie. Other hand in his pocket, scrabbling around. Took out his keys.

In a few minutes, Pearce would see how brave he was.

Let him get inside first. Didn't want to fight on the street. Somebody'd phone the police and ruin everything.

Wallace disappeared inside. Pearce could hear a faint click as the door closed.

Pearce watched the minute hand on his watch. He'd give Wallace two minutes exactly. Enough time for him to get into his returning-home routine, and not enough time to complete it.

Enough time for Pearce to get to the bin at the end of the street.

The journey there and back took one minute and thirty-seven seconds.