Born Under Punches (26 page)

Then Fairbairn's fall: the court case, the verdict, the profiles. Vilification upon vilification. Recast from lovable rogue with an open chequebook to devil in human form. A tabloid bogeyman. Taking the fall on his own. Associates no more than hinted at, a lawyer-shaped hole where there should have been portraits.

Consequently, no mention of Tommy Jobson.

Then up to the present day.

Larkin sat back, rubbed his eyes. He turned the viewing machine off, began to gather his things. He boxed up spools, handed them back. The exercise had been helpful but not conclusive. All he had were facts. Hard little cogs. What he needed was a lubricant, something to make them go round, mesh together. Turn the bones of fact into the flesh of substance.

And he knew just the person to talk to.

‘Steve, long time no see. Wonderful! Come in.'

Dave Bolland opened the door to his office, showed Larkin to a chair. He resumed his position behind his desk, smiled.

Bolland ran an independent news agency, the News Agents, out of an office beside Newcastle University's old Lit and Phil Building. It was home to a rotating team of journalists, all selling local stories to the local and national press. Larkin had worked there himself for a while.

Larkin looked at Bolland. His old friend was looking tired. Trim and fit, purple shirt tucked into suit trousers, showing no fat, only squash muscles. Hair cropped short, receding at the temples, and a slightly more artificial shade of blond than it used to be. His face showed lines but wasn't overly creased. He was wearing his years well.

Larkin knew Bolland would be similarly appraising him. He wondered what he saw. And whether he'd be too polite to say it. He was:

‘You're looking well, Steve,' said Bolland politely.

Larkin smiled. ‘And you, Dave.'

‘So. What do I owe the pleasure? I presume this isn't just social.'

‘You presume right.' Larkin told him he was looking for information on Tommy Jobson. He didn't tell him why. He wasn't sure himself.

‘Teflon Tom?' said Bolland.

‘So called because nothing sticks to him?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Like what, for instance?'

‘Like his connection to Clive Fairbairn. Like the fact that whenever the law line up someone to testify to his nefarious deeds, that witness has a sudden change of heart.'

‘Why can't you find anything?'

‘Because he's too good. Because he's got the right people working for him who know how to respond to different threats. The Fairbairn connection, for instance, is hidden under so many paper trails and payoffs you can't find it. I know. We've tried.'

‘So what is the connection?'

‘Well, Fairbairn regarded him as the son he never had. That's an open secret. Spent the last decade grooming him to take over. And now due to the extended holiday forced on the charming Clive, Tommy runs the show.'

Larkin smiled again. ‘Is that the word on the street? That he's Mr Big?'

‘That's the word on the street.' Bolland laughed. ‘Well, listen to us. Aren't we just a couple of hard-boiled private eyes?'

‘Private dicks, don't you mean?'

‘Speak for yourself.' Bolland leaned back in his chair. ‘So, what's this about, anyway?'

‘I'm not sure, really. I'm writing a book on the miners' strike. Using Coldwell as a case study. Britain in microcosm.'

Bolland shuddered. ‘Can't you leave all that alone, Steve? It's all in the past. Ancient history.'

‘Well, I disagree, Dave. I'm looking at the actions then, the consequences now. Reaping what you sow. It's not just in the past.'

Bolland sighed. ‘Doesn't being so angry all the time wear you out?'

Larkin sighed. ‘Yeah. Well, wears me out and keeps me going.'

Bolland laughed. ‘Let it go, Steve. Enjoy yourself. Live a little. You've earned it.'

Larkin shrugged.

Bolland waited, realized Larkin wasn't going to speak further. ‘So, why all the interest in Tommy Jobson? D'you think he was behind the strike? Was it all a massive conspiracy?'

‘I was at a charity football match. So was he.'

Bolland rolled his eyes. ‘Definitely worth investigating.'

Larkin leaned forward. ‘You don't happen to know if he contributes to that charity, do you? The CAT Centre?'

‘'Course I don't.'

‘D'you know anyone who would know?'

Bolland smiled. ‘I usually charge for this, you know.'

‘I'll give you a cut of the fee.'

Bolland sighed. ‘I've got someone here who's good with numbers. It's his forte. Knows where to find them, knows how to read them. He'll give you as much as he can find.'

‘Thanks, Dave.'

‘But you'll have to pay him, though. He doesn't do favours.'

‘OK.'

‘Anything else? Would you like me to solve who murdered Princess Di?'

Larkin shrugged. ‘Up to you. Don't put yourself out on my account, though.'

Bolland laughed. ‘Good to see you again, Steve.'

‘And you, Dave.'

They talked a while longer, filling in gaps, reminiscing. The more they chatted, the more Larkin realized how little they had in common any more. Bolland had gone his merry New Labour way, Larkin was Larkin. But they were still friends.

It was time to go. Larkin stood up, thanked Bolland for his help.

‘No problem. I'll let you know what I come up with.'

‘'Predate it.'

‘You know, we should go out for a drink some time. Play catch up properly.'

‘Yeah, that'd be good.'

‘Let's do that, then.'

They shook hands, the physical act bridging a gap that stretched further than years. They parted without making arrangements. There was very little chance of them getting together for a drink. They both knew that. But they were old friends.

It was something else that was said out of politeness.

Larkin saw himself out of the building, stood on the pavement, looked around.

Rush hour. Because he didn't have a nine-to-five job, Larkin liked this time of day. It would have been different otherwise.

All around, commuters and traffic were hurrying to leave the city before nightfall. Like virgins fleeing vampires, were-wolves fearing full-moon lycanthropies.

Larkin began to walk. He had a lot to think about. The book. Tommy Jobson. Tony Woodhouse. The past. The present. Claire Duffy.

Claire Duffy. That had taken him by surprise. But pleasantly so.

He had to go somewhere, order his thoughts. Decide what to do next. About everything.

He couldn't face going home, so he checked his pockets for money, found he had enough for what he wanted without visiting an ATM. He looked around, pub radar on high. Settled on the Forth, headed for Pink Lane, and his invaluable aid to the thought process.

He could taste the first pint already, imagine it keeping him company as the day faded totally and the dark took over. The one constant to set against change and uncertainty. The one thing that would help him reach decisions.

He couldn't get there quickly enough.

Suzanne was nervous. Nervous and, if she was honest with herself, more than a little scared.

She stepped out of the concrete bus shelter, swapping the smell of stale piss for cold night air. She looked up and down the street. Nothing. She checked her watch. Seven minutes. No pedestrians during that time. Only the occasional passing car, headlights picked her out, throwing her sharp relief shadow against the concrete, bleeding slowly away to nothing as it passed.

She looked at her watch again. Eight minutes. Just gone.

She was about five miles out of Newcastle in an anonymous satellite town she didn't know the name of. All she knew was that it was Tuesday night. The dullest, most depressing night of the week, according to Karl. Monday was optimistic, Wednesday was halfway, Thursday was tolerable because it was almost Friday, and Friday was the end of the week. But Tuesday, Tuesday was nothing. You've got to get into their mindset, he'd said. You've got to think like them. You have to have a special reason to be out on a Tuesday night, especially in a dump like this. Either that or you're lost. Whichever, he'd said, it's perfect for us.

She shivered, zipped her collarless burgundy-leather jacket up to her neck, shifted her weight from foot to trainered foot, flapped her arms about her body. Her teeth were beginning to chatter, but she preferred the street to the stink of the bus shelter.

She was shivering from more than cold. She felt dirty, like her body was covered from head to foot in greasy black grime. It was only imaginary dirt, she knew, but strange imaginary dirt. Made her skin tingle to think about it. She didn't know whether to luxuriate in the sensation or stand under a hot shower, attempt to wash it away, only turning the water off when her skin was red and sore. Purged.

She checked her watch, flapped her arms. Nine minutes. Nearly ten.

The only people she had seen were a couple in their mid-twenties leaving the pub opposite. As soon as the door swung closed behind them, they were on each other, pulling themselves into a shop doorway, performing lingual tonsillectomies and febrile body cavity searches. Their passion eventually consumed them and they hurried off to consummate in private.

Suzanne watched, fascinated. They looked like boring, ordinary people. What Karl would call lesser people. But their passion had a depth that was anything but ordinary and boring. It seemed in no way a lesser thing. It excited her. It confused her. What she and Karl had was great, she knew that, but he'd never done anything like that to her. Never been spontaneous with his love. Never dragged her into a doorway because he couldn't wait to be alone with her.

She checked her watch again. Ten minutes became eleven.

Then she saw someone walking towards her.

A man: medium height, medium build. Black curly hair, black-framed glasses. Mid-thirties: young enough to still have dreams, old enough to realize they would never now come true.

Perfect.

She stood, miming a bored traveller waiting for her bus, watching him surreptitiously. She knew he had been eyeing her up as he approached, probably without consciously realizing it. It was what men did. She was often eyed up, tooted at. Especially when she was dressed for school.

He drew level.

‘E-excuse me,' she said. It came out croaking, almost a whisper.

Her heart was beating overtime, body trembling. She swallowed. Her throat was dry, empty.

The man stopped walking, looked at her.

‘Huh-have you got the time, please?'

The man looked swiftly at his wrist. Eager to please. ‘Nearly half-ten.'

‘Thanks.' Suzanne forced a tight smile.

The man returned the smile for a hesitant yet expectant beat, then made to resume his walk.

‘Well?' Suzanne raised her voice slightly.

The man stopped, turned. Eyes widened in expectation.

‘Well, what?'

Suzanne smiled. Put more effort into it this time.

‘What d'you think?'

Even under the streetlights she could tell the man was reddening. It was his turn to dry swallow.

‘I don't know,' he said, thinking he knew what she meant but not quite believing his luck.

Suzanne forced another smile, tried to remember the script they'd agreed on. Or rather, Karl had agreed on.

‘Well …' she said, ‘I really wanna fuck. I haven't had a fuck for three weeks and I really want one.'

She stretched her arms behind her back, sticking her small breasts out as she did so. Even through the leather her erect, cold nipples could be seen.

The man's face lit up, mouth fell open. It looked like Christmas and his birthday had come at once.

‘Wh-what?'

Suzanne was surprised at how quickly, how well, the line had worked. Emboldened, she tried the next one.

‘I'm really feeling kinky tonight, so…'

She took a step towards him. God, he was ugly.

‘Why don't we go somewhere where we can get started?'

She was right up close to him now. The stale beer on his breath couldn't mask the halitosis. Abruptly she turned, began to walk. The man meekly followed.

She was amazed at how much power she had over him. What a few well-chosen yet badly spoken words had done to him. Karl had said to her, Tell a man you'll fuck him and you can lead him around by his cock. She hadn't believed him. She did now. His imagination will be fuelled by dull, unimaginative pornography, Karl had said. It'll be simple for you.

He had been right, it was. But he hadn't realized how powerful it would make her feel.

And it did. This was beginning to give her a real thrill.

Then the man stopped.

She turned, suddenly scared, fearing it was all going to go wrong.

‘What?' she said quickly.

‘How much is this ganna cost us?'

She gave a laugh of relief so hard it seemed almost spontaneous. She recovered, quickly remembering the script.

‘You wanna pay me as well? How much?'

The man was taken aback. ‘Naw, naw, if it's free … y'knaw, well …' He shrugged, smiled like a child with a new expensive toy he had never expected to receive. ‘Howay, then.'

She walked, he followed. She was aware of him fidgeting as he moved and turned back to see what he was doing. He was trying to remove his wedding ring without her seeing.

She was touched. The act made her feel a pang of pity for him, but it was too late to stop now. There was no turning back.

She led him off the main road to an unlit backstreet absent of life. She flattened herself against a back yard brick wall and smiled at him.

‘What's your name?'

The man fumbled to find any name other than his own.

‘Bruce,' he lied. ‘What's yours?'

‘Louise,' she said.

‘How old are you?'

Suzanne paused, wondering what age he would like her to be.