DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (20 page)

Joe watched the BMW go racing on ahead.

‘Bastard’s really belting. Giving it some throttle.’

He changed down to third, cutting in front of a Telecom van. Nearly clipped it, which nearly gave her stress. She glanced at him, but his face was impassive. Rigid mouth in a thin, tight line, the knuckles white on the steering-wheel. Quietly and politely imploding.

They followed their boy down the underpass and out the other end. A bit of London tunnel to simplify the ride. Short and sweet, past Euston Square. You’ve hardly gone in and you’ve come out again, and then you’re cruising along into Marylebone Road, feeling good because it’s almost done. But still the core of doubt, the girly hesitation.

‘What if someone sees?’

‘Doesn’t work like that.’

‘But if they do . . . ’

‘They won’t believe it.’

‘How do you know?’ she persisted.

‘Because I know.’

Two hundred yards past Madame Tussaud’s, and the skinhead moved over into the left-hand lane. Joe checked the wing-mirror and nudged the wheel.

‘He’s going for the turnoff.’

He pulled into Billy’s line of traffic. They were four cars behind. Her bag felt heavy in her lap.

‘At the fork,’ he murmured. ‘Right . . . ?’

Three cars behind.

‘Right.’

Her reply so soft she almost couldn’t hear it, and she felt her heart, her tiny, Donna heart, begin to thump inside her chest. The windscreen was steaming up, almost sweating with excitement. She watched his hand reach out and flick on the de-mister. She felt lucid, connected, as if all the threads had been pulled together. A perfect London day, with the sunlight shafting down, the very air electric, and she’s plugged in, switched on, tooled up. Speed and light and retribution.

She flipped down the sunshield, checked her face in the mirror. All is vanity, she didn’t quite remind herself, as she passed her tongue over rose-red lips. She slipped on a pair of shades, and gazed at her reflection. The bitch, she thought, the luscious bitch. Joe tensing in his seat.

‘You ready, babe . . . ?’

Two cars behind. Coming up to Lisson Grove. She slipped her hand inside the bag and closed her fingers round the grip.

‘Yeah,’ she breathed. ‘Been ready all my life.’

Four hundred yards from the flyover. One car behind. She lifted out the automatic. Kept it pointing down, below the sill. A chic little matt-black shooter. A very girly kind of gun. The sunlight shafting down, the very air electric, and she’s plugged in, switched on, tooled up. Speed and light and retribution.

Billy quite oblivious, his shaven head absorbed in random Billy thoughts.

She kept her eyes on the back of his car, focused on the blue-grey cloud that mushroomed from the chassis. Forty feet behind him. Her mouth felt dry. She pressed a button. The window slid down. Air came scudding against her face. Joe cleared his throat.

‘Just say the word . . . ’

The sunlight shafting down. Speed and light and retribution.

‘Now, Joe, baby. Do it now . . . ’

He palmed the gearstick into second and floored the pedal. The car swerved forward. Everything fluid, everything polished. He pulled alongside the BMW. The flyover looming up ahead, and Joe held it steady, keeping them parallel. She twisted in her seat, gripped the pistol double-handed.

So near they were, she could have reached across and touched him, could have stroked his downy cheek and helped him understand that life is unpredictable and bad boys are expendable. He was staring straight ahead, completely unaware, and she’s willing him to look across, for she likes her bit of human contact, she likes some interaction. So come on, darling, come on, sweetheart . . . 

‘Do it, babe.’

‘He’s got to see it.’

‘Just do it, will you?’

But she’s paralysed with pleasure. It’s eighty yards before the turnoff, and she’s savouring the moment. Joe cursed his unforgiving gods and touched the horn. Billy glanced across. A brief, untroubled driver’s glance. All he saw was some slag in a car, with a bright, red mouth and mirror shades. His bland, unworried skinhead face. No hint of recognition.

So she spread her lips and smiled at him. Her special smile. Her hello-fuckhead sort of smile. Sunlight shafting down, the very air electric. And then a sudden tightness in her chest. A moment of contraction. A putrid recollection of an empty field in Hertfordshire . . . 

But she’s plugged in, switched on, tooled up. Speed and light and retribution. She blows the boy a silent kiss and her finger pulls the trigger. Three flawless rounds come shooting out, and she’s saying the cunt word, over and over.

* * *

CHAPTER 26

Joe pressed the buzzer and held it down. Getting dark, the wind licking at his face.

‘You sure about this?’

He hunched into his jacket.

‘Cause if you’re not entirely positive . . . ’

She pulled a sliver of green paint off the door-jamb.

‘Might as well.’ She shrugged. ‘I mean it’s something to do, isn’t it.’

He grunted quietly and took his finger off the button. She was beginning to spoil his afternoon. Not massively, but just enough.

‘But why now, sweetheart? Why when we’re busy?’

‘Because I like a bit of variety, Joe. That’s why.’

She pushed in front of him and knocked on the door. She’d changed in the car, and was wearing what she termed her Billy-outfit: lilac blouson jacket, a pair of tight-cut jeans, and high-heeled, black-suede ankle-boots. Looking pretty good, she thought, in a slaggy sort of way. She knocked again, for she likes to make an entrance. She likes to make her presence felt.

‘No one in,’ he muttered.

‘You wish.’

He stared down at the ground, scuffed a toe against the doorstep. A sense of creeping dread had engulfed him ever since she’d suggested this, and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed a reckless thing to do.

‘Look,’ he said quietly, ‘if they’re there — which doesn’t seem likely — we just go in, do the business, and come out, right?’

‘Sure, Joe.’

‘I mean we won’t stay long, okay?’

‘Course not.’

She touched him lightly on the arm, soothed him with her tender smile. So good she was. So comforting. So milk of human kindness.

‘We’ll do the necessary,’ she promised, ‘and then we’ll leave.’

‘Cause it’s not in the plan, is it?’

‘I know it’s not, but we’ve got to stay loose, see, got to be flexible.’

She rapped her knuckles on the door, still feeling high. An hour or so after the freeway thing, and the film was spooling through her head, unfolding in her brain. The automatic in her hand and London gusting through the window. Flyover looming straight ahead, and they’re gliding up beside him. Smooth and fluid, torpedo in the water. Pause for solemn contemplation, wait to savour what was coming . . . then sunlight on her skin, and the road like molten silver, and the unbelieving Billy face exploding.

‘We could even have tea,’ she suggested, ‘if they’re around.’

‘You hungry, then?’

‘Bit peckish.’

He watched her bang on the door, heard it echo down the road.

‘You’re making a noise,’ he muttered.

‘Thought you liked it, when I did that.’

‘Not me, darling . . . ’

He pressed his lips against her neck.

‘You must be thinking of someone else.’

She considered the possibility.

‘Yeah,’ she murmured. ‘Guess I must.’

A finger of mist curled inside the porch. Joe shivered slightly. Be foggy later. He could smell it in the air, that barren smell of late November. He pushed back his sleeve and squinted at his watch.

‘We’d better shift,’ he said. ‘They’re not there, anyway.’

She held her breath and listened.

‘I reckon they are.’

With perfect timing, and as if on cue, indistinct sounds came wafting from inside, a kind of slippered shuffle that gradually grew louder as it moved towards them down the hallway. Joe pulled down his cuffs and cleared his throat. The shuffling sound had halted just behind the door, and it dawned on him, with a sudden, lurching horror, that there were certain things in life which couldn’t be avoided. A wave of curdled panic washed over him, and for a single, terrifying second he thought he might collapse.

‘In and out,’ he hissed. ‘Right?’

They heard the eternal, urban sound of bolts being drawn back, locks being turned, a security chain slotted into place. The door opened a couple of inches and a watery blue eye, slightly myopic, peered through the gap. Thinning grey hair, the eyebrow plucked to nothing, but a soft and gentle voice, a voice like Joey’s voice.

‘Hello, baby.’

Oh precious, precious moment.

‘Hello, mum.’

* * *

CHAPTER 27

Henry swivelled slowly in the chair, describing semi-circles in the dusk. He found the motion vaguely calming, and he wanted to be calm. There was a pulsing in his head, and a burning in his gut, and he needed, fairly badly, to be calm.

The curtains were hanging slightly open, and a grubby, yellow light leaked in from the street. He stared at the shadows on the desk. Almost looked like they were moving. Almost seemed like something crawling in the gloom. He placed his thumb and middle finger on the bridge of his nose. His brain felt gummy with exhaustion. Time he had a rest. Too old for this, he told himself. More a young man’s game. More a game for brave, young bloods. Should have packed his bags and headed off to Spain, cashed in his chips and gone off to the Costa. Got a bit of sunshine on his bones. Not fair, he thought, not fucking fair.

He shut his eyes and cocked his head, trying hard to concentrate. The phone was clamped to his ear. He was listening intently.

‘Tell me again.’

He gently kneaded his temples.

‘I know that, son. Now I want it again.’

He heard the voice come hissing down the line, reluctantly going over the story. Savouring, despite itself, the juicy bits. The phone was welded to his ear, and he could scarcely believe what he was hearing. It was like listening to the wireless, he thought, like hearing a play on Radio Four, some piece of far-fetched make-believe that slips down with the cocoa.

A fairy-tale for city folk: first they did this, and then they did that. First the cinema, then the freeway. First the neck-job, then the drive-by. He felt a stab of sentimental envy, for he’d been young once, he’d done that. Gone out in a rage and settled all his debts. And once you started, you didn’t want to stop. Like eating Walnut Whips, he mused. Just the one was never quite enough.

‘You got a firm i.d. yet?’

He scratched the back of his head.

‘Course you can. Fucking told me everything else . . . Yeah, yeah, you got my word . . . Bloke and a tart? That what they reckon? . . . Nah. Got no idea, mate . . . On my mother’s life, may she rest in peace . . . I would if I could, believe me.’

He opened his eyes.

‘Look, no one’s taping, all right?’

He listened patiently.

‘I know it’s a risk . . . Yeah, I know you are. And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, because I don’t.’

He laughed softly. What a wag, he thought. Ought to be on the telly.

‘You know me, pal, only kidding. You’re on a bonus, after this . . . Yeah, mate. You’ve done good.’

Bit of stroking, he reflected. Never went amiss.

‘But I’ll tell you something, right? Your lot better get their finger out, cause we don’t want crap like this, old son. Cause this is London, see, not fucking Manchester. We don’t want girlies getting shooters. Just catch her quick, you hear? Brick her up in some hole in the wall, and give her a flick-knife to play with.’

The hissing down the wire. Giving him a headache.

‘Yeah, yeah . . . Right . . . You’re doing good. Like I said, it’s appreciated . . . No, I mean that.’

Enough, he thought, the other man’s voice beginning to grate. He had things to do, now. There were plans to lay, plots to hatch. Provisions which needed to be made. All of it swirling through his brain, coagulating in his head. Milk-drink first, he told himself. Coat his stomach with something gentle, before he started.

‘Look, relax, okay? You’re in a call-box, nothing can happen. Stay cool, all right? . . . No, listen, I’m telling you. It won’t be traced.’

A sudden spasm in his belly.

‘So fuck your job. You know what I’m saying? Just fuck it, right?’

He cut the connection. Silence in the room. Getting dark, the streetlight growing stronger. He flicked on the desk-lamp and the knowledge hit him. It slammed him hard in his ravaged gut.

My lads, he realized. They’ve done my lads . . . 

* * *

CHAPTER 28

‘He was a lovely baby,’ Beryl remarked. ‘Slept all night. Quite uncomplaining.’

She began to carve the chocolate cake. They were sitting in the parlour of a terraced house in Acton Town. Matching three-piece suite and telly from the rental firm. The faint yet pleasing odour of suburbia.

‘Didn’t like stress though,’ she was moved to add. ‘Never much cared for aggravation.’

Laid out the slices on a floral plate.

‘Wants a nice, quiet life, I’ve always thought.’

The fond, indulgent smile.

‘He’s a simple soul.’

She poured out the tea.

‘But big and strong, have you noticed that, dear? He’s a strapping young lad.’

She dropped two sugars into her cup.

‘Didn’t get weaned till he was eighteen months.’

A sympathetic Donna murmur.

‘Must have been distressing for you . . . ’

‘It was, dear, frankly.’

A sip of milky tea.

‘Specially for the nipples, if I recall correctly.’

Joe shut his eyes and quietly shuddered. It can’t last long, he told himself. Be over soon, he fantasized. A finger poked him in the ribs.

‘Wake up, Jo-jo. Mustn’t nod off . . . ’

She was passing round the biscuits. He wouldn’t say no to a macaroon.

‘Where’s Dad?’ he asked.