Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (18 page)

I check on The Kid who’s stock still, too tense to be asleep but clearly not going anywhere so I take the opportunity to duck into the barber’s and have the peachy fuzz that’s spewing forth from my scalp shaved off. I drop Veuve a text, telling her to come back to her flat when she’s done. I don’t give an explanation, some things are better delivered face to face. Then we’re off again until I turn into the forecourt of a nursing home. I tuck my car in the corner and, once I’ve prepped the plates with the Velcro tape, there’s not a soul to be seen. I hop out, rub the original plates with the heel of my hand to remove any dust then slap the fake ones on, giving them a firm press to make sure the tape grips well.

I’m so relieved when I pull up outside Veuve’s block of flats. I hear The Kid sit up. We sit here, not speaking, not moving for a few minutes.

‘Is she really dead?’ he whispers eventually.

I sigh and meet his eye in the mirror. He frowns and peers closer. I’ve forgotten about the coloured contacts. ‘She almost certainly is. I’m so sorry. I realised that Sandy was your mother when you picked up the photograph of her in my flat and thought it was your sister. Then, when you said she went to a religious school and was taken by a bad man on her way home ... that’s what happened to Sandy. It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be her. There are tests that you and I could do to prove that your mum is Sandy, if you want to be certain. And ...’

‘What?’

‘And I meant what I said, if she drowned in the Thames, I’ll have her body found. There are tests that can be done, I’ve checked. I’ve already told my friend, who’s a policeman that I think someone drowned near to Battersea Bridge. That’s the name of the bridge where they took you that night. We’ll find her.’

‘But she will have died. In the water. Will she ...?’

‘What is it, Kid?’ He looks to be fighting back tears and I’m feeling increasingly uncomfortable. I’m out of my depth. I’m not cut out for this, never having dealt with kids before but he’s my nephew. He’s Sandy’s boy. I’ll do my best.

‘Will she still look like my mum? Will I be able to say goodbye?’

I feel an ache in my chest, the like of which I’ve not felt since she disappeared. ‘You’ll be able to say goodbye at her funeral if we can find her body but you ...’ My voice breaks. I’m trying to be sensitive and I’m fighting back the tsunami of sadness that’s attempting to surge out of my chest. ‘You won’t be able to see her, I’m sorry. I wish we could.’

A tear rolls down his cheek and I can see that he’s gritting his teeth. I’m just about holding my shit together. He looks like a much younger kid, so vulnerable and so sad. He nods once more and then throws the car door open and gets out. I blow out a long breath. If I get my balls slammed in a drawer for avoiding going home, it will be worth it. Some things are non-negotiable. Being there for family is one of them.

Shit ... family.

The Kid’s my family. It’s weird but in a good way. I rarely see my parents. They distanced themselves from me when I went off the rails. I don’t think they could cope with the drama after Sandy’s disappearance—and I don’t blame them. My mother begged me not to join the Royal Marines, but I needed it. The Corps proved to be my salvation, and somehow I knew that before I even applied. They never forgave me. They sold up and moved to the south of France.

We don’t communicate much. It was difficult when I was on a tour and then we kind of just drifted apart. What would they make of The Kid, I wonder. I’ll have to tell them about him once I have concrete proof. His sister too, once I find her. And I will find her.

I get us into the flat but he’s driving me insane within no time. He has his tablet and iPod with him, thank fuck, but all he's going on about is my Xbox. I think he has withdrawal symptoms.

I’m fitting a new lock and hinges to the front door. It looks a right mess with all the holes from the screws where it’s been hastily secured but it’ll do the job for a day or two. I’m trying to figure out how to get the stuff we need from my flat, from under the noses of the spooky gentlemen sitting in the ghostly grey car outside.

I’m also trying to get my head around what I’ve been told about Thierri. I know from what Veuve’s said that he has a past and, let’s face it, nobody lives in a compound like that without reason and I know he must have some influence because he kept getting Paul banged up to keep him away from Veuve. But he’s a significantly larger shark swimming in a murkier pool than I’d thought, or at least he used to be. Apparently, he had half of London doing his bidding at one time. His power reached into all sorts of dark corners.

Although I was told that he isn’t active in the criminal fraternity these days, he still has significant influence. Where the local constabulary are concerned, he’s Mr Teflon: he’s been implicated and investigated but nothing has stuck and I’m told it’s unlikely that it ever will. It seems he has a very large payroll of backhanded and bribed employees.

It’s no wonder that he could have Paul put up on some ridiculous charges and have his evil arse thrown into a prison cell at will. Veuve said she’d had to beg Thierri not to finish him off, I’d thought she was being a little overly dramatic, but it would appear not. It seems that Thierri was allowed to run his criminal empire because he ran it with military precision and some perverse set of morals that not only kept down the emergence of new criminal gangs, but it kept others in check. Nobody overstepped the line without fully considering the consequences where he was concerned.

I’d asked about his flit to the Midlands. It would appear that several gang bosses from outside London who wanted to get a piece of the capital’s action had joined forces in a concerted effort to uproot him. Word caught on and smaller regional criminal gangs wanted in on the action. All hell broke loose. Thierri hadn’t wanted to do a disappearing act but somebody senior at the Met assured him that normality would be resumed more quickly if he were out of the picture for a while.

Since his return to the area, he’s all but become a model citizen but he keeps his authority by maintaining his payroll of bribes and security payments. He can live his days in the knowledge that if he so much as raises a finger, somebody will be there to do his bidding. It was obvious from the conversation I had that it isn’t common knowledge that he’s battling cancer. It would appear that nobody knows he doesn’t have long left on this mortal coil.

I’d found that Paul had been released and had been a model citizen so far, his parole going well. A model reformed criminal living in the Midlands. So why does my stomach feel like a pit of snakes whenever I think about him? I need to see Thierri to get answers about his will and about his plans for Paul. I’ll only feel content when that bastard is back behind bars again. I’ll resurrect whatever system Thierri had put in place that has failed because he’s not on top of things nowadays. I’ll wager that most of his business is going on as normal, Vouloir for instance, but that he’d handle issues like Paul personally. I’ll happily take over that job.

During the call, I’d given the tip-off that a body had been weighted and dumped near Battersea Bridge a few months ago. It made me cringe to be so blunt but you don’t let anyone know your business unless you have to. Mack’s a mate but the less they know, the better. Records are going to be checked but it’s unlikely that her body will have been discovered. It’s weighted down for fuck’s sake. Mack’s going to look into the possibility of putting together a case for getting some divers down there but he has to have reasonable cause.

I told him to think of something and that I’d get back to him. I’ll have to come clean if there’s no other option but it will lead to a load of questions that I can’t answer. The Kid needs to be kept right out of it so how would I know my sister’s body is in the water? How would I know when it was dumped? When she was murdered?

‘Fuck!’ My thoughts have fucked up my concentration and I’ve mounted the keep for the lock in the wrong place. Easily fixed but it’s annoying. It’s also a lesson to me to watch my thoughts don’t interfere with my vigilance. I need to keep my head down and Veuve safe while I find answers. Most answers will be found with Thierri so late this afternoon, I have an appointment with the nursing company that provide his home care. I’ve no idea what bullshit I’m going to give them but I’ll concoct something.

The Kid and I are sitting out in the garden when Veuve returns, her work day complete. I get up and gesture for her to take my deckchair but she puts her hands on her hips and says, ‘What gives?’

‘Now you’re in trouble.’ The Kid chuckles, although I’m surprised he’s even noticed; his attention has been on a blonde girl, probably five or six years older than him with a rack that’s going to make her life so much easier, should she choose to let it.

Next to what Veuve’s packing, she looks positively flat chested and so very young, girly and ... well, weak, if you know what I mean. There’s no giggling and hair tossing where a real woman’s concerned. No, there’s hands on hips and probing eyes which are growing steadily wider with the realisation that I now have chocolate brown eyes.

I bat my eyelashes then tell her, as sparingly as possible, about the narrow escape I’d had at my flat and what the consequences would be.

‘But you can’t defy the government,’ she gasps. ‘Isn’t that perjury or something?’

‘Probably. But we all do it, don’t we, Veuve? Needs must.’ My eyes flick to the teen beside me and I see her scowl in recognition of my implication. ‘There’s stuff I need to sort out here and I don’t feel comfortable about fucking off for days, possibly weeks when there are unresolved questions about a certain person who’s on parole. It’s up to you whether you continue to play your part in our little agreement but I’ll be keeping to mine. And know this, if I so much as get a sniff of suspicion that he’s still interested in you, I’ll become your shadow, by your side 24/7.’

To say that she doesn’t look happy at the prospect is an understatement. I’m not sure it’s just the thought of Paul coming after her that’s making her turn her nose up. Neither of our flats can accommodate all of us, sleeping separately and, after this morning’s rude awakening, sharing a bed is probably her idea of hell. But I must admit, I’ve been quite looking forward to slipping into bed next to her again tonight. However, we can’t go back to my flat now, and there’s no saying that she’ll invite me to stay here. Then what the fuck would I do? Sleep in my car that’s badged with dodgy plates? That’s one sure fire way of drawing attention to it.

Happy fucking days.

I CALL SMITH AND get him to agree to cover my work commitments where he can and to rope some poor sap into covering the ones he can’t do himself. He’s happy enough to oblige once I tell him my reasons for skipping work without tipping the office off. He’s been at the mercy of the inhabitants of that grey car more than once himself but he’s out of that game now. He has a wife who wasn’t happy about it and, since their monthly outgoings are shared, the money isn’t as important. He told them they were starting a family and that he wasn’t interested. I’ll remember that one—I didn’t think it would work but so far, they’ve left him alone.

I park opposite the office for the nursing agency. I’m early because I wanted to sit and observe for a while. You never know what you might learn that could come in useful. For example, the receptionist looks a complete battle axe but there’s a pretty, younger girl with bright copper coloured hair, who keeps popping in and out of reception. If I need to, that gives me two attempts at mounting a charm offensive, as long as I can time it right or engineer some privacy if only one is receptive.

I’m also taking the time to consider where I’m going to sleep tonight. Before I left, I nodded to Veuve to walk out with me then I told her about The Kid having a panic attack. She freaked out. Like completely. It was a panic attack for fuck’s sake but, from the way she’d rounded on me, anyone would think I’d tried to murder him. I pointed that out but she ranted about how his emotional intelligence and coping strategies are underdeveloped. I know he’s more childlike than most nineteen-year-olds but come on ... after all that he’s experienced and got through, nobody can fault his coping strategies.