Fear of the Fathers (39 page)

At half past nine there was a faint buzz from the downstairs door. Digger raced down to ensure that none of the junkies answered, thus rendering him clientless.

The girl didn't look as though she had money, but he'd been around long enough not to judge by appearances. She had peroxide hair, black-rimmed glasses, studded jacket, and a T-shirt with the logo ‘BITCH QUEEN'. Her make-up was unnecessarily heavy as he could tell from her eyes and cheekbones that she was a natural looker.

He showed her to his newly-tidied flat and offered her a coffee, which she accepted.

“So then,” he said, handing her a steaming mug. “You want someone found.”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“And which agency did you say recommended me?”

“Bishop & Brown.”

“Oh right. Good old Kevin, I always knew he was a gent. Was he too busy to take you on then?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “It's more that he didn't want to get involved. He suggested that you might be a viable alternative. He said that you weren't fussy about what you did.”

“Oh, did he now,” said Digger indignantly. “Well that's not entirely true. I'm a respectable private detective, I have a license and, contrary to popular opinion, I do have my ethics.”

Annie took a sip of her coffee. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to offend you. He didn't use those exact words anyway, he just indicated that you might be willing to take my particular job on.”

“Fair enough,” said Digger. “I'm intrigued now. Who is it you want found?”

“His name is Stone. He works as one of the Prime Minister's personal bodyguards. I want his home address. I want to know if he's married, has children – well, as much as you can find.”

Digger whistled through his teeth. “Special Branch eh,” he said. “No wonder Kev didn't want to take it on. I've got to say, I don't really fancy snooping about myself. ‘Never mess with the law' is my motto.”

“Look,” said Annie. “All I'm asking is for you to find out where he lives and a bit about his life. I don't want you to do anything to him.”

“Can I ask why you want all this information?” said Digger. “I don't want to get involved in anything that's going to put me in stir.”

“Listen,” said Annie. “If you're that bothered, just get me the address. I'll find out the rest myself. But the more you give me, the more money you get. And looking at this place I'd say you need it.”

Digger shrugged. The girl wasn't wrong. “Okay then,” he said. “I'll do it, but it's going to cost you. I'm going to have to bung someone at Scotland Yard a lot of money to get that sort of information.”

“I'll give you two grand for the address, plus another three for any decent personal information…And don't think about haggling, that's my final offer.”

Digger tried to hide his glee. He'd have done the lot for a grand. “Okay,” he said with mock reluctance. “I'll do it. But give me a few days.”

Annie set down her mug and made ready to leave. She pulled out a bundle of notes from her bag and handed some to Digger. “There's five hundred as a deposit,” she said. “I'll call you on Monday afternoon. Have my information by then.”

Digger watched her leave then counted his money. He hadn't even caught her name.

For the first time in two weeks the sun fought its way through the curtains of Stella's bedroom. It was nine in the morning, and although her sleep had been tempered with fits of panic she felt ready to take on the day. After a cigarette she went to the bathroom and found that Cronin had thankfully removed Alonso.

After showering she slipped on her tracksuit and went to join Cronin who was busy making breakfast. Already he seemed to know his way around her kitchen better than she did.

“Mornin',” he chirped like a leprechaun. “Did you sleep well?”

“Surprisingly, yes. And it was nice to be able to use the bathroom in peace.”

“Yes, I thought I'd give him a change of scenery. It's not nice having him in there, blindfold or no blindfold.”

Stella laid out some cutlery and Cronin dished up large plates of bacon, scrambled eggs and toast.

“I took the liberty of phoning the Angel earlier,” said Cronin. “And everything's set for a one o'clock kick off.”

“Good,” said Stella. “I just want to get it over with to be honest. I'm not comfortable with all this subterfuge. There's still people who believe he's really dead. It's going to be difficult playing the grieving girlfriend, I'm not an actress.”

“You won't have to grieve,” said Cronin. “It'll be more of a celebration than anything else. You'll be fine.”

They finished their food and Cronin washed up while Stella fed Alonso. The Spaniard seemed in good spirits, despite his predicament. “It is a beautiful day, yes?” he said as Stella removed his gag.

“Yes, it is. It's a pity you won't be able to enjoy it.”

Alonso just smiled and got stuck into his breakfast. “This is very good,” he said. “You are feeding me well. Soon I shall have a large belly.”

They left the flat at half eleven. Stella wanted to get to the Angel early and check out what they'd done. Although Cronin had assured her that everything was sorted, she still had reservations about Lenny's ability to organize anything bigger than a pool match.

“Alonso seemed very full of himself this morning,” said Stella, as they crossed the Vauxhall Bridge.

“Was he?” said Cronin. “I didn't really notice.”

“Yeah. He didn't seem like he had a care in the world. It made me a bit nervous to be honest.”

“I wouldn't worry about it,” said Cronin. “It's just psychological tactics I expect. Making you think he knows something you don't. It's designed to make you nervous so you make a mistake. It's exactly what I'd do in his situation.”

“Fair enough,” said Stella. But she wasn't entirely convinced. There was something in Alonso's eyes that worried her. She didn't trust the sneaky little bastard one bit.

At the back of the Angel, inside the 4x4, Grady and Jennings sat listening to the radio. Grady was more than uncomfortable. Of all the ridiculous notions Jennings had had in the past few days, this ranked up there with the most suicidal. He may have dyed his hair and put on a pair of dark glasses but it was hardly the disguise of the century, and anyone who knew him well was bound to see through it.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” said Grady. “I mean, we can just go back to the hotel if you want. Sit it out nice and safe until our flight tomorrow.”

“It'll be fine,” said Jennings. “Stop panicking. They're not going to be watching this place. I didn't tell anybody about the memorial today. Anyway, I told you, there's nowhere less likely for the police to be than here. It's a haven for the underbelly of society.”

“Sounds charming,” said Grady. “Will we get out of there alive?”

Jennings' heart jumped as he saw Stella's MR2 pull into the car park. He watched as she exited the car, and frowned when he saw a priest getting out of the passenger side.

“She's a fine-looking lady,” said Grady. “I can see why you're taking the risk...I would.”

“Will you shut the fuck up! I told you, it's not like that.”

“Calm down tiger,” said Grady. “Anyway, who's the frock?”

“I'm assuming that's Father Cronin,” said Jennings composing himself. “He's been sniffing around for the last week or so. I don't know what he's up to, but I don't like the look of him.”

“He's a priest Jennings, I don't think he's going to be any competition.”

Jennings ignored the comment and watched Stella disappear round the corner.

“Can we go in now?” said Grady. “I don't want to spend the rest of the day in here, it's starting to get a bit hot.”

“I'd rather leave it until one,” said Jennings. “There'll be a bigger crowd by then and I can lose myself more easily.”

Grady looked at his watch and sighed.

At one o'clock, just as Grady was about to blow up, they left the car and walked round to the entrance of the pub. Jennings hesitated slightly at the door.

“What's wrong?” said Grady. “Don't tell me you're starting to have second thoughts.”

“No,” said Jennings. “It's just that last time I was here I had a spot of trouble.” He remembered landing ignominiously on the pavement where he now stood.

“Well it's a bit late for regrets,” said Grady. “Let's just go in. Don't worry, I've got your back.”

In contrast to the last time he'd been in there, the bar was quiet and sombre. Although it was full of bodies a respectful hush hung in the air. Jennings walked through craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of Stella, eventually sighting her in the corner standing next to Cronin and a large fierce-looking biker with no hair.

The biker called for silence and began to speak: “As you all know, we're here to pay tribute to our good friend Stratton.” He paused for one or two enthusiastic cheers. “I'm sure he'd be delighted that so many of you have turned up. And I'm sure he wouldn't want me to keep you too long, as I'm aware of his dislike for speeches. I do feel, however, that a few words from those that knew him best would not go amiss. After that I suggest we have a brief silence in which we can each reflect on our personal memories of him.”

Jennings stood patiently as a few brief but poignant speeches were made, and lastly as Stella read the poem
Do not stand at my grave and weep
by
Mary Elizabeth Fry
. He felt a twinge of sadness as she voiced the last lines – “
Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not here. I did not die
.” – as yet unaware of their irony.

There was then a two-minute silence, the end of which was signalled by the opening bars of
Anarchy in the UK
played at ear-bleeding volume. The bar sprang to life with whoops and hollers, and a cacophonic chorus of the opening line:
I am an Antichrist
. Jennings joined in enthusiastically, but Grady just looked blank.

“Great song!” Jennings shouted to his friend.

“Yeah, it's a real toe-tapper,” said Grady. “Do you want a drink?”

Grady forced his way to the bar, avoiding the pogoing bodies with consummate skill. With a mixture of barks and sign language he successfully ordered a couple of beers and returned to Jennings.

“Where's Stella then?” said Grady, handing Jennings a Budweiser.

“She's gone through to the back room I think. Let's take a wander and have a look.” He led Grady through the bustling crowd holding his bottle above his head to save it from tipping.

The back room was comparatively quiet. Stella and Cronin were sat at a table with the bald biker and what seemed to be his sidekick, and there were a couple of other bikers playing pool. As they walked in the bald man looked up and gave them a harsh stare.

“This is a private room,” he said. “I suggest you get back into the bar.”

Stella looked up. Ignoring Jennings, her eyes alighted on Grady sparking a glint of recognition. She stared hard for a couple more seconds before it hit her. “Scott Grady?” she said.

“Yes mam. It certainly is.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Come to pay my respects,” said Grady. “A little bird told me about it.”

Tags turned to Stella and said, “You know these people?”

“Well I know Grady, I couldn't forget him – he tried to kill me last year.” She turned to Grady. “Who's your friend?”

“It's me for fuck's sake,” said Jennings removing his sunglasses.

“Tommy?! Is that you?!” she exclaimed, jumping out of her seat and racing over to hug him. “They said you were drowned!”

“Not quite,” said Jennings. “But I might as well have been. Can we come and sit down?”

Tags pulled up a couple more chairs and Grady and Jennings joined the table. Stella introduced them to everyone.

“You look kind of familiar,” said Grady as he shook Cronin's hand. “Have we met before?”

“I believe we have,” said Cronin. “April 2002. Afghanistan.”

“Fuck yeah!” said Grady. “What are you doing here? Are you really a priest?”

“It's a long story.”

“That can wait,” said Stella. “I want Tomm— I mean Jennings, to tell me what's going on.”

“Is it alright for me to talk?” said Jennings looking around the table.

“Yeah, it's fine,” said Stella. “Everybody's sound.”

Jennings gave a brief rundown of all that had happened since he'd last spoken to Stella. She listened intently, as did Tags, Cronin and Dino. Grady sat back and sipped at his Budweiser, sizing up the rest of the table to see if they could really be trusted. He quickly made his mind up that they were okay. They were his sort of people: a bit rough around the edges, but plain-spoken, frank, and artless.