Little Triggers (24 page)

He rang Jane’s front-door bell. After a long pause a small voice hesitantly inquired, “Who is it?”

Odd he thought. Fear of unexpected callers wasn’t Jane’s style. “It’s me – Stephen. Can I come in?”

The door was pulled open, but only as far as the chain would allow. A pair of weary, red-rimmed eyes looked out, confirmed it was him, and opened the door just long enough for him to squeeze past. Then the door was slammed shut, chained and locked.

Larkin looked at Jane. She was holding a viciously sharp kitchen knife in both hands and she was quaking with mortal terror.

“What’s up?” asked Larkin, his arms going out to her, wanting to hold her close, reassure her.

She fell against him, her body collapsing into wracking sobs.

“What’s happened?” Larkin knew there was nothing he could
do until her tears subsided. He’d wait for her to talk in her own time. Meanwhile, all he could do was, literally, provide a shoulder to cry on.

Gradually, her sobs quietened. Larkin steered her to the sofa and they sat down. Jane looked lost, bewildered, like a frightened child. He found a paper tissue in his pocket and handed it to her; she wiped her face and eyes and then blew her nose. When she looked up again, the anguish on her face was horrible to see.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Larkin said, as gently as he could.

She took a deep breath. “I guh-guh-got a call. At work. Said … if you don’t stop what you’re doin’, then …” She broke off as the tears returned.

“So what are you doing?” Larkin said, confused.

“Not
me
!
You
!”

Larkin was stunned. “
Me
? What?”

“If you don’t stop what you’re doin’, then they’ll huh-hurt Alison!” Her eyes were wide, frantic with fear.

Larkin was still uncomprehending. “Who said this? Who was it?”

“Dunno … just a phone call. What’s happenin’?” She grabbed hold of him, her fingers gripping his arm painfully. “I thought it was all over. What’s goin’ on?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “Noble’s dead – you know that. And, yes, he was a paedophile – but no, I don’t think he murdered Jason Winship. I’m pretty sure I know who did, though. I’m going to confront him tonight, and he’s not going to get away with it.”

“But you
can’t
go! You can’t! Think of Alison!”

“Where is she?” asked Larkin.

“In her room – and that’s where she’s stayin’.” Jane was back in control now, her voice curt. She straightened up. “You’re not goin’?” It was more a statement than a question.

“Don’t worry,” said Larkin, taking her hands in his. “That phone call was just a bluff. And a pretty desperate one at that. The guy knows I’m on to him, and he’s trying to scare me off – that’s all. Look, if you’re really worried, I’ll get someone round. Moir, or another policeman. You’ll be protected.”

She pulled her hands away. “You’re actually goin’?” she said, her voice full of disbelief.

“I’ve got no choice,” replied Larkin, as calmly as he could.
“Don’t worry,” he said again “It’s probably just a bluff, as I said. He knows he’s being watched.”

Jane stood up. “Probably?” she shouted, her anger rising, “probably? What if it isn’t? So what if you go tonight and nothin’ happens? There’s tomorrow, then the next day, then the day after that. Do me and Alison have to live our lives wonderin’ if today’s the day we’re gonna get that knock on the door? Eh?”

“It won’t be like that!” Larkin was exasperated. “Look, I know how you must feel — ”

“No you don’t! You haven’t a fuckin’ clue!” She paced furiously to the far end of the room, turning back to Larkin like she wanted to hit him. “Why do you have to go and play the hero? And drag everyone else down with you?”

Larkin couldn’t answer that. “I don’t know,” he said, quietly. “I just have to. I have to know.”

Jane’s voice dropped ominously. She walked back, stood directly over him. “Well, you go and find out. On your own. Walk out that door, and that’s it. I never wanna see you again. I never want you where you can harm me or my family.”

He looked up. He could do it, he thought. He could stay here, try to forget his curiosity, erase that part of himself. Give in. Be happy. But … Her eyes were boring directly into his, demanding an answer. “I’m sorry …” he said. “I’ve — ”

“Get out,” she said, her voice low, deadly.

“Will you be OK?” he asked feebly.

“Fuck d’you care?” she spat back, then turned away.

Larkin was desperately searching for something to say, some magic combination of words that would put everything right between them. But he knew he would never find them.

He walked to the door, unfastened it, stepped out, and closed it silently. He stood on the balcony, looking down. In the quadrant below, some feral-looking kids were using a burnt-out transit van and an old sofa as an adventure playground. As he absently watched them whoop and shout surrounded by dogshit and toxic garbage, he could feel the weight of his heart in his chest: as heavy as a brick. He turned and walked towards the stairs, past Jane’s window, hearing the wrenching sobs coming from within, the sound of her heart breaking.

Milburn’s. The name meant many things. Named after the late Jackie Milburn – arguably the greatest footballer Newcastle United has ever seen – the bar’s title gave it both an air of nostalgia and a sense of history that was totally at odds with its stark modernity. Naming it after a footballer had also given an added boost, capturing an immediate sense of new-lad faddishness. From that point of view Milburn’s was the perfect name: the bar couldn’t be called MacDonald’s for obvious reasons, it couldn’t be called Davies’s because no one remembered him – and it couldn’t be called Mirandinha’s because no one could spell it. So – Milburn’s.

It was situated on the quayside; a watering hole for those who desperately wanted to associate themselves with the Rebirth Of The Region gentrification process. What you drank and ate there were considered to be bold statements about who you were and only marginally less important than how you looked. The crowd were young and so self-consciously hip that an original idea would have been more out of place than a Jehovah’s Witness at a Satanist orgy.

As Larkin entered the ultra-modern, minimalist surroundings he immediately felt dozens of eyes giving him a less than surreptitious once over. Clearly they approved of his new suit because the bright young things quickly went back to their conversations; regurgitating film reviews and magazine articles, telling anecdotes that made them look good, greeting each quip with avalanches of false laughter.

Larkin moved to the bar and ordered a pint. His head was whirling with mixed emotions. The scene with Jane had been shocking, agonising even, and yet he understood her point of view totally. He didn’t doubt the fact that she never wanted to see him again; in
all honesty he couldn’t blame her. During the drive to Milburn’s he had played the scene over and over in his head, each time saying what she wanted to hear. He’d drop it. Give it all up. Stay with her. But he knew, in reality, that was never an option. “Why do you have to go and play the hero?” she had asked him. And he didn’t know. There were some things he couldn’t explain, and some that he didn’t want to explain. Especially not to himself.

He sipped his pint, scoping the bar, looking for Swanson. That was it – that was the answer. He wanted Swanson to be guilty –
needed
him to be – because then Larkin’s prejudices would be confirmed. His hatred and mistrust of the Establishment, of people in power, and the subsequent actions he had taken against some of them, would be vindicated. There was a confession to be had tonight, Larkin thought; an admission of guilt. Swanson was ready to crack. And Larkin would be the one wielding the hammer.

As he downed his pint he noticed a man coming towards him. He wore an expensively tailored suit, had fine features and a smile with as much depth as a Steven Seagal movie. If it wasn’t for the rippling muscles under his clothes, he could almost have been mistaken for a politician.

“Stephen Larkin?” the man asked in a tone of studied unctuousness.

“That’s right.”

“Follow me, please.” He turned and graciously beckoned to Larkin, who grabbed his glass and went after him.

The man walked round to the side of the bar and up a stainless-steel spiral staircase. A sign at the top read CLOSED – PRIVATE PARTY. The man ignored it and walked straight past; Larkin did the same.

The top floor of the bar had a spectacular view the length of the Tyne. It was furnished by the same uncomfortably minimalist chairs and tables, all unoccupied bar one. Bang in the middle of the room sat Swanson, immaculately dressed, one leg casually crossed over the other, glass of orange juice on the table in front of him. In the muted light of the bar he was elegance itself, as if the only confession he was prepared to make was to being a subscriber to
GQ.
Behind him stood another employee from Urbane Goons R Us.

Swanson unfolded himself and stood up. “Mr Larkin,” he said, giving a dazzling display of dentistry, “good to see you again.” He stretched out his hand; Larkin took it and shook, firmly.

“And you,” Larkin said, returning the smile, but not matching the dental work.

They sat down at opposite sides of the table. Swanson motioned to his two sidekicks. “Brett, Jonathan, take the rest of the night off. Mr Larkin and I have things to discuss.”

The two bodyguards flashed concerned looks at each other. This obviously wasn’t in the script.

“But Mr Swanson,” Brett (or Jonathan) said, “can I remind you that our function is to remain here with you? Thus ensuring that dealings between yourself and Mr Larkin remain—” he looked knowingly at the two men in turn – “on message.”

Despite the situation, Larkin had to stifle a laugh. On message? Minders that double as spin doctors, he thought – the ultimate New Labour accessory.

Swanson caught Larkin’s eye, looked slightly embarrassed. “Don’t worry, Jonathan.” He patted his right hip. “I’ve got my pager, should Millbank desperately need me.”

Clearly unhappy but disempowered, the two musclebound Mandys made a disgruntled exit.

Larkin and Swanson sat in silence while they clattered down the stairs, sipping their drinks. When they were sure they were alone, Swanson spoke. “I imagine you’ve been looking for me.”

“You could say that,” Larkin replied.

Swanson allowed a small smile to play at the corners of his lips. “And what is this in connection with?”

Larkin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let’s not waste time. You know why I’m here.”

“I do,” said Swanson. “And I suppose the sooner we discuss it – and I apologise for using you – the better.”

Larkin did a mental double-take. “Sorry?
Using
me?”

“Your activities with Mr Houchen.” He shook his head sadly. “Very regrettable. Tragic. But at least you’re still here. Where there’s life and all that, eh?”

“Never mind that,” said Larkin, struggling to clarify his thoughts, “what about Jason Winship? And the part you played in his death? Where there’s life, eh?”

Swanson looked genuinely confused. “Jason Winship? My part? What am I supposed to have done?”

“Don’t play the innocent with me. You know fine well what you did. You murdered him.”

The shock and horror on Swanson’s face seemed genuine. “
Me
? Is that what you think? That I killed him? Good God. I can assure you that – you are very much mistaken. But I know who did kill him. I thought that’s what this meeting was for.”

It was Larkin’s turn to look confused. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Swanson gave an exasperated little sigh. “I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Perhaps I should explain.” He sat back in his state-of-the-art chair. “It’s a long story, so forgive me if this is taking up too much of your time—”

“I’ve got all night.”

“Well. It begins with two brothers …”

And Swanson told Larkin the story of a family that appeared outwardly normal: a family that in fact was as dysfunctional as they come. The story of an unloving, absentee father, an alcoholic, sadistic mother: of her two sons, forced to perform unspeakable acts for her amusement. The story of how the shared nightmares of childhood had forced a bond between the two children – a bond that he had come to regret. Swanson’s eyes were cold during the telling.

After their parents’ deaths, the two boys had been split up and placed with adoptive families.

“I was lucky,” Swanson said. “I was adopted by people who showed me just how solid, supportive and loving a family can be when it’s working properly.” He exhaled heavily. “My brother wasn’t so lucky. For him the hell continued. Where he went … let’s just say, he experienced things that no one should have to endure, let alone a child. By the time he was old enough to fight back, the damage was done.

“Fast forward a few years,” Swanson continued. Larkin sat back and crossed his legs. He sensed that, in his head, Swanson had been rehearsing this speech for a long time. “I decide I want to help people.
Really
help people.” He stood up, getting into his stride. “Of course, virtually everyone goes through a naive, saving-the-world phase, but I always knew mine was – more deeply felt. More strongly motivated.”

“Fascinating though this is,” said Larkin, “I’ve heard it all before. I covered your electoral campaign.”

“Then you’ll already know I mean what I say,” Swanson snapped, back in politician mode. “Anyway,” he crossed to the window, regained his grandiose sense of resolve, “I felt – fortunate.
My adoptive family saved me. Really saved my life. I wanted to give something back. Not just to them but to others less fortunate. So after college I decided to go into politics. Not the most obvious choice, I admit, but I wanted to work on the broadest canvas possible.

“And here I am. Swept in on the whim of a generous electorate, actually able to implement my grand scheme.” He gestured out of the window, eyes shining. “The Rebirth Of The Region!” He paused, perhaps waiting for applause.

“Forgive me for saying so, but a few wine bars for the likes of that lot downstairs, some office blocks and car parks aren’t exactly going to improve the quality of life for single mothers in Scotswood.”