Mary's Prayer (17 page)

It was raining by the time Larkin and Andy reached their destination. Larkin had thought he would never see Grimley again
– yet here he was.

They found what they were looking for: an upstairs flat in a stone terraced street. The curtain of the downstairs bay window
twitched; Larkin didn’t even acknowledge it.

There was the dull sound of feet descending carpeted stairs; Larkin braced himself. The door opened.

‘Hello, Danny.’

Danny saw them both and froze. He assessed his chances and decided to make a run for it; but Andy was too quick for him, seizing
him round his legs in a flying rugby tackle, bringing him down on the wet tarmac, leaving Larkin to finish the job by walloping
him in the stomach with his size elevens.

‘Come on,’ said Larkin. ‘Inside.’

Andy hauled Danny’s defeated body to its feet and bundled him through the door. As they entered, Larkin allowed himself a
look at the twitching net curtain; telling the occupant, in no uncertain terms, not to interfere.

They marched Danny up the stairs, threw him into the living room. It was better furnished than the outside of the building
would have led them to suspect, but it still lagged some way behind the oppulence of a Columbian drug baron’s mansion.
EastEnders
was on the TV, Kath and Phil gorblimeying at each other; Larkin switched it off. Andy guarded the door. Larkin remained silent
until Danny’s terror had grown to sufficient proportions, then spoke.

‘Danny. Or do you prefer to be called Terry?’

A mumbled, inaudible response.

‘Pardon?’

‘Danny!’

‘That’s better! Now, we’ve met before, of course – remember?’

Larkin held up his right hand where the corroded, blood-soaked bandage had started to unravel.

No reply.

‘You were looking for Charles, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you had your very own key. Must have got the shock of your life when you saw me!’

He didn’t answer.

‘All right, Danny – talk. Tell me everything.’

‘Make me.’

Larkin gave a very unpleasant grin.

‘If you want me to.’

He went up to the bedroom. He’d had enough. The silence had eventually given way to shouting and he’d been too weak to reply.
Too weak. It was time he faced facts. It was time he stood up for himself, did something. Like a man should.

He closed the bedroom door behind him, leaving Carol sobbing inarticulately downstairs. She hated him now, he knew that. But
he had a plan that would make everything right again. She’d stop hating him. They could be a happy family, as he’d always
planned.

He opened the wardrobe door, looked in. It was so long since he’d used it; he hoped it would still work. He pulled out shoes
and clothes, uncovered the locked, stainless steel cupboard built into the back. He opened the door with a small key. There
it was – still looking good. He had wanted to use it to go hunting and fishing with Danny, like a father does with a son.
No chance of that now. He checked himself. He mustn’t say things like that! There
was
a chance, of course there was. That’s why he was doing this.

Yes, he thought, this would make them look at him with respect once more. This time tomorrow he would have his family back.
And he tucked the gun under his arm and left the room, making for the car outside.

* * *

Now, last time we met,’ said Larkin to Danny Torrington, ‘you had me at a disadvantage. Least I could do was return the favour.’

Danny was sitting in the very centre of his living room, tied to a straight-backed dining chair with whatever Larkin and Andy
had managed to lay their hands on: string, parcel tape, sellotape, electrical wire – even a length of clothes line. Danny
couldn’t move.

He had submitted willingly, as if to the inevitable; he hadn’t struggled at all while Larkin and Andy positioned him on the
chair. But his passivity extended to his mouth. Larkin knew that drastic action was called for.

‘Are you just going to sit there, Danny, and say nothing?’

Danny was silent.

‘OK, then, what we’ll do is call the police. I’ve got a friend on the force with a vested interest in all of this. He’ll make
you talk.’ Larkin stuck his face close to Danny’s. ‘They
love
to get a gay boy down in the cells.’

Danny flinched, but remained silent. Larkin stood up. ‘Still keeping mum? That’s a shame. A real shame. Because – as the saying
goes – we have ways of making you talk.’

He turned and left the room. Andy sat on the sofa, minding the immobile Danny. He picked up a newspaper that had been left
on the arm of the sofa and started to read.

From the kitchen there was a clatter of cupboards being ransacked, drawers being rummaged through. Eventually Larkin returned
to the living room clutching a can of lighter fluid, a box of matches and a couple of firelighters. Andy looked up, and did
a double take.

‘What the
fuck
are you doing?’ he said.

‘This little bastard’s going to talk. One way or the other.’ Larkin plucked the newspaper from Andy’s hand. ‘Very thoughtful,’
he said, and began to wad the sheets up into balls and place them at Danny’s feet.

‘Stevie, stop it,’ said Andy, a note of panic creeping into his voice.

Larkin didn’t answer. He placed the firelighters on the newspaper and opened the can of lighter fluid; Danny began to look
seriously scared.

‘This ain’t funny anymore,’ said Andy.

‘It never was funny,’ said Larkin, and poured the lighter fluid over Danny’s feet. Using the remainder, he made a trail across
the carpet to the door.

‘Right,’ said Larkin, taking a match from the box, ‘let’s find out if we understand each other.’ Danny began to pull, feebly,
at his restraints.

‘Tell me what I want to know, Danny – and you walk. No police. It’s as simple as that. But fuck me about—’ – he waved the
match – ‘and up you go. What d’you say?’

Danny stared at the match. ‘You wouldn’t,’ he said in a cracked voice.

‘Don’t be silly, Danny. If I were you, I’d assume that I would.’ Larkin held the match to the box. ‘Well?’

Silence. No one dared to move. Eventually Danny spoke. ‘All right – what d’you want to know?’

‘That’s better,’ said Larkin; Andy looked distinctly relieved. ‘Let’s start with why you came to Charlotte’s house before
sunrise?’

‘I was looking for Charles,’ Danny mumbled. ‘He’d been staying here, with me. He got a phone call in the middle of the night,
said he had to go out for a while. When he didn’t come back, I got worried.’

‘And you were sleeping with him?’

Fire came into Danny’s eyes. ‘I
love
him! And now he’s gone, and I don’t know where.’

‘OK,’ said Larkin, ‘We’ll leave that aside for the moment. So how d’you know Edgell?’

‘He was Auntie Mary’s boyfriend. Charles knew what Wayne did for a living and he wanted a piece of it. He told Wayne he could
introduce him to a lot of people.’

Larkin moved closer to Danny. ‘So what’s Mary’s part in all this?’

Danny looked at the floor again. ‘She was unlucky. The lot up here got wind that we were moving in. They
sent Fenwick to spy on Wayne. He went to Mary’s house. I don’t know what happened in there—’

‘But Fenwick killed Mary with a shotgun.’

Danny nodded, sadly.

‘And then he went after Edgell, found him in Grimley, in that tacky nightclub, and killed him.’

Danny nodded again.

Larkin breathed out. ‘OK, Danny – one more thing and you can go. This shipment today – when and where?’

And Danny told him.

Andy went to get a kitchen knife; Larkin looked round, half-appalled, at the mess he had made of the flat. The relief he felt
at getting the truth was almost post-orgasmic.

‘So where are you going to go?’ asked Larkin.

Danny raised his head. No longer the flash young man he had first appeared to be, he looked disappointed, defeated. Like the
pathetic failure he was. ‘As far away from cunts like you as possible,’ he spat defiantly. Larkin almost felt sorry for him.

Andy came back, loosened one of Danny’s arms and passed him the knife. They left him there, sawing at his bonds, trying desperately
to make himself free.

Larkin held the crumpled card in the fingertips of his right hand and the receiver in his left. The phone box could only take
one person, so Andy was in the car. Larkin stared, transfixed, at his own reflection; the rain bleaching down the side of
the glass had distorted it beyond all recognition. He didn’t know himself any more.

The phone was answered: a bleary, Scottish voice.

‘Hello, Inspector Moir.’

‘Who’s this?’ He sounded like a bear interrupted during hibernation.

‘It’s Larkin.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In a phone box in Gateshead.’

‘What the fuck are you doing there? I thought you couldn’t bloody move!’

‘The miracle of modern pharmaceuticals. I’ve been out, earning my background information for the feature of my career. You
want to know what I’ve discovered?’

Moir grunted.

‘I’ll take that for a yes. Actually, you gave me the clue yourself. You said Terry looked like Mary’s son. Once that fell
into place, the rest was easy.’ Larkin told Moir everything that Danny had told him, barring the time and place of the drug
pick-up; he was keeping that for later. Moir listened in silence as Larkin finished his story. When Larkin stopped speaking
he grunted again.

‘Where’s this Danny now?’

‘Dunno.’ Larkin didn’t want to admit to Moir that he had let him go. But Moir said, ‘Fuck him, anyway. He’s not important.’

Larkin tried to change the subject, just in case. ‘What about Fenwick?’

‘Bit of a mad bastard, all right,’ said Moir. ‘Eager to make a name for himself in the hard-man stakes. And what a cock-up
he made. All he was supposed to do was ask a few questions. I doubt he meant to kill her.’

Larkin stopped. ‘You
knew
?’

Moir made a noise, a cross between a gloating chuckle and a smoker’s death rattle. ‘Of course we fucking knew! How many women
commit suicide with a shotgun? Statistically, none.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Need-to-know. It’s an ongoing police investgation. We were happy to let the suicide story go round – we’re after bigger fish
here. You’d have been told eventually.’

Larkin tried to regain some ground. ‘Fenwick
was
killed in prison because he was going to turn Queen’s Evidence?’

‘Sort of,’ said Moir. ‘He thought he’d be rewarded for what he’d done. For killing Edgell. Trouble was, he made such a balls-up
of what should have been a simple job that they cut him adrift. He was a bit of a loose cannon
as far as they were concerned. Best get him out of the way.’

‘OK,’ said Larkin. ‘You think you hold all the cards, and it must be great fun to ask me to risk my neck and not let me have
the full story – but two can play at that game.’

Moir snorted. ‘Oh really?’

‘You see, I know where and when the next shipment arrives. And I’m not going to tell you unless Andy comes along and we get
an exclusive on it. What d’you say, Henry?’

The rain was hitting hard now, roaring as the wind carried it, bouncing up into little crowns as it hit the ground. Moir was
at the wheel of the car, Larkin beside him. In the back seat sat Andy, weighted down by cameras and attendant paraphernalia,
which he nervously checked every few minutes. They had been in the car for the best part of an hour and beyond the merest
civilities, it had been spent in silence. The air was thick with testosterone, tension and sweat.

Larkin had been told that the lorry would pull into Grimley motorway services at ten-thirty, in order to unload into the feeder
van. It was now quarter to eleven and there was no sign of either vehicle. Larkin groaned quietly. He had topped up his artificial
life-support until he was at screaming point; but from now on, he would have to use it carefully. There was only a little
left, and coming down off each new jag was more painful than the last. The pay-off would come soon, though – he could feel
it. Then all he’d have to cope with was coming down for good.

Through the rain he could just make out the lights of the cafe over the bridge, hear the mechanical drawl of the passing cars.
They waited. At five to eleven an articulated lorry pulled into the parking area and stopped dead. Moir, Larkin and Andy hardly
dared breathe as the radio crackled into static life. Moir acknowledged the distorted voice, told it to wait for the
signal. They watched as the driver stepped down from the cab and walked over the bridge to the cafe. He didn’t look back.

‘That him?’ asked Andy.

‘Could be,’ said Moir. ‘We’ll know for sure in a minute.’ His face was granite-set.

They sat there like rabbits in the headlights. A minute or so later, a transit van pulled off the motorway and parked next
to the lorry. They couldn’t see the driver’s side from where they were parked, but they heard the door slam. The radio crackled
again; Moir responded. The second van driver had followed the first into the cafe.

There was silence in the car once more. A Ford Scorpio pulled up, a fair distance away from the two vans; the driver turned
off his lights, but didn’t get out. Probably a tired exec having a rest, Larkin surmised. He turned his attention back to
the vans.

Then the static hissed out again. ‘Right,’ Moir said, excited. ‘The second driver’s swiped the keys from the first one’s table.
Classic switch. Here he comes now!’

The transit driver made his way to the back of the artic, started to open the doors. Larkin’s heart did a double take.

‘I know him!’

‘What?’ said Moir.

‘Batman. One of Cain’s buddies.’

Moir picked up the radio. ‘Trap leader to all greyhounds. The deal is on. I repeat, the deal is going down now. Wait for my
word, then go.’

They watched as Batman opened the big double doors of the artic. Robin emerged from the back of the transit; another man,
who could have been their clone, joined them. They began transferring boxes from the lorry to the transit.

Moir bellowed into the radio. ‘Go! Go! Now! Get the fuckers!’

Suddenly the black, deserted car park sprang to life. Bushes, fences and walls spewed forth men. Moir was
out of the car like an overweight whippet, followed by Larkin, and Andy, snapping away. Batman, Robin and their pal had time
only to turn round and catch the merest glimpse of the police jumping them. Robin, nearest the van, tried to make a run for
it; he was brought down by two cops who lost no time in educating him on the finer points of arrest procedure. It was the
only time that Larkin had been glad to see evidence of police brutality. He hoped Robin wasn’t enjoying it too much.

The three were quickly overpowered. Larkin, since he could do nothing but observe, did a bit of observation and went over
to the lorry. It was piled high with boxes; ripping the nearest one open, he discovered hundreds of shrink-wrapped Game Boys,
all stamped MADE IN TAIWAN. He tore off the polythene on one of them, prised the casing apart. Inside the game was hollow,
but not empty. It contained a small bag of white powder. Made in Taiwan, with coke from Columbia, and heroin from Turkey:
a truly international set-up.

The three pushers were being bundled into the back of a police van; Larkin felt a high that wasn’t chemical at the sight.
He walked back to the car. As he approached, he noticed that the quietly parked Scorpio was revving up, ready to leave. Larkin
stared at the driver. Cain.

Without stopping to think, Larkin jumped behind the wheel of Moir’s Rover, found the keys, started it up. He briefly caught
sight of Moir, swearing and shouting, as he sped out of the service station. Heading north. After Cain.

Once on the road it was clear that Cain didn’t have any idea where he was going, driving only to escape. Larkin clung to him
with terrier-like tenacity, matching Cain’s every move, windsceen wipers working furiously, keeping the Scorpio in his sights.
He quickly realised that Cain was heading for the minor roads in the hope of losing him; he couldn’t have bargained on Larkin’s
local knowledge.

They went round a roundabout, up a steep bank, to Wrekenton, another ex-pit village. Past rows of stone houses, past a preserved
mine-working and coal railway. Larkin dogged the Scorpio’s tracks until the road dead-ended into a cinderpath bridleway, and
he found the car abandoned, the door swinging open, the motor chugging.

Larkin stopped the Rover and got out. He crossed to the Scorpio, hoping for a clue to the direction Cain had taken. The cindertrack
bisected the overgrown remains of the railway line; it was a straight line down, exposed. No sign of Cain. Ahead were fields:
again, no sign. Up the track to the right was a breaker’s yard, the rusting skeletons of dead cars piled up high, forming
a jagged skyline visible even in the dark. It seemed the likeliest possibility. Larkin snatched the keys from the Rover and
followed.

The yard had a padlocked gate and a chainlink fence, but there were no signs warning of guard dogs so Larkin thought it would
be safe to enter. After all, what could be worse than the psychotic hiding inside? He pulled himself over the high fence,
and fell hard to the ground on the other side; fortunately chemicals blunted the pain of the fall.

He moved cautiously, eyes darting left and right, ears listening for the slightest noise. All he heard was the wind whistling
through the bones of cars, like old ghosts: towering piles of rust, waiting for a strong breeze to topple them. The place
had been abandoned to decay.

Larkin tried to move as silently as he could, knowing Cain would be doing the same. He knew he was a sitting target. A noise
of creaking and rending startled him; he turned round and saw a precariously balanced pile of cars rocking violently backwards
and forwards, about to shed its top load. About to bury him. He froze for a few seconds, paralysed by the image of the avalanche
of twisted metal; then he came to his senses and looked for somewhere to shelter. There was a gap between two stacks directly
in front of him; he squeezed himself
between them as the cars hit the ground in a wet cloud of rust flakes, missing him by inches.

He crawled out, sweating. He followed the course of the gap until he came out on the other side of the stack. No Cain. With
his heart still racing and his breathing in overdrive, he planned his next move. His inner voice screamed at him to get out
of there, leave it to the police. But another voice was telling him to stay and fight. The scrapyard was an arena – and Cain
was another fear to conquer.

He needed a vantage point; but climbing would leave him vulnerable, so he would have to be careful. Getting a toe-hold on
the nearest car, he hauled himself up. Halfway he looked at his hands, studded with rust, wet with rain and blood. The climb
was more arduous than he had expected. There was no shortage of protrusions for him to grab on to, but they were so old they
had a tendency to flake away in his hands. He clung on though and eventually he reached the summit.

After he’d got his breath back he looked around rapidly. Nothing. He looked harder. There! On the perimeter, trying to scale
the chainlink fence. Larkin knew he’d have to move quickly. There was only one way – over the roofs of the cars, jumping from
stack to stack, hoping his foot wouldn’t cave in on a pile of rust. Forsaking stealth for speed, he took a deep breath and
jumped.

It was easier than he thought. He leapt from car to car, arriving on the final one, appropriately an Avenger, just in time
to see Cain reach the top of the fence. Cain saw Larkin and started a desperate scramble; but Larkin was right behind him.
There was a few feet between them, but Larkin had height on his side. He stood on the crumbling roof of the Avenger and savoured
the moment.

‘Hello, Cain,’ said Larkin, his iceman cool giving way to lava behind his eyes. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

As Cain turned his head, Larkin swung a kick at his face. The blow sent Cain’s head snapping back, but didn’t
loosen him from the fence. Blood seeped from his nose; he shook his head to clear it, and went on climbing. Larkin swung his
foot again, connecting this time with the side of Cain’s head. Cain’s grip almost gave way, but he recovered sufficiently
to get his arm over the fence. Larkin chose his moment carefully. Ripping free a bumper that was loosly attached to the rusting
Avenger, he raised it up and brought it down onto Cain’s arm. Cain screamed. He let go, flailing, wildly grabbing for the
Avenger, losing the top layer of skin from his hand in the process. Somehow, he was still clinging on. Larkin felt the car
shake, as if it were about to fall; he figured that his body-weight might be the only thing stopping it. He jumped onto the
car behind, an old Zephyr; as he hit the roof, the impact of his jump caused the Avenger to dislodge. And, with rusted metal
grinding in the rain, the car began to topple.

Larkin could only watch helplessly as the car, with the battered, rain-lashed body of Cain clinging to it, gave way and fell
with an almighty, industrial groan.

For a few seconds all was silence, broken only by the ghostly wind and the insistent rain. Larkin slowly descended. He looked
down at the tangle of metal.

Cain, in falling, had tried to throw his body away from the vehicle. As a result he had hit the hard-packed earth with a thud,
twisting his arm under him. Larkin found him lying motionless, legs pinned down by the Avenger’s empty bonnet.

Larkin crossed to the prone body of his victim, the corroded bumper still in his hand, consumed by rage, by a burning need
for revenge. A momentary wave of panic passed through him; could he really allow himself to be responsible for another human
being’s death? Would he find out what he needed to know? As he stood there, Cain slowly regained consciousness, whimpering.
His face and head were bloody from Larkin’s kicks; his cheeks were cut and pockmarked from the gravel.

‘Help me,’ Cain cried. ‘I’m hurting.’

Larkin was thrown. He’d been expecting some big
showdown, man against man, but he wasn’t prepared for this. Cain spoke again, his face contorted with terror.

‘Please! Please help me. I’m hurt.
Please
.’ He sounded like a wounded animal.

‘Can’t take the pain, eh?’ said Larkin. Now that he knew Cain was alive he felt his anger returning.

‘Just help me. I promise not to hurt you ever again. I promise. Just help me.’ He looked down at his body for the first time.
‘My legs! My legs …’

Larkin was relentless. ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it? The damage is done. It’s only right that you should get what you deserve.’
He moved in closer.

The pathetic wreck on the ground started howling, bestially rolling his upper torso backwards and forwards.

‘No! No,
please
…’ Then he saw Larkin’s eyes. He looked into them. And the howling started again.

Larkin stopped dead. He had wanted to hit him, cause him terrible pain, beat him to death if need be, pay him back – but the
desperate pleading of the broken man touched him. Besides, he didn’t want to think how Cain thought, do the things Cain might
have done.

He bent down. With a pitiful shriek, Cain wriggled painfully away, sobbing, eyeing Larkin with mistrust.

‘Come on, I’m going to help you. Come on,’ he coaxed.

Cain stared at him suspiciously; he looked like a rat in a hole.

‘Look, I won’t hurt you. I’ll
help
you. Yeah?’

Cain didn’t react.

‘OK?’ Larkin put on what he hoped was, under the circumstances, his most winning smile.

Cain stared at him, his eyes wide, childlike. ‘OK.’

‘That’s better! Now, you help me by telling me what I want to know, and I’ll …’ He paused. ‘I’ll help you out of there, yeah?’

Cain nodded his head.

Larkin looked down at the twisted wreck of the psychopath. Cain looked beyond saving. When he spoke,
he kept his voice light. ‘Good. All right, then – you tell me this …’