Still Midnight (38 page)
FAU were around the back, their van hidden a street away, crouching, working out a path in.
“Think it was spite?” asked Harris.
She kept her eyes on the door. “What?”
“Going after Billal, because he’d hassled Lily? Think it was the Taits?”
“Nah.” She thought of the boy scowling at them from the armchair, of his thick brown hair and the perfect roundness of his chin, his fingers, his eyelashes. She imagined the softness of his cheek meeting her lips. “Lily’s father must be desperate to see the boy. He wouldn’t risk it. Might pass the intel on to someone else but he’d never risk that, I don’t think. His wife died…”
“How would he know about Billal having a VAT scam, though?”
“Suppose he’d keep his ear to the ground, wonder where the money for Lily was coming from, dig about.”
“Aye, dirt sees dirt, eh?”
Morrow smiled at that. “Yeah, dirt sees dirt right enough.”
The radio crackled to life. The FAU officer notified her that they were ready to go in around the back and Morrow and Harris looked at each other, excited as children.
They saw nothing. Watching the bland front of the garage they heard a crash, some shouting, another crash, someone shouting back, and then silence. A long silence. When the FAU officer came back on the radio he sounded out of breath and angry. “We’ve got three guys. No firearms. A room full of”—he broke off to ask someone what the room was full of, and then came back onto the radio—“broken-up cars. No papers to verify the ownership. Seems like… um… not, eh, legitimate.”
Morrow and Harris threw the car doors open and ran around to the back of the building. FAU had clipped a big hole through the chicken wire and battered the back door flat so it lay in the back entrance like a bridge. It led straight into the workshop.
It was so much colder inside that Morrow found herself shivering as she looked around at the engines and car doors stacked up against the wall. She was smiling as she looked up at the big FAUs in their protective gear and the three men they had nicked. Two wee guys and the big broad man in the Audi. The only one not wearing a cheap gaudy tracksuit. Danny McGrath looked at Morrow coldly, as if he’d never seen his sister in his life before.
She had skated straight into the path of the train.
The heavy metal doors opened with a clang and the passengers poured onto the car deck, snaking their way between the vans and cars lined up neatly in rows, facing the green ramp wall of the ferry. An overhead announcement ordered them in prissy Estuary English not to start their engines before the ferry docked and the ramp was lowered. And not to even think of lighting a cigarette on the car deck.
An unexceptional white-haired man in a navy golfing jersey, with a belly like a plain-clothed Santa, made his way past cars of families going or coming from holidays or visits to family, past vans heading for work in Glasgow or London, to a green Peugeot estate car. He unlocked it, climbed in, did his seat belt up, slid the keys in but did not turn them, and waited patiently, keeping his eyes down, remaining unremarkable. The ferrymen, in Day-Glo yellow jackets and big wellies, stood by the doors, staring at the passengers insolently, waiting.
The roar of the ferry engines suddenly changed gear, churning backwards, slowing the ferry’s approach to the pier and the boat lurched sideways, coming to a stop. The prow was lowered slowly in front of them, letting the bright harbor lights into the bowel of the ship.
The first row of cars fired up their engines and the ferrymen signaled to them to drive on, herding them over the ramp and into Scotland.
Even in his maddest dreams of blood-soaked glory Eddy had never imagined himself sitting in a car with an actual ex-paramilitary terrorist, cruising along the streets of Glasgow after a roast beef dinner at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Eddy was, in short, creaming it. He was trying to act cool but observe as much as he possibly could about the guy. He liked the calm manner, and the shoulder swagger when he walked. Liked the way the guy seemed to be watching all the time, never really making eye contact with him much but watching over his shoulder. And he loved that when they went to the Beefeater, after the man had piled a small plate with meat and gravy and a single potato, that he had chosen a seat in the corner, away from the door and windows. Careful. A pro.
Looking out of the passenger window of the Peugeot, Eddy reflected that this would have gone very differently if the Irishman had been there all along, that he must have been very high up when he was in the Provos because he had such natural authority, and that Eddy would have followed him into battle.
“There.” The white-haired man, who had asked Eddy just to call him T, pulled the car over to the pavement and nodded at a phone box in the street up ahead.
“But”—Eddy didn’t know whether to say it or not—“place is polluted with cameras.”
The man looked out through the windscreen at the gray box attached to a streetlight. “Not a problem,” he drawled in his throaty accent. “Ye know just to keep your cap on and chin down, don’t ye, boy?”
Eddy didn’t know that but noted it for future escapades. “Um, I haven’t got my cap with me, but—” T reached over the back of his chair into the footwell behind him and pulled out two identical England cricket team navy blue skip caps, handing one to Eddy.
Eddy chanced a little camaraderie, pointing at the logo. “I hope that’s a fucking joke,” he said.
“What do you think yourself, son?” He had a twinkle in his eye. Eddy was starting to think T liked him.
“T, man, what’s to stop them picking us up at the drop? What if they have phoned the polis?”
T smirked at him, keeping his mouth shut tight. “Done this a hundred times, son, don’t you worry about that.” He pulled his cap low over his face and Eddy copied him.
Caps donned, they exited the vehicle and walked over to the phone box in sharp formation. Both getting into the box was a squeeze, though, because the Irish was a bit fat around the middle and Eddy was none too slender himself. They managed to get the door almost shut behind them, though, blocking out the background sounds of traffic and high beep of the pedestrian crossing a hundred yards away.
The Irish had one latex glove on and picked up the receiver, holding it between his shoulder and chin as he pulled a pound coin out of his pocket and dropped it into the phone. “Right,” he said, “you dial, then, son.”
Eddy nodded, pulled out the Tesco’s receipt with the Anwars’ home number scribbled on it in pencil, and started to stab it into the keypad, using his knuckles in a manner he hoped looked professional and fingerprint savvy.
“You’ve got it written on a scrap of paper in your pocket? What if ye get picked up? That’s the case against ye right there.”
Eddy flinched. “Aye, but just, my mate was calling them and so I didn’t know it off by heart, and then, well.” He could see the dismay in the man’s face. “I’m going to… eat it after we call now.”
“Right?” T’s disappointment turned to surprise. “You’re going to eat a Tesco’s receipt?”
“To get rid, like.” Embarrassed at his gaffe, Eddy stabbed in the final numbers on the receipt and put it in his mouth, wishing it wasn’t such a long receipt because it tasted of ink and newspapers.
T watched him, curious and a little disgusted. “Ye should maybe have waited until we were sure it was the right number before ye—” His attention was suddenly drawn by someone on the other end. “Anwar?”
Eddy couldn’t hear the answer on the other end but the ambivalence was gone from T’s face. “I’ve a matter of business to discuss with you,” he said firmly, his brow coming down over his eyes.
Carefully, T reached over and opened the door to the phone box, gently but firmly shoving Eddy out into the street and closing the door behind him. Eddy stood there, chewing the paper dutifully as the rain flecked the lenses of his Reactolite glasses until he couldn’t see anymore.
Sadiqa, Omar, and Billal stared at the phone as it rang, jittery as flies. Apologetically Omar reached for the receiver. The voice on the other end claimed he had a matter of business to discuss. It was a different voice, Northern Irish, more nasal, deeper.
“Who is this?” asked Omar.
“The Boss. Who’s this?”
“Omar.”
“Anwar?”
“Anwar’s the family name, my first name’s Omar.”
“But that’s not what they call ye, is it?”
Omar sighed, saw Billal glaring at him, and shut his eyes so he didn’t have to look at him.
“You’ve a nickname, haven’t ye?” The man was smiling on the other end of the phone. Omar could hear the crocodile mouth, open wide, ready to snap him in half. “They call ye Bill, don’t they?”
“Bob.”
“Eh?”
“They call me Bob.”
“Nah.” He laughed humorlessly. “Nah, don’t try games wi’ me, son. Bill, they call ye.”
Omar opened his eyes. Billal had heard it too. He looked at Omar, looked at the phone.
“Well, Bill, we happen to know a wee bit about what you’re up to—”
Shocked, Billal crouched suddenly, punching at the tape recorder as if it was a spider on his dinner, switching it off.
“With the old VAT fraud and that, so you’d better cough up pronto or your wee daddy’s getting it, understand?”
Billal stayed where he was, crouched down in front of the telephone table, his head slumped forward.
“Where and when?”
“In an hour. Drop the bag on the A1 at the first emergency phone box past the services. Understand?”
“Yes. I can’t get what you asked for, I’ve got forty grand.”
“That’ll have to do.”
“Then will you release my dad?”
“Soon as they pick up he’ll be let go in the city with money for a taxi home. Clear?”
“First emergency phone box past the services. Got it.”
“And if it’s not a Paki driving that car I’ll know you’ve called the police. You know what’ll happen then, don’t ye?”
Omar could hardly speak, the threat and the racial slur together were too much.
“In fact,” said the voice, “in fact, can your mammy drive?”
“Uh, aye.”
“Send her with the bag. Send her alone.”
Omar managed three words. “In an hour.”
“In one hour.”
He was holding the receiver so tight to his ear that the hang-up click hurt his eardrum. Slowly, with shallow breath, Omar took the receiver away, raised it above his head, and clubbed Billal as hard as he could on the back of the head.
Harris looked up at the Anwars’ house. The low garden wall was still staved in but all the evidence cards and tape were gone from the garden and the bungalow looked as unremarkable as any of its neighbors.
“Wouldn’t look twice,” he said. “Much do you think he’s got stashed away?”
“Companies House has a trail of failed businesses going back eighteen months. VAT can pull in millions a month. Must have a storage somewhere.”
“And he’s living in one bedroom with his new missus?”
“He’ll be spending a fortune on Lady and Master Nutkins, though.”
“Much do ye reckon? Thousands a month?”
Morrow shrugged. “He’s still got boxes and boxes of cash somewhere.” She could see someone moving through the mottled glass on the Anwars’ front door, a mad lurch from one side of the hall to the other. She was imagining scenarios that would make sense of it: a leap for a phone, a jumping game among family members, someone falling forwards to catch a falling vase, when a giant body crashed into the glass pane, making it shudder outwards.
Harris and Morrow were out of the car and up the path, just as the body got up and fell away from the door. Harris tried the door, shouted, “Police! Police! Let us in!”
The door was flung open by Sadiqa. She gestured down the hall like a frightened magician’s assistant.
Omar was sitting on his brother’s chest, trying to club him with the weighted base of the phone. Billal was bloodied, held both arms over his face and cycled, jabbing his wee brother in the back with each of his knees alternately. Omar’s face didn’t register the blows to his kidneys. Omar didn’t even hear Harris coming across the hall towards him. Intent on what he was doing he brought the weighted receiver of the phone down and up, down and up, on his brother, an angry child breaking a toy he had come to hate.
Harris grabbed the phone from his hand, put a throttle hold on Omar, yanking him off his brother, pulling him to his feet.
Suddenly free, Billal looked up, his nose was a bloody mess, but he saw Morrow looking at him and waited a beat pause before he started shouting, “Oh God, my God!” He rolled away from her, his eyes still trained on her, willing her to come and look, make sure he was OK. That’s what made her look away.
Dead-eyed with shock, Meeshra was in the bedroom doorway, her hands out, holding either side of the doorjamb. Morrow took a step towards her and was surprised to see her jump a little. “Meeshra?” Behind her the baby gave a squeak but Meeshra’s eye didn’t waver. She wasn’t blocking the doorway to protect the baby. Meeshra was protecting something else.
Keeping eye contact, Morrow walked towards her, took the woman’s right hand from the frame and saw the horror on her face as she realized she’d given them away. Morrow walked over to the only piece of furniture in the room large enough. She allowed herself a lick of the lips, bent down and took the edge of the divan bed in both hands. The mattress slid to the ground on the far side and the wooden frame lifted easily. She held it over her head and looked down.
Shrink-wrapped blocks of pink and purple bank notes, solid as bricks, so many she had to estimate in feet: five feet by four feet, one yard high.
Aware of the hush in the hall she looked out. Beyond Meeshra, Sadiqa, Harris, and Omar saw the money and stopped, stunned, until Sadiqa fell forward from the waist, picked up the broken telephone receiver, and with remarkable grace for a woman of her size, smashed her eldest son in the bollocks with it.
Here was the nurse, back to ask him if he wanted to go down to the cafeteria for a cup of tea; she could change his auntie and have her nice and ready for the doctors’ round. He could come back then and speak to them.
