The Dying Hours (25 page)

Mercer walks by the river; taking his time and staying as close as he can to the water, from Rotherhithe on the south side towards Greenwich. He thought about doing this a lot when he was inside. Not that he’s ever been one for ‘views’, as such. The countryside, sunsets, all that picture postcard nonsense. You look at something, you think: Yeah that’s nice, whatever, and you move on. He’s never seen the point in hanging around. It’s the same as looking at paintings. Is it good or is it rubbish? Who wants to stare at anything for ten minutes?

He’s always loved the river though, loved the movement of it. Not so much the flow, but the whole tidal thing. The way it rises and falls like it’s breathing. The dangerous bits, the way you never quite know where you are with it. Funny that they call it Father Thames, because to him it’s always seemed moody, like a woman.

Moody, like
she
was.

He turns off Creek Road then cuts down along the edge of Dreadnought Wharf to the riverbank and thinks, that’s not strictly fair. He didn’t have to like what his wife had done, but once he’d understood why she’d done it, he’d been able to live with it for the most part. There’d been a moment with Barry too, right at the end. When the begging had started and he’d
almost
been able to see why. He’d always thought there had to have been a good reason for his brother to have done what he did, because he must have known what it would mean. Years spent hiding away like an insect in some shithole, lying every minute of the day and pretending to be somebody you’re not, so that even your own kids don’t know.

I did it for you, Barry had said; crying like a girl and clawing at the washing line round his neck. Something like that, anyway. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Taking you out of harm’s way? Protecting you from yourself?

He’s known for a long time that people need to take care of themselves and now that’s exactly what he’s going to do. That’s his new project. As soon as the job was done and that last name was crossed off the list, he knew straight away that would be the way to go.

There had to be
something
, after all.

It was like these idiots who make a bundle and retire too early with sod all to do. Rattling around in big houses. Pots of cash and wives with tit-jobs, but going mental, with nothing to get out of bed for.

He can’t just walk away. Fade away…

So, now it’s all about doing whatever it takes to stay safe, for however long he’s got left. Might be twenty years, might be hit by a bus tomorrow, but there’s no way on God’s green earth he’s going back inside. He knows that much.

He comes to the glazed dome which is the entrance to the Greenwich foot tunnel and walks through. Five minutes across to the Isle of Dogs. It’s cool inside; exciting too, knowing that all the weight of that moody old river is right above your head. He watches a woman and two kids coming towards him, the children whooping and shouting, enjoying the echoes. He supposes that some people would find it spooky down here; the dim, amber light and the way the sound bounces off the tiles. Mercer can’t understand it. He has dreamed the Dead Man’s Walk and has spent far too long hearing the echoes of heavy doors slamming shut and keys turning in locks. Still, he smiles at the woman and her wide-eyed children as they pass.

On the other side of the river he turns east, walks past Island Gardens then stops when he sees the tower of Christ Church. His knees are hurting, so he sits on a bench to take a breather and thinks about going inside. He wonders if there’s a vicar or someone in there he can have a chat with. They can’t say anything anyway, can they? Can’t pass on anything they hear. Not that he’s planning to walk in there and confess, nothing like that, but it would be nice to just sit and have a natter.

It was always useful to talk to someone who was actually in the game. Ask them what they thought came after. He’s heard that these days there are priests who don’t even believe in God, but surely they must all have
some
idea of what’s going on.

He’d talked to the chaplains at Gartree a fair bit. There was always a cup of tea in there and a hand on your shoulder, and it was certainly nicer talking to them than the psychologists, because all they ever wanted to hear was how sorry you were. He told them he was of course, told them loads of times, because he isn’t stupid. He knew they were the ones the parole board listened to. It wasn’t hard, because he
was
sorry, even if it wasn’t necessarily about the right things.

Sorry I got caught
.

Sorry I’ve spent thirty years locked up
.

Sorry I don’t know what my kids look like
.

He sits and rubs his aching knees. There’s a pub opposite and the church is behind him and he tries to make his mind up.

What he would like to do is talk to someone about the Bible and ask why the God in the new bit is so different to the original one. Later on, it’s all forgiveness and cheek-turning, but the first one’s always coming down on people like a ton of bricks and getting his afters on anyone he thinks isn’t toeing the line.

Mercer knows which one he prefers.

That first God – the
angry
God – has no problem at all getting rid of his enemies.

‘It’s not broken,’ Hendricks said.

‘Something, I suppose.’

‘Obviously must have been a bit of a pussy-arsed punch.’ Hendricks squeezed Thorne’s hand once more before releasing it and laughed at the yelp of pain from across the table. ‘How’s things with Helen?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Just saying, because if you’re not getting any action from her, you won’t be able to rely on that hand for a while.’

Thorne smiled, rubbing his knuckles. ‘A man’s best friend.’

‘Mrs Fist and her five lovely daughters.’

‘Daughters? You?’

‘OK, sons in my case. Actually, I’ve always thought of them as the five members of Take That.’

‘Which one’s Robbie?’

Hendricks stuck his middle finger up. ‘That one…’

The staff at the Bengal Lancer on Kentish Town Road knew Thorne and Hendricks well and, as usual, had brought them over a plate of complimentary poppadums to go with the pints of Kingfisher while they were waiting for their food to be cooked. Hendricks applied a delicate karate chop to the pile and they got stuck in.

‘I presume your day got better,’ Hendricks said, ‘after I pissed on everyone’s strawberries.’

Thorne grunted. ‘Yeah, well finding out our killer wasn’t quite as dead as we’d thought didn’t exactly go down a storm.’ He smeared lime pickle across a fragment of poppadum. ‘Dave and Yvonne were out of the car and on their way back to work pretty sharpish, before I could think of anything I might want them to do.’

‘Can you?’

‘Like Dave said, MIT would have to be pretty stupid not to work it out for themselves now. How long it takes, that’s another matter.’

‘Mercer didn’t really think he was going to get away with it,’ Hendricks said. ‘Did he? I mean even if the time of death thing hadn’t been obvious they’d have run tests, whatever. Jeffers’ family would have reported him missing at some point.’

Jeffers’ family. Their pictures somewhere among the stack of photographs in that battered green folder. The last faces Jeffers would have seen; the faces he would have focused on as he sealed himself up inside that car and started the engine.

‘God knows,’ Thorne said. ‘He wanted Jeffers out of the way anyway and maybe he thought it might buy him a bit more time.’

‘If he’s tying up loose ends, you thought about giving Frank Anderson a heads-up?’

‘Yeah, thought about it,’ Thorne said. He washed the poppadum down with a mouthful of lager. ‘Now, seeing as you ask, no… the rest of my day wasn’t particularly great, as a matter of fact. An hour on the phone buttering up a custody sergeant for a kick-off.’

Thorne explained his decision to have Anthony Dennison’s ‘bailed-to-return’ status cancelled. He had told the custody sergeant that he was cultivating the boy as a source and asked very nicely if the necessary ‘amendments’ could therefore be made to the files. A couple of mouse-clicks and a courtesy call to the officer who had questioned Dennison on the night and the job was done. Dennison was off the hook.

‘I don’t get it.’ Hendricks reached for the pickles. ‘Kid smacked you in the face, for God’s sake.’ He pointed; the worst of the bruising below Thorne’s eye had gone, but there was still a mark. ‘A damn sight harder than you punched that private detective as well, not that
that’s
saying very much.’

‘I made a deal with him,’ Thorne said. ‘He gave me good information and the simple truth is I provoked the kid.’

‘You provoke a lot of people.’

‘I went looking for it.’

‘Up to you, mate, but you know the kid’s going to end up inside anyway, presuming he lasts that long. Better off in prison, you ask me.’

Thorne knew that Hendricks was probably right. He hoped that Anthony Dennison was smart enough to stay out of the sort of trouble that could cost him his life. Still, he could not be certain that he’d done the boy any real favours. ‘So, other than that, just sitting around on my arse all day waiting for the axe to fall.’

He told Hendricks about running into Neil Hackett outside the bar where he’d confronted Frank Anderson. How he was more certain than ever that Hackett was on to him, despite the fact that the MIT man seemed to be taking his time doing anything about it.

‘I wish he’d just get on with it,’ Thorne said.

‘Put you out of your misery.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Maybe you’re wrong and he knows bugger all. Maybe he’s just digging around.’

‘He knows more than enough,’ Thorne said. ‘Has to.’

‘So, he’s trying to make you sweat.’

‘Well, he’s doing a bloody good job of it.’ Thorne wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead, pointed at the bowl of lime pickle. ‘Almost as good as this stuff.’ He held up his glass, signalled to the waiter for another beer and Hendricks did the same. ‘It’s not just about him though,’ he said. ‘It’s where he’s getting his information from.’

‘Yeah… that’s a worry,’ Hendricks said.

‘Who he’s getting it from. Somebody’s telling him what we’ve found out, what the connections are. He seems to know where I’m going to be every minute of the day.’

‘He might just be following you.’

‘Yeah, but if he’s doing that, it’s because somebody’s telling him I’m worth following. He knows who I’m talking to and when, and I’m damn sure he knows why.’ Despite himself, Thorne’s eyes were on Hendricks as he laid out his suspicions.

Looking for a reaction. Not seeing one.

‘Something to bear in mind though,’ Hendricks said. He spoke slowly, choosing his words, like a doctor delivering unwelcome news. ‘Before you get too… worked up about all this. If someone
is
telling the powers that be what’s happening, they might be doing it for good reasons. For the right reasons, you know?’

Thorne looked at him, but Hendricks had lowered his eyes before he’d finished talking. ‘What, to protect me from myself, you mean?’

‘Just saying.’

‘You got any ideas who that might be?’

‘Not the foggiest, mate.’

‘Sure?’ Hendricks glanced up for just a second and now Thorne saw a reaction. He could tell when his friend was lying.

The beers arrived and they drank for a while without saying much. The place was busy as usual and there was plenty to look at and listen to. A couple who seemed determined not to speak to one another at all, a group of businessmen in shirts and ties complaining about a ‘bonding initiative’, a loud trio of lads who’d been three parts pissed when they’d arrived.

‘So, how
are
things with Helen?’ Hendricks asked. ‘Really.’

‘Yeah, not bad,’ Thorne said. ‘She was obviously happy to hear about what had happened, that it was all over.’

Hendricks nodded at Thorne’s hand. ‘What about that?’

‘Actually she was pretty relaxed about it.’ Thorne lifted his glass up with his good hand. ‘She really doesn’t like me trying to bullshit her, but she knows where she is when I’m punching someone.’

‘I presume she doesn’t know about Mercer not being dead.’

‘No, and I don’t see any point in telling her,’ Thorne said. ‘Or anyone else telling her.’ The night before, he had sensed that Helen was not altogether surprised to hear about Mercer’s ‘suicide’ and guessed that someone had told her already.

Once again, there were not too many candidates.

The waiter appeared at their table with a trolley and picked up the first of half a dozen serving dishes. ‘Chicken bhuna?’

‘Just put them anywhere you like,’ Thorne said. ‘We’re sharing.’

Hendricks reached for the dish. Said, ‘News to me.’

They walked south towards Camden Town, in the direction of Hendricks’ new flat and Thorne’s old one, where Thorne had left his car. It was after eleven, but there were still plenty of people about, in cars and on foot. Drinking up outside pubs trying to close, coming out of restaurants or hurrying into the chippies and kebab shops that were just starting to enjoy their busiest few hours of the day.

When the beer-goggles lowered all manner of standards.

‘So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?’ Hendricks asked.

‘Haven’t got one,’ Thorne said. ‘Last day off, then I’m back on earlies Saturday.’

‘Make the most of it, then.’

‘I’m open to suggestions.’

‘I don’t know, go to a sodding museum or something.’

Thorne nodded, like he was considering it. ‘Well I was thinking more along the lines of cheese on toast and internet porn, but it’s a thought.’

‘I’m just saying. Don’t…’

‘Don’t
what
, Phil?’

They walked on, falling into step without meaning to, and stopped a minute or so later on the corner of Prince of Wales Road, where they would part company.

‘You really think Mercer’s gone to ground?’

‘If he’s sensible,’ Thorne said. ‘He could be out of the country by now.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Thorne could see that Hendricks was unwilling to leave without an assurance of some sort. ‘Listen, Phil, I’m out of it, all right? It’s done and dusted, one way or another.’

‘Good. Because it’s time
you
were sensible too.’

Thorne watched his friend walk away, then set off towards his car. As soon as he and Hendricks could no longer see one another, Thorne reached for his phone and made a call. When it was answered, he told the man at the other end of the phone that he was sorry for calling so late. He was assured that it wasn’t a problem.

‘Just out of interest,’ Thorne said. ‘You got anything on tomorrow?’