The Evil And The Pure (54 page)

“She must,” Kevin croaked.

He didn’t sound as
if he believed it but Clint let that pass. “What about us?” he said. “Do we return to the church or run like hell?”

“Return,” Kevin gasped. “We have
to collect Tulip.”

“The longer we remain in London, the greater the risk that Dave or the cops will find us.”

“I don’t care,” Kevin said stubbornly. “I won’t leave without Tulip.”

Clint took that into consideration. He didn’t care about Tulip or Kevin. What he wanted
was to take his cut – the majority now that Gawl was out of the running, he’d only give Kevin the agreed amount, not a penny more – and keep going north, get a cab out of the city, then a train, lose himself up country, buy his way to freedom. But his passport was at the church and Dave would be mad as hell, on his heels from this day forward. If he returned he could collect his passport, get the formula from Tulip, post it to Dave, assuage his anger.

“What if Tulip doesn’t show?” Clint asked. “What if the cops caught her or she kept o
n running?” Kevin didn’t answer, unable to face that possibility. “How long do we wait?” Clint persisted. “When do we cut our losses and –”

“She’ll be there,
” Kevin wailed. “She’ll come. She has to.”

Clint unconvinced, but th
e lure of the formula was great, still possible to make everything right, get out of this alive and rich. He didn’t want a pissed-off cousin Dave on his back, chasing him, harrying him, hunting him.

“We need to act now,” Kevin said, disrupting Clint’s train of thought. “Tulip won’t wait for night. She’ll head for the church straightaway. She
could be there already. If we don’t show soon, she might think the worst and leave without us.”

“I told you we
can’t go until it’s dark,” Clint objected. “If we’re seen…”

“Fuck being seen,
” Kevin shouted. He lurched to his feet, furious. “The sooner we get her, the sooner we can get out. That’s the priority, isn’t it? The longer we stall, the more people the Bush and the cops can tip off. We have to act
now
.”

Clint opened his mouth
to shout Kevin down, then shut it. Kevin was right. Darkness was preferable but speed was essential. They couldn’t afford to squat here for hours, giving the Bush and the cops time to gear up for a full pursuit. If Tulip was at the church they could grab her, ask Fr Sebastian to arrange a lift for them with one of his parishioners, get out quick. A risk, but one they’d have to take. “OK,” he decided, standing. “We passed shops along the way. We’ll buy caps and scarves, cover our faces, head for the church.” He bent to collect his bag. Paused. “What about the money?”

“What about it?” Kevin frowned.

“They’ll be looking for the bags. The Bush knows what they look like and the cops probably got a good look at them when we were running.”

“We could stuff the notes inside our jumpers,” Kevin suggested.

“Too bulky.” Clint looked around the room and gulped. “The obvious thing is to leave the money here.”

Kevin glanced around and gulped like Clint had. “You think it would be safe?”

“We can find some out-of-the-way hole, leave the bags there. They’ll be OK for a few hours. But it means coming back for them.”

“I don’t like it,” Kevin muttered.

“I don’t either,” Clint sighed, “but we can move quicker without the bags.”

Kevin nodded slowly. “But we hide it together,” he said warily, “and we don’t split
up after this, not even to go to the toilet.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Clint laughed.

“As much as you trust me,” Kevin said.

“Christ,
that little?” They grinned at each other shakily then went exploring the building in search of a niche where they could stash the money.

SIXTY-SEVEN

With recently purchased wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their
foreheads and scarves tied around their lower faces, Kevin and Clint cut south for the Church of Sacred Martyrs, leaving the money hidden behind. Even though the idea to leave the bags had been his, Clint was having second thoughts about parting with the millions and kept glancing back over his shoulder, torn between his desire to gloat over the fruits of their haul and the need to get his hands on his passport and the formula, so that he might live to enjoy those fruits.

At the river they detoured east
and crossed London Bridge. Kevin smiled sourly as they slipped by the station. One way or another, he’d never be going back to work there. No more Dan Bowen. No more slapped-on smiles for Joe Public. No more slaving away at a job he hated. Some measure of comfort, no matter what happened next.

H
is heart beating fast as they closed on the church, thinking,
she’ll be there… she won’t… she will… she won’t…

They turned a corner, sighted the church and stopped. A crowd outside, and a police car. The door to the church roped off. People muttering softly, a few women sobbing, kids standing quietly and curiously
with their parents. Kevin and Clint stared at the crowd. Clint lowered his scarf. “What’s huh-happening?”

Kevin shook his head dumbly,
thinking it must be Tulip. Had something happened to her? Had the police taken her into custody? Or was it worse than that? Crazy thoughts of Fr Sebastian snapping when Tulip returned alone, raping her, killing her. He jolted forward, ready to scream her name and barge into the church. Clint grabbed him, shoved him against a wall. “I’ve still got a gun,” he barked. “You do anything stupid, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

“Tulip,
” Kevin groaned.

“Change the fucking record,” Clint sighed, releas
ing him. “We’ll check what’s going on, but we’ll do it quietly, OK?” Kevin nodded hard. Pushed away from the wall. Clint pushed him back. “We’re not doing it until you calm down.”

Kevin leant his head back, got his breathing under control, forced the crazy thoughts from his head, nodded again
, softly this time. “I’m OK now.”

Clint studied Kevin’s eyes then signalled him forward, keeping close behind, hand on the butt of his gun. Kevin stumbled
ahead, eyes flicking from the people to the squad car to the church spires. Blanking out thoughts of Tulip captive, Tulip breaking under interrogation and telling the cops everything, Tulip dead. Stopped when he reached the crowd. Looked to Clint for instructions.

Clint pulled his scarf clear of his face but kept his hat on. He leant in close to an elderly man and mu
mbled, “What’s going on?”

The man looked around, eyebrows furrowed, lips tight with disapproval. “Fr Sebastian’s dead.”

Clint gawped. Kevin froze — he only heard the word
dead
.

“How?” Clint gasped.

“Hanged himself. The police are there now. They’re not letting anyone in. A terrible thing. To kill yourself’s bad enough, but to do it in a house of God…” The man shook his head and crossed himself.

“Dead,” Kevin croaked, eyes welling with tears. He began pushing his way through the crowd, wanting to be with Tulip, to worship her lifeless body, weep at her feet, confess all, let the police do what they wished with him.

“What are you doing?” Clint snapped, grabbing Kevin’s arm, tugging him back, the man and a few others staring at them, Clint smiling apologetically, yanking Kevin out of earshot.

“Tulip,” Kevin cried softly. “I want to be with Tulip.”

Clint stared at him uncomprehendingly, then clicked to what was going through Kevin’s mind. He chuckled harshly. “Tulip isn’t there. Fr Sebastian hung himself. Not Tulip — the priest.”

Kevin blinked as Clint’s words sunk in. “Fr Sebastian?”

“Weren’t you listening? Fr Sebastian checked out. I don’t know why, but Tulip had nothing to do with it.”

“How do you know?” Kevin asked. “How do you know she wasn’t there when he did it? That she isn’t there now?”

Clint frowned. Of course he couldn’t know for sure. Trying to think of a way to calm Kevin’s fears. Gaze wandering as his brain ticked over. He spotted a thin, ginger-haired man, Derek James, one of his church junkies. “Keep close,” Clint said, angling through the crowd.

Derek James saw Clint while they were working their way towards him. He broke ranks immediately and rammed his way through to Clint, ignoring the angry
grumbles of those around him. “Where the fuck have you been?” he hissed.

“Keep your
vuh-voice down,” Clint said.

“Fuck keeping my voice down,
” James growled, but lowered it anyway. “I’ve been going cold turkey. Where have you been? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to stop dealing?”

“I’ve had problems with my suppliers,” Clint
improvised. “I huh-had to lie low for a while. There wasn’t time to –”

“What happened to Fr Sebastian?” Kevin cut in, not interested in Clint’s deals. “Did anybody else die?”

James eyed Kevin. “Who’s this fucker?”

“A friend,” Clint smiled,
flashing Kevin a look,
Shut the fuck up!
He stepped closer to James. “
Do
you know what huh-happened?” Thinking quickly. “I wuh-was coming to see Fr Sebastian to clear the way to start duh-dealing here again.”

“Some hope of that,
” James chuckled. “Fucker’s dead.”

“He hung himself?”

“From the pulpit, with his belt. I heard it all from a neighbour, she was there when the shit went down.”

“Any idea why he
duh-duh-duh-did it?”

“Word is he got on the wrong si
de of Dave Bushinsky.”

Clint went wooden. “Wh-wh
-why do they suh-say that?”

“Big Sandy Murphy stormed into the church just before Fr Seb hung himself.
The Father did it while Big Sandy was tearing apart the house at the back.”

“Did the
puh-police cuh-cuh-capture Big Sandy?” Clint asked.

“He was long gone by the time they got here,” James snorted.

“What about…” Kevin cleared his throat. “Was there anyone with Fr Sebastian when he killed himself? A girl?”

“A fucking angel maybe,
” James laughed. “No girl though. Why?” Clint pulled Kevin away before he could say anything else. “Hey,” James snapped. “What about my shit? When are you –”

“Come on Friday,” Clint lied. “I’ll be
buh-back. Business as usual.”

“But what about…
”

Clint and Kevin passed out of earshot. Clint force-marched them to the end of the street, around the corner, out of sight of the crowd. “Happy?” he snapped. “Tulip had nothing to do with this. It was Big Sandy.”

“But how did he know to come here?” Kevin moaned. “He must have got it out of her. He caught her. He –”

“Don’t be stupid,
” Clint snarled. “Tulip did a runner.”

“Then how
…”

“Gawl. He must have forced it from him before he killed him. Or maybe Gawl had it written down somewhere.”

“You really think so?” Kevin asked pathetically.

“I’m certain.
”

“So where
’s Tulip?”

Clint shrugged. “I don’t kn
ow. But she isn’t here. Come on, we have to get away before –”

“She might come back,” Kevin insisted. “Or she might have been here already.”

“Maybe,” Clint agreed. “But if she came, saw the crowd and fled, we can’t find her. And we can’t stick around on the off chance that she turns up.”

“But –” Kevin began.

“You can’t help her if you’re locked up,” Clint interrupted. “We can think about Tulip later, but right now the cops are here. They’ll turn the house upside down and…” He drew to a sickened halt.
And
find the body of Tony Phials.
And
find Clint and Gawl’s passports. Gawl’s no longer mattered but his did. Implicated in a brace of murders and a priest’s suicide. A major story. Media saturation. His name and photo everywhere. A wanted criminal.

Figuring swiftly,
I’m screwed. Money won’t buy me out of this mess.
Options — hit the house while the cops were there, shoot it out with them and steal his passport? Too wild. Besides, people in the crowd could identify him. He’d need a fake passport, a new identity. The only hope he had of getting one… cousin Dave.

Ke
vin was watching Clint intently. He saw despair/hope, despair/hope, despair/ hope flash across the dealer’s face. Wondered what was going through Clint’s thoughts. Said nothing, waiting for Clint to speak his mind. Which he finally did, softly but quickly. “Where would Tulip guh-guh-guh-go?”