The Evil And The Pure (55 page)

“She has friends but I don’t know where they live.”

Clint shook his head. “She wuh-won’t want to involve her friends in this. If I’m wrong, we’re scruh-screwed. But let’s say I’m ruh-right. Where else?”

“Why do you care?” Kevin asked stiffly.

“My puh-passport’s in the house. Once the puh-puh-police find it, they’ll know who I am.”

Kevin started to smile. “
My
passport’s safe with the money.”

“If I go
duh-down, you do too,” Clint growled threateningly.

Kevin ignored that. “What does Tulip have to do with your passport?”

“I need the fuh-formula. With it, I can cut a deal with Dave. I was going to post it to him, to make guh-good on our original deal and keep him off our buh-backs. That’s no good now the cops know who I am, but I can truh-trade it for a new passport, make him huh-help me get out of the country.”

“I’m not getting involved with Bushinsky again, not after what happened to McCaskey,” Kevin said. “You want to cut a deal with him, you do it alone.”

“Fine,” Clint snapped. “But first we have to fuh-find Tulip. You want her too, even more than I do, so don’t give me any shit. Where is she?”

Kevin’s thoughts turned inwards. “I’m not sure,” he muttered. “But the Borough is home. It’s the area she knows best. She might go there, wander familiar streets, hide out in cafés or shops, at least until she decides what to do.”
He admitted the terrifying truth out loud. “Unless she’s cleared out or gone to earth with a friend.”

Clint checked his watch.
It was coming up to three o’clock. With the cloud cover it would be dark in another hour. Harder to find her in the dark, but safer for them on the streets. “Let’s go get something to eat,” he sighed. “Hot food, a drink, rest. You can think of all the places she might have run to. Draw up a list. We’ll start looking as soon as the sun goes down.”

“If we don’t find her?” Kevin asked.

Clint shrugged. “I’ll give it until midnight, then I’m out of here with my share of the money. You can do whatever the fuck you like.”

Kevin nodded, welcoming Clint’s assistance, whatever his selfish motives. The two men skulked away, found a fish and chip shop, sat and loaded up on greasy
food, eating mechanically, saying little, Kevin racking his brains for all the possible hide-outs where Tulip might have fled. Neither man paused to mark the loss of Fr Sebastian. Neither cared about the fate of the paedophile priest.

SIXTY-EIGHT

In a van, close to Westminster
, waiting for things to quiet down. One of the Bush’s men in the area, mingling with tourists, reporting back to Big Sandy. The hounds in the back of the van, four men watching over them, Eyes Burton among them. Fast Eddie beside Big Sandy in the front. He’d insisted on coming, eager to get even with Clint. Big Sandy silent, thinking about Gawl McCaskey, marvelling at the twist of fate which had thrown them together after all this time, remembering the feel of the bastard’s throat in his hands, relishing it. Trying not to think too much about his mother, afraid he’d well with tears and break down. He wanted to go to Sapphire, tell her everything, toast the memory of his mother and the death of Gawl McCaskey, get roaring drunk. But not while there was work to be done.

“What happens if we don’t find them?” Fast Eddie asked, breaking the silence, shame-faced at having voiced the question but too curious to keep quiet.

“They get away with Phials’ formula and two million of Dave’s money,” Big Sandy said. “It’ll be my fault. What do you think happens?”

Fast Eddie coughed nervously. “You and Dave go way back.
Given what happened with your mother, surely he –”

“Business is business,” Big Sandy interrupted. “
Dave’s always played fair by me, but playing fair means taking the bad along with the good. When a man fucks up on this sort of a scale, he must be punished. Unless he can redeem himself.”

“You could run,” Fast Eddie said, looking away as he spoke. “Turn yourself in to the police.
Testify against Dave. They’d protect you.”

Big Sandy didn’t dignify that suggestion with an answer. Fast Eddie noted his
scornful expression and relaxed. The Bush had phoned him while Big Sandy was on his way to the lab and explained the situation, telling Fast Eddie to sound out Big Sandy and, if in any doubt, to feed that back. If Big Sandy had for one moment considered Fast Eddie’s proposal, Fast Eddie would have had to tell the Bush, and that would have been the end of the giant.

A return to silence. The day darkened into a short evening, then night. Street lights
flickered on around them. Fast Eddie squinted at the lights, then at the street outside. People could see them sitting inside the van. “Want me to take out a couple of the lights?” he asked.

Big Sandy shook his head. “We’ll g
et into the back with the others.” It was a tight squeeze and the air was rotten with the foul stench of the hounds but nobody said anything, the four men bunching up to make room, Fast Eddie and Big Sandy slipping in beside them, Big Sandy having to bend sharply forward to fit.

An hour
passed slowly. The men fidgeted and scratched themselves, eyeing the hounds nervously. Even the experienced Eyes Burton and Fast Eddie shifted and itched, checking their watches every few minutes, twitchy. Only Big Sandy was calm, eyes closed, thoughts focused, occasional flashes of his mother’s face – imagining her smiling at the news of McCaskey’s death – which he let slide, not lingering on the past until he’d dealt with the dilemma of the present.

Finally
his mobile rang. He held it out blindly to Fast Eddie, who took the phone and answered, “Yeah?” Smiled with relief and hung up. “We’re clear. The body’s been removed, witnesses have given their statements, the crowd’s dispersed. It’s still a crime scene, a few officers left to guard it, but otherwise business as usual.”

“That was quick,” Eyes grunted.

“Murder’s a turn-off for tourists,” Fast Eddie grinned.

“Do we go now?” one of the men asked.
Fast Eddie glanced at Big Sandy. His eyes were still closed.

“Wait another half hour,” Big Sandy said. “Tell our man to hold his position and phone back if it’s still
quiet. If it is, we’ll go then.”

Half an hour later they spilled out of the van and hurried with the
hounds to Westminster Bridge, to the steps where Tulip had been when Big Sandy attacked Gawl McCaskey. They stopped at the top of the steps. Fast Eddie took a dress of Tulip’s from a plastic bag and stuffed it in the hound’s face. The hound made alarmed snuffling noises, then got the scent and stiffened. Fast Eddie removed the dress and stepped back. The hound sniffed the pavement. People passing by stared but said nothing. The hound caught Tulip’s scent, whined and jerked forward, dragging the men grasping his leash after it. “Here we go,” Fast Eddie grinned jaggedly at Big Sandy.

“Keep in touch,” Big Sandy replied, then
hauled his hound away, to circle around County Hall. He handled the leash himself, Eyes Burton and the other man hurrying after him. At the far side of the Eye, where they wouldn’t attract the attention of the police officers, he dug out a shirt of Smith’s and fed the dealer’s scent to the hound. He had one of Kevin Tyne’s shirts too, which he’d use if the search led to a dead end, but Smith was his first priority, the one most likely to be carrying the money. The hound fixed on Smith’s scent, sniffed the path with crazed zeal as Big Sandy jerked it left and right. It stiffened when it caught the smell, pissed lightly, then took off, bounding past Jubilee Gardens, Big Sandy and his men keeping pace, ignoring the bemused glances of anyone who got in their way, brushing them aside, fully focused on the hunt.

A
cross Waterloo Bridge, then north through lamp-lit streets, the heart of the city quiet now that the business day had drawn to an end, most of the work-force departed for home. Fast Eddie phoned. Tulip’s trail had led to a bus stop then disappeared — the girl had either remembered the threat of the hounds or been too tired to run any further. Fast Eddie asked if he should link up with them. Big Sandy told him to return to the van and await further orders.

North at a rapid pace, the
hound excited, memories of past hunts, mouth watering as it flashed on recollections of bloody feasts. Big Sandy was exhausted – it had been the longest day of his life – but he never faltered, breathing evenly while Eyes and the other man panted, forcing himself on.

The
hound eventually came to a halt outside a large building clad in scaffolding. It sniffed the ground around the entrance, head darting towards and away from the building, growling softly. “Think they’re inside?” Eyes asked, right hand going to the gun inside his jacket.

“Leave that where it is,” Big Sandy said, studying the building. “Nobody draws until I say so.”

The hound started forward, Big Sandy following, then stopped, spun and set off again, crossing the road, taking them in a different direction. Eyes gazed back at the building suspiciously – he would have liked to go inside and explore – but Big Sandy never paused, trusting his future to the hound, placing his life in the hands of a beast which lived only to kill.

When Big Sandy caught sight of the spires of the Church of Sacred Martyrs, he hauled the hound to an abrupt halt and experienced a faint fluttering of nerves. A squad car was parked outside. The crowd from earlier had broken up but a few extra-inquisitive souls still kept vigil.

“What’s wrong?” Eyes asked.

Big Sandy didn’t answer, playing the scene out theoretically. Smith and Kevin had come here after fleeing north, unaware that Big Sandy had found out about Fr Sebastian. The police most probably present when they arrived. So either they ran into the arms of the cops and had been taken into custody or they’d turned tail and fled.

The
hound was straining at its leash, the scent of Clint Smith heavy in its nostrils, wanting to tear ahead and rip into the man it was hunting. But Big Sandy knew Smith wasn’t here, that the hound was fixing on old scents. Glancing around, he dragged the hound back to where they’d turned on to the street, thrust Smith’s shirt in its face again, then grabbed the back of the dog’s neck and forced its nose over the pavement in a wide circle, gambling that Smith and Kevin had retreated this way rather than risk walking by the church.

The
hound resisted at first, then let itself be led, nose working busily. It started back the way it had come, retracing the scent it had followed here, but Big Sandy dragged it back, walking the hound around in an increasing circle in search of a new trail. On the fourth circuit the hound latched on to a fresh scent and lunged across the road. Big Sandy permitted himself a rare self-satisfied smile then hurried after the hound, Eyes Burton and the other man trailing him, offering no words of advice or critique, letting Big Sandy make the calls. It didn’t matter much to them whether or not they found Smith and Tyne. Their lives weren’t on the line. This was just work.

SIXTY-NINE

Scouring the grey streets, searching desperately, Kevin leading the way, Clint following half-heartedly. They
started with Long Lane, walked the length of it, peering left and right at the few shops – two chippers, two laundrettes, an off-licence, a pub called the Valentine – and side-streets in case Tulip was cowering in the shadows. Heads low, they hurried past Kevin’s apartment block. Kevin was sure Tulip wouldn’t have returned – she’d know how dangerous it was – but Clint wasn’t convinced. If she panicked and sought out familiar turf, there was nowhere more familiar than home. He wanted to go up and check, but that would have been suicide, the Bush certainly had men posted there.

At the top of Long Lane, no sign of Tulip. They paused. “Where now?”
Clint asked. “Tower Bridge Road?”

“I guess,” Kevin said mis
erably. “Or Borough High Street.”

“We’ll do Tower Bridge Road
and its side-streets first,” Kevin said. “Might as well since we’re up here. Unless there’s some place specific on Borough High Street you think she might be.” Praying Kevin would say yes. But Kevin only shook his head pathetically.

Down Tower Bridge Road to the flyover where the New Kent Road became the Old Kent Road — no Tulip. Back up Tower Bridge Road, this time detouring,
exploring the side-streets, restaurants and pubs — no Tulip. After forty minutes Clint stopped. “How wide a search area are we going to set ourselves? What’s
local
for you and Tulip? Would she have gone as far as the Elephant & Castle or Waterloo?”

“No,” Kevin said. “If she wants to go where I can find her, it’ll be closer.”

“So where do we look?” Clint pressed. “What’s within reasonable range? Let’s set a boundary, so at least we know how much ground we have to cover.”