The Thing Itself (25 page)

L
aker believed Williamson was going to kill him. His bowels spasmed. Williamson seemed to guess. He leaned over him.

‘Scared, Charlie? You ought to be. Even if I don't kill you, I can guarantee you'll be shitting in a bag for the rest of your life.'

Laker's face burned. His breath was coming in laboured puffs. God, his collar bone hurt. His right arm was useless from the blow to the elbow. He was finding it hard to think straight as the pain washed over him. He'd done some lousy things in his life but did he want to go down for doing this stupid fucking favour for Bernie Grimes?

‘Let me make a phone call,' he gasped.

‘Fuck that.'

‘No, really. To stop something.'

‘Stop what?'

‘There are supposed to be ten.'

‘Some slimy Sultan's special order? Ten young English girls for his harem?'

Williamson raised the cosh again. Laker shrank back.

‘It's not like that.'

‘What then?'

‘Bernie Grimes.'

Williamson laughed mirthlessly but lowered the cosh.

‘Bernie Grimes. Now that name is music to my ears.'

‘I need a doctor.'

‘You need a microphone and a tape recorder, which I just happen to have.'

‘Won't be admissible as evidence.'

Williamson smiled again.

‘Let me worry about that.'

Gilchrist's phone vibrated in her pocket. She took it out and looked at the screen. Reg Williamson. She moved down the boat and took the call.

‘Sarah? It's Reg.'

‘Reg. How is it going? This isn't a particularly good time.'

‘I'm realizing the beast is in all of us.'

Gilchrist looked back at Watts.

‘You got that right. Are you OK?'

‘Charlie Laker is in a gabby mood. In fact, he's like a water spout. Can't shut the fucker up – excuse my French. Oh – except you are in France.'

‘You OK, Reg? You sound a bit hyper. Have you arrested Laker?'

‘Not in so many words.'

‘What does that mean? Reg . . . ?'

‘We found five girls locked up in the back of one of his containers, no doubt headed for a brothel somewhere. Snatched in Milldean. Five others targeted for later dispatch. You'll never guess who they are.'

‘Where exactly are you, Reg?'

‘They are the girls you rescued Sarah Jessica from.'

‘What?'

‘I know. Imagine that. The very girls she said her father would make pay for what they'd done.'

‘Laker is working with Bernie Grimes?'

‘Apparently so. And if you think about it, that makes a lot of sense for the Milldean thing. He's copped to that too.'

‘He admitted all this?'

‘Oh yes. And more. Much more.'

‘How? Why was he so willing to talk?'

‘Got to go now.'

‘Reg. You're worrying me.'

‘You've long been a worry to me but I've always been proud of you. Now think on, Sarah. Make use of what I've told you to get Bernie to grass on Charlie.'

‘Reg. Stay on the line a minute, will you?'

‘Got to go, lass. You take care now.'

Gilchrist realized she was gripping her mobile so tightly her fingers were aching. The line went dead.

Reg Williamson had seen a film a couple of years earlier. Made in the sixties in Brighton. A B-movie but it had been on at the Duke of York's in a retrospective of Brighton-based films. He couldn't remember how he'd ended up there. The Odeon was more his sort of cinema. In one scene they'd sent a car over Beachy Head for real. He'd expected it to soar – like Thelma and Louise's convertible over the Grand Canyon – but its head had dipped and it had kind of rolled down the cliff face. He'd guessed they'd had to roll it because there was no stuntman foolish enough to drive it at speed towards the edge then jump out.

He didn't imagine his wife had soared. She wasn't the soaring type, especially after David's suicide.

He looked at Laker beside him, gaffer-taped to his seat, in loop after brown loop, more tape round his mouth, his eyes bugging. Williamson was pretty sure the gangster had fouled his pants. He'd probably be doing it again soon.

‘L
aker's not going to help you with those girls,' Gilchrist said to Grimes.

Watts gave her a questioning look.

‘What do you mean?' Grimes said.

‘We know the whole story. How you wanted those kids sent out to some brothel abroad. God, you're sick.'

‘I'm sick? What about what those girls did to Sarah Jessica? Did you see what they did?'

‘I'm the only one who did see,' Gilchrist said. ‘I was there, remember. What they did was dreadful but what you planned in revenge was a thousand times worse.'

‘Do unto others as they do unto you,' Grimes said. ‘Only twice as much.'

Gilchrist shook her head.

‘Anyway, Bernie, your mate Charlie Laker has landed you right in it.'

Grimes stood up and this time Watts let him.

‘Why would he do that?' Grimes said, seeming genuinely perplexed.

‘Well, let's just say the scales weren't weighed very heavily in your favour,' Gilchrist said.

‘If you've got him, what are you asking all these questions for?'

‘Peace of mind,' Watts said, smiling at Gilchrist.

‘Look, everybody could gain from this,' Gilchrist said, holding Watts's look. ‘We could get answers we need. You can cut a deal so that you won't be held to account for some of your scumbag past. And whilst you're beyond redemption for what you wanted to do to those girls, well, nothing actually did happen to them.'

She looked back at Grimes.

‘So, what's it going to be?'

Grimes tugged on his chin.

‘You got booze on this boat?'

Gilchrist nodded.

‘There's a minibar.'

‘Well, I'm sure the sun is over the yardarm somewhere in the world,' Grimes said. ‘But it's too hot down here to drink. Maybe we can go up on deck?'

Gilchrist and Watts just looked at him.

‘Tell us about you and William Simpson,' Watts said. He saw Grimes attempt to deny he knew the name. ‘Don't.'

Grimes shrugged.

‘I've known Simpson since I was a kid. He was on the scene.'

‘A crook?'

‘A bum bandit.'

‘You knew his father?'

‘Do I look that old? I knew
of
him. Philip Simpson. The corrupt chief constable.'

‘Pray tell,' Gilchrist said.

‘Get me a drink and I will.'

Williamson revved the car. He thought he'd do it at an angle rather than dead on. Kind of like Steve McQueen trying to jump the barbed wire in
The Great Escape
. Dicky Attenborough was good in the film too, though not as good as when he played Pinky in
Brighton Rock
. That
was
a film.

He'd pick up some speed going one way, turn on the broad swathe of grass in front of the converted lighthouse, where that snooty woman was probably still sprawled on the sofa with her knickers off, then power downhill and over the edge.

‘Look,' said Grimes. ‘All I did was let slip to a grass that I was going to be staying in this house the night before I went over to France. Charlie gave me the address. He didn't say why. He said he'd do the rest. He just wanted the favour and I was happy to oblige.'

‘How do you know Laker?'

‘We've done a bit of business from time to time. More than I realized. I helped him when he took over the Palace Pier.'

‘Helped him how?'

‘I had a word with a few people. Eased negotiations.'

‘What a world you live in,' Gilchrist said, shaking her head.

‘What – you think legitimate business doesn't do the same stuff? Just because the chief executive doesn't personally break legs and kill people? Grow the fuck up.' Grimes spat on the floor of the cabin. ‘Jesus.' He looked up at Gilchrist. ‘What world do you live in?'

‘Was that it?' Watts said. ‘The extent of your involvement?'

‘That was it.'

‘But you'll testify against Laker?'

‘In court? I don't think so.'

‘A statement then,' Watts said.

Grimes swigged his drink.

‘I'll think about it.'

Gilchrist drew Watts away.

‘Let's leave him for ten minutes. He isn't going anywhere. And I'm worried about Reg. I want to make a couple of calls.'

‘Who's that?' Gilchrist said, the moment her call was answered. ‘Sergeant Mason – DS Gilchrist here. Yes, I know I'm on suspension. I just wondered if you could tell me if everything is OK with Reg Williamson? Has anything happened in the past couple of days?' She growled. ‘If he'd told me, I wouldn't be asking.' Gilchrist listened, then with a whispered ‘Thank you' ended the call. She turned to Watts.

‘Reg Williamson's wife drove their car off Beachy Head.'

Watts clenched his jaw.

‘Jesus. Poor guy.'

‘I think he's about to follow her example. Taking Charlie Laker with him.'

‘R
eg, it's Sarah. Have you booked Laker into the station yet?'

‘We're en route but we're in no hurry. Going the scenic way.'

‘Reg? What are you doing?'

‘It's been all go since you went off to France. You can't imagine. More than one person can cope with really.'

‘I know about your wife, Reg. I'm really sorry. But please don't do anything foolish.'

‘Bit late for that, I'm afraid, Sarah. But, look, I must go. I don't have a hands-free in the car so I'm driving one-handed. Aside from being illegal, it's a bit dodgy up here.'

‘Where are you?'

‘Beachy Head. Me and Charlie are going to visit the missus. Well, not really visit. Share a moment.'

‘Please stop the car.'

‘I'm here now. I dropped the interview tape off at the café down the bottom. They're keeping it for you.'

Gilchrist's voice dropped to a whisper.

‘Please, Reg . . .'

‘Can't take it any more, sweetheart. But at least I'll do something right.'

‘Let me talk to Laker.'

‘No can do – he's a bit tied up. Remember how Finch got it? He was a dumb bastard but he didn't deserve to go like that. Apparently, Laker was in the back of the car. Watched his men do it – though he didn't see the cat jump into the boot. Oh, that snooty cow in the lighthouse – cat-woman – is mixed up in it too – he's been her bit of rough for years. Very rough but it seems that's how she likes it. Anyway, this is a bit of poetic justice to pay for Finch, creep though he was.'

‘You've got a confession. You don't need to do whatever you're planning. Stop now and when I get back we'll go out, have a few beers and laugh over this.'

‘No laughs left, darling. And I don't think the confession would stand up in court. Taken under duress, they'll say. Kick the case out and he'll get off scot-free. So, everything considered, this is the way to go.'

‘Reg, I'm begging you. You're one of the few friends I've got.'

‘Nice of you to say but we hardly know each other. Both private – too private, mebbe.'

‘What would your wife think of what you're doing?'

‘I'll find out soon. Goodbye, Sarah.'

The phone went dead.

Gilchrist went up on deck.

‘Bob,' she called, looking down the length of the barge for him.

‘I'm here,' he said from the bank several feet below.

‘Reg has lost it,' she called before she scrambled off the barge.

Bob Watts frowned.

‘Tell me.'

‘He's got a confession out of Charlie Laker – everything, according to Reg. But I think he might have beaten it out of him.'

‘
Reg?
' There was disbelief in Watts's voice.

‘Back in the day he was a tough customer,' Gilchrist said. ‘He always carries a cosh. Old-fashioned wooden thing with a lump of lead sunk in the top.'

‘
Reg?
'

‘Yes, Reg,' Gilchrist said impatiently. ‘Tubby Reg Williamson. But it's not just that he's got the confession like that. I think he's going to kill Laker – and himself.'

Williamson over-revved when he started up the slope so skidded and fishtailed, and then the turn was too wide so it slowed him. Still, as he put his foot down on the return run, he could see the lights of Eastbourne glittering just a little way down the coast. The pier was a poor thing compared to Brighton's but it looked good from here: a brilliant, jutting finger pointing at France.

He aimed for it.

Charlie Laker was not going gentle into that good night. Behind the tape that was choking him he was raging. How could this be happening to him? He had big plans for the future. This fat fuck cold-cocking him. He'd tried to reason with the man but Williamson had just coshed him, again and again.

Was the mad fuck humming to himself as they skidded up the hill? Laker saw the fat man glance his way at the turn before they started back down.

‘Fuck!' Laker screamed but, even though he felt something tear in his throat, no sound came through the gaffer tape.

The car bumped and slithered over the flints beneath the grass. Williamson's eyes were focused somewhere in the distance. Laker was watching the lip of the cliff surge closer and closer.

He was wondering what he should be thinking about. Should his life be flashing in front of him? It wasn't. He wasn't thinking of Dawn or of John Hathaway. Or of his brother, Roy. His parents. The women he'd had, in every possible combination. People he'd hurt, or killed or had killed.

He wasn't thinking any of this, or of all the things he still wanted to do, as the lip disappeared beneath him and the car flew into the air four hundred feet above the sea. He was seeing bitter blue sky and a seagull; he was sure it was a seagull. And that part of his final journey – the flying – didn't seem to go on a long time or a short time. It just was.