To Fight For (18 page)

‘What did you tell him?'

She brushed my hand away.

‘Only what I saw, what I heard. Fuck. It was nothing. Really.'

‘What?'

‘God, I can't remember. There were blokes, of course. She'd kiss 'em. I'd describe 'em.'

She smiled, but it was a twisted, pained smile.

‘And?'

‘And I'd try and hear their names if I could, make a note of car numbers.'

‘What blokes?'

‘Ah, Christ. Please. How can I remember that?'

‘You remembered me.'

‘You were easy to remember.'

‘Why'd you say that?'

She opened her eyes, lost some of her sleepiness.

I thought she was going to tell me I was easy to remember because I was so dangerous, so big, so fucking ugly. But she didn't. Something dark came into her face, as if a thunder cloud had passed behind me and been reflected in her eyes, and I realized it was a cloud, of sorts. It was her guilt, blocking out the light.

‘You were easy to remember,' she said. ‘When she kissed you she smiled.'

Back at Browne's, I went back over what Margaret Sanford had told me, and tried to get it in some kind of order.

I knew that Brenda had known of Marriot's use of children in films for a while – she'd told me about it when we first started seeing each other. Somehow she got herself into one of these films. That was the one I'd seen, the one I had on DVD. She'd hidden a copy in a hole beneath her floor that she'd hoped I'd find. I did, years after she'd died. That was where I'd found her letter to me, the one asking me not to seek revenge, not to destroy myself for her.

The stuff about Glazer I'd assumed. It had made sense. He knew Paget, had hidden out with him. That I knew because of what Hayward had told me. Hayward had been undercover in Glazer's vice unit as part of Compton's investigation into corruption – or, what I had thought was Compton's investigation.

This I knew; Brenda had been murdered by Paget. She'd been murdered because she'd grassed Marriot up for what he was doing. She'd known she was in danger a long time before she'd done the film. And she hooked up with me because of who I was, who I am. She'd thought she was safe with me. I was her protection.

Some protection.

Fuck.

Browne came into the kitchen, where I was sitting, and looked at me and muttered something and left and came back again.

‘What's up with you?' he said.

I could've told him about Cole getting killed, but I thought he'd just panic. That was the last thing I needed.

‘I'm thinking,' I said.

‘Holy Christ.'

I wanted him gone. I wanted to be alone with the past, with Brenda. I wanted to fall into it and get lost. I wanted to drown in it. But, as I knew, that way madness lay.

Browne turned to leave.

‘Wait,' I said. ‘Sit down.'

He came back in and sat. I told him what Margaret Sanford had told me.

‘You say Compton was the one who wanted an eye kept on Brenda?'

‘Yeah.'

‘And he was the one who searched her place after she …'

‘Yeah. He was the one.'

He thought about this.

‘So, the question to ask is: what did he want?'

I looked at him. His face was scrunched up in concentration. He was trying, I supposed – in his way.

‘I know that's the question,' I said.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘But you haven't seen how you could find out.'

If he thought I was going to corner Compton and Bradley and Hayward and ask them politely what—

‘The policeman,' he said, as I was thinking he was an idiot. ‘The other policeman. This Rose.'

‘Rose,' I said, thinking that he wasn't an idiot after all, but that I was.

‘Yes. So, you need to find him, ask him what Compton wanted. Your friend Ben can help, can't he?'

‘Green? He won't get involved any more.'

‘Hmmm.'

Now Browne was thinking again. I was thinking too but I had the feeling he was doing it better than me.

‘You said she was an informant?'

‘Huh?'

‘This Margaret Sanford.'

‘Yeah.'

‘And he was a local detective. So, he must've worked out of one of the station houses close to where she lived. That's your old patch, isn't it?'

In the end, I found Rose easily. Browne was right – for once.

I was in a pub called The Grove, in Edgware. I took a seat at the table and phoned a couple of the nicks round where Brenda used to live. At the second place a woman told me Rose was now a DI and had transferred to Brompton. I called him there and when he answered I told him I had information relating to a case of his.

‘What case?' he said.

‘I'd rather not talk on the phone.'

‘I can see you this afternoon. Come by. I promise you can talk in confidence.'

I told him I didn't want to be seen going to a police station. I said, ‘Is there somewhere else we can meet?'

He hesitated. Then he said, ‘There's a pub nearby called—'

‘No,' I said. ‘Look, there's a pub I know in Edgware, on the High Street. It's called The Grove.'

He sighed, asked again what it was concerning.

‘It's an old case. A murder case.'

There was a long silence.

‘Give me an hour,' he said finally.

‘What car are you driving?'

‘Blue Renault Laguna.'

I'd chosen the pub because it was halfway between the two of us, and because I could keep an eye on it before Rose got there. It was a large Edwardian building, stained glass at the top of the windows, lots of red brick. Inside it was roomy, space between the tables, high ceilings. It wasn't really a pub any more. Now it was the kind of place where people went to drink wine and talk about their tax returns. If you really tried, you could just about buy a pint of beer. But it occupied a good position. It was on a corner of the High Street, and it had two entrances, one on each road.

After I finished speaking to Rose, I left the pub and took a seat at the bus stop opposite. From there I could see all traffic going by, both entrances to the pub and anyone who went in.

It took him forty minutes. I watched the Renault drive past slowly, then carry on and turn. But he didn't stop. He drove off.

A couple of minutes later he came by again, parked. A tall bloke got out. He had short dark hair, a tanned face, deep-set eyes. He stepped into the pub. I gave him a minute then went over.

He was sitting at a table in the corner, back to the wall. He had a drink in front of him. I got a pint and went over and sat.

‘You're Rose?'

‘Yeah. And you?'

‘Joe.'

‘Joe. Joe What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Right. You were at the bus stop as I drove up.'

He'd clocked me, then. And I hadn't noticed.

‘Yeah.'

He nodded, drank some beer.

‘Okay, you want to tell me something?'

‘I want to ask you something. About when you were a DS, few years back.'

He sniffed, then stood up.

‘Waste of fucking time,' he said.

As he was walking past me, I said, ‘I can close a case for you. A murder. A long time ago. A woman called Brenda.'

He stopped, and I could see he knew what I was talking about. He looked at me again. He sat back down, drank some more beer.

‘Joe,' he said, mulling the name over. ‘You were a fighter. The Machine.'

‘Yeah.'

He nodded.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Awful. You were her boyfriend. I remember now. We looked into you but you had an alibi. You had a job in some casino, if I remember. Place was full of CCTVs. But we still wanted to talk to you. Only, you'd made yourself scarce. And now you know something.'

‘What was the result of your investigation?'

‘You know there were no convictions. She was a pro, so it was put down to a john. There were no witnesses, no CCTV footage, no DNA. Plenty of forensic stuff, but nothing to take us anywhere. It's still open. But you say you can close it for us?'

‘I know who killed her.'

His eyes narrowed. He scratched his nose.

‘Go on.'

‘Give me some answers first.'

‘About?'

‘Man called Compton. A Detective Super.'

He drank some more beer, then took an e-cigarette out of his pocket and sucked on it. A small red light came on at the tip. While he did that, he scanned the pub, looking over my shoulder.

He blew out smoky stuff and said, ‘I promised my wife. She's been onto me for years to quit smoking.'

‘What about Compton?'

‘I remember him.'

‘Who was he?'

Rose shrugged.

‘My boss came up to me one day, introduces Compton, tells me to help him as much as he wants. I asked Compton what he was working on, but he only said it was an important investigation. But I know one thing: he wasn't a copper.'

That made my skin prickle. It hadn't even occurred to me that Compton might not be law. But now that Rose had said it, something clicked in my head, and I knew Rose was right.

‘What do you mean?'

Rose shrugged.

‘He felt wrong. He didn't talk right, didn't know the lingo. I asked him about work he'd done and he was vague.'

‘He was with another man. Bradley. A DI.'

‘Yeah. I knew Bradley. He used to be Special Branch a long time ago. That's why I found it odd that he was working on some vice thing. But, again …'

He spread his hands.

‘Bradley was Special Branch?'

‘Mm-hmm.'

‘And what was Compton?' I said, knowing already what the answer must be.

‘I'd guess political. Five, probably.'

Christ. What was this shit? MI5?

‘Your boss,' I said, ‘would he tell me?'

‘That was my old DCI. He retired a few years ago. He's living in Florida, I think. Besides, if he wouldn't tell me then, why would he tell you now? What's this all about?'

‘Do you remember a snout of yours, Margaret Sanford?'

‘Maybe.'

‘She lived near Brenda. She grassed for you, then Compton came and took her over. Then, after Brenda died, Sanford left sharpish. Why?'

‘I wouldn't know.'

‘You must know something.'

‘I don't. I asked my boss and he told me to shut up and do as I was told. He said it's orders from above. I was smart enough to do as he said.'

‘But—'

‘I've answered as many questions as I'm gonna. Maybe you'd better start telling me something. Like who killed your bird.'

He wasn't going to tell me any more about Compton. But I'd already guessed that he'd be cagey. If I gave him something from my end, I might be able to work him backwards towards Compton.

‘It was Kenny Paget,' I said.

He shook his head, a look of frustration on his face.

‘He was the first we thought of, had a bad rep and liked the blade. But he had an alibi too. Several people alibied him, in fact.'

‘Marriot's men?'

‘They still counted as witnesses.'

‘It was on Marriot's orders that Paget killed her.'

‘If you've got any evidence …'

He waited for me to say something, his eyebrows raised.

‘There's no evidence,' I said.

He sighed deeply, scratched his chin.

‘So what've you got? Your theory? That's not gonna do it.'

‘Paget told me himself.'

‘Well, I can see how someone like you could persuade him to talk, but it won't stand up in court.'

‘It won't get to court. Neither will Paget.'

He sat back, sucked on his electronic cigarette. He stared at me long and hard, and his look now was flat and cold. Finally, he said, ‘There's a war going on, I hear. In the East. You anything to do with that?'

‘I know about it.'

‘Bobby Cole's dead. They say Vic Dunham was behind it. They say Dunham's out for someone else too, someone like you.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘And I heard Frank Marriot got himself killed a few weeks back, and Kenny Paget disappeared on everyone, RIP. It's not my patch, so I don't really care. And even if it was my patch, I still wouldn't care. Having said that, I don't wanna hear no more. As far as I'm concerned, you lot can kill each other all day long.'

He gulped down the rest of his beer, put it slowly down onto the beer mat and stood.

‘Good luck,' he said.

Then he was gone.

I had things to do. I had to work out what Rose had told me, what it meant. I had to find Compton or Bradley, put the screws on them. I had to find Glazer. I had to kill him.

But the next day, all I could manage to do was breathe in the right places and try not to drop dead. Even that was a struggle.

I was sitting with Browne in his lounge watching the TV dribble out some daytime shit. I could just about do that. I dozed on and off.

We'd been like that for a while, not speaking, not doing anything really except waiting for something to happen.

I thought I heard the phone ring at one point, but when I looked up I saw Browne where he had been. There was no sound of a phone ringing. There was no sound of anything. At least, I couldn't hear anything.

Then I opened my eyes again and saw Browne dozing, slumped down in his chair, his mouth open, his hand twitching. I reached over for the remote and turned the television volume down.

After a while the news came on and I watched as they showed people in Iraq killing each other and people in Syria killing each other and people everywhere killing each other. Then I saw a house that had been gutted by fire, charred and razed. And I saw a fuzzy telephoto picture of a man. I recognized the man. It was Cole.

So, he was dead. And I was fucked. But I didn't care. It was as if it was all part of a dream. It was unreal and far away.