To Kill For (14 page)

My mind was going round in circles. I stared at the ceiling until it seemed to come down and meet me. The throbbing was duller now, but so were my thoughts. I needed to work this shit out. I needed to reach through the dullness, the fog.

I kept thinking about the hospital. Things didn't make sense.

When the ambulance had picked Hayward up, it should've taken him to Whipps Cross, the nearer hospital. Instead it had been diverted to Cambridge. If he was a copper, someone he worked for could have arranged the diversion. Once in Cambridge, he was hidden under a different name. That meant that his people thought he was still a target. If he was undercover, it made sense. Then Hayward's superiors would have alerted the local force, let them know what was going on. When I'd gone to reception and asked for Hayward, there'd been a flag on the name and the bloke behind the desk had hit a button and the law had turned up.

All that was fine, as far as it went. What didn't make sense was what happened later, when I'd gone back. They hadn't expected me to do that – that much was clear from the reaction of the men in Hayward's room. But what didn't fit was the response from the Cambridgeshire police. They'd sent a couple of patrol cars, but at the first sign of my gun they'd hit the dirt. Which meant they didn't know what they were dealing with. By rights, I should've walked out into an armed response unit. It was like two things were going on; the first was Hayward's mob, protecting him. The second was the Cambridge law, reacting to something they didn't understand.

The law didn't operate that way.

Something else. When I'd called Hayward's bird the first time, she'd asked me if this was about Elena. What was that about? Who was Elena?

My head was starting to bang away again. All this thinking was making me ill. I took a couple more of Browne's little white pills. That was a mistake. I needed a clear mind. Instead, I got wiped out.

But I slept badly, my mind turning things over and around so that it all became lumped together and murky. I slept for a few minutes, then woke and slept again and woke again. In the end, I gave up, picked up the bedside phone and called Ben Green.

‘Know what time it is?'

‘I need you to find someone for me.'

‘Go on.'

‘Derek Hayward. He's a copper, Met.'

‘Where does he work out of?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Anything you can tell me about him?'

‘Mid-thirties, six-two, black, slim. He's mixed up with Paget and some bloke called Mike Glazer.'

‘Glazer? That's the one you wanted me to find out about before.'

‘Yeah.'

‘What's this all about, Joe?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Is there anything you do know?'

‘No.'

‘You're a great fucking help.'

I dropped the receiver back onto the cradle and went down to the hotel's lounge.

There were booths and tables scattered about. The odd small group of business people sat around and pretended to have something worth saying, a straggler or two sat by themselves staring at the carpet or at their drink. The light was dim, the music was low, the talk was hushed, the furnishings were faded. It was all designed to relax you into a coma. That was fine with me. I could have done with a coma just then. I dropped myself onto a stool at the bar and ordered a couple of beers. The bartender had some rule about serving drinks one at a time so I downed the first while he was still ringing it up. He got me my second and when he put it down I ordered a third.

There was a television behind the bar. They were onto the sport before I realized there'd been some kind of shoot-up in East London. They'd said something about a gang-related crime. They'd shown a large house, bullet-ridden, and a wall, half blackened by fire. The world was cracking up. I heard more words, but by then my head was coming apart, like the rest of the world, and I had trouble staying upright in my seat. The barman came over and asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine. He didn't believe me and lingered a while. Then he was gone and so were most of the others. I didn't know what time it was, or what day. A bit later a bloke in a suit came up to me and asked me to leave. I don't know why. I showed him my room key and he suggested I go and lie down. I suggested he go and fuck himself, but he was right. I weaved between tables as best I could and took the lift back up and staggered out and found my room and aimed myself at the moving bed.

I dreamed of Brenda, her smile bright, her eyes young. She stood in front of me and held out her hand and I took it, but what I held was a dead dried-up stump and when I looked up the smile was set by rigor and the eyes were white and dead and it wasn't Brenda any more but that Argentinean kid, frozen in death a dozen yards from my foxhole. I wanted to go out to get him, even though I knew he was dead. I couldn't stand to see his face there, staring back at me, hour after hour.

I didn't know where I was. My head was fuzzy and I was on my back staring at darkness. I could feel dampness beneath my head. I thought it must have finally cracked open. I heard a ringing and my mind was telling me to get up before I was counted out for good. Then I realized the ringing was wrong and everything else was wrong. The ringing stopped. The dampness was still there.

It took me a moment to work out where I was. Light came through the orange curtains. I traced a crack on the ceiling and counted how many heads I had and managed to work out that those large things in the distance were my feet. I climbed off the bed and threw up in the wastepaper bin. When I'd done that I had a shower. I felt better. I was fresher and my head had cleared. I wasn't feeling pain so much, the alcohol was thinning out, the pills had lost their muddled effect. I began to think again.

I took a few bags of peanuts out of the mini-bar and ate them and made a cup of coffee. Then I reached over and picked up the phone and called Ben Green.

‘Did I phone you last night?' I said.

‘You don't know?'

‘Yes. I think so. I asked you to find Hayward.'

‘You okay, Joe?'

‘Fine. Did you just call here?'

‘Yes, I did. About Hayward; I can't find him, couldn't find anything out on him. But I might have something.'

‘Go on.'

‘Copper I know knew someone who worked with him.'

‘When?'

‘Way back, seven years maybe.'

‘Did he give you an address for this bloke?'

‘A bird, Joe. Not a bloke.'

‘Go on.'

‘Well, this copper I know works out of Harlesden, and his old governor was a woman who had a thing with Hayward for a couple of years. Bit of a talking point, apparently. She was married and left her husband, that sort of thing. That's all he knew. Bird's name is Sarah Collier.'

‘What do I owe you?'

‘You're after Paget, right?'

‘Yes.'

‘And this might help?'

‘Yes.'

‘In that case, it's on the house, old son. I told you about my kid? I don't want him in the same fucking world as Paget. Got me?'

‘Yes.'

‘Look, Joe, I know this is none of my business, but from what I hear, Paget's got a shitload of Cole's smack. That right?'

‘Go on.'

‘Have you thought that he might need to unload it, get some readies? If I was looking for someone on the run, I'd ask around, see if anyone's bought a load of dope.'

I should've thought of that myself.

‘Want me to check around?' Green said.

‘Yeah.'

She wasn't a copper any more. She hated it. The whole fucking force was prejudiced against women, especially successful women, especially successful women who had affairs with other officers, especially black officers. They didn't like that sort of thing, even if it was none of their fucking business. And when they didn't like something about you, that was it. You were finished, dead in the water.

She told me this. Repeatedly. She didn't really want to talk about it, she said. She didn't know who I was or why I'd be interested. She told me this too, over and over. I'd told her I worked for a solicitor and that Hayward had been named in a case. It was a shit story; what did I know about solicitors? She didn't believe me from the word go, but she didn't question it, didn't even ask for an ID. She didn't care who I was. She took my money, though. She was fine with that. And she was happy to talk. I let her get on with it.

We were in a semi-detached in Acton. I could see from the photos that she'd married. I had a feeling she'd divorced too. There wasn't any sign of a bloke living there. Her husband had probably got sick to death of her yammering.

There was a kid wandering around. It was about three or four. I could see it wasn't Hayward's, so there was nothing there for me to use.

She made another couple of mugs of coffee and put them down on the kitchen table and sat opposite me.

‘What was your rank?' I said.

‘I was a DI. I was only thirty-two. There weren't many DIs at that age. Hardly any women. I joined straight from school. Eighteen. Three A-levels. And that was when A-levels were hard to get.'

The kid had been settled in the corner of the kitchen, dribbling on an empty egg box it was pushing around. It got up now and shuffled over to its mother and held the box out to her like some kind of offering. She took the box and patted the kid on the head and put the box on the table. All that while, she didn't stop talking, going on about her brilliant career. I drank my coffee.

She'd been attractive once. I knew that because she had plenty of photos of herself looking attractive. And young. She wasn't so young now.

‘This was in Barnet,' she was saying. ‘Del was only a Detective Constable then.'

‘Only?'

‘Huh?'

‘What is he now?'

‘I heard he got promoted. Did alright for himself.'

‘You heard he did?'

‘Yeah. This was after we split up. After he split us up, I should say. Got promoted to a DS couple of years after that. I hear he's an Inspector now. Positive discrimination. That's fine. If you're black.'

‘When was the last time you saw him?'

‘Must be eight years ago, something like that. Yeah, it was. Eight years last January.'

‘You left?'

‘He left. Asked for a transfer. Too awkward for him, see. About then he decided he had a fucking career to get on with.'

‘Where'd he go?'

‘Some specialist unit.'

‘Which one?'

The kid was back and wanted its mother to pay it some attention. She stroked its hair.

‘Huh? Oh, I dunno.'

I took a roll of notes from my jacket pocket and peeled off another hundred quid.

‘Which one?'

‘What does it matter?'

‘Which one?'

‘You're persistent. Who are you anyway?'

‘Nobody.'

‘Well, nobody, you think money's going to help me remember?'

‘You remember. The money's so you'll tell me.'

Her hand froze on the kid's head.

‘God, you've got a fucking nerve. What makes you think I know about something that happened eight years ago?'

‘You know when he got promoted. You know the month you last saw him.'

Her mouth became thinner. She stared at me, trying to get even for all the shit that men had done to her. After a few seconds, she gave up trying to scare me and shrugged. She wouldn't have lasted as a copper. She looked at the money instead, like it was to blame for her failures. She snatched it up.

‘Something to do with Vice.'

‘Where?'

‘I don't know. I really don't. It was a vice unit in Peckham or Brixton or somewhere. He's black. Lot of crime down there is black crime, so they're always looking for good black coppers.'

Vice. I felt a tightening in my gut. There was a connection, then, between Hayward and Paget. South of the river, though. That didn't fit so well.

‘You ever heard of Kenny Paget?'

‘Who's he? Another copper you lost?'

‘Mike Glazer?'

‘No.'

‘Did you ever hear anything about Hayward after he went to Vice?'

‘Like I said, he got promoted. I left the force soon after that so I couldn't tell you. It took me years to get from Sergeant to Inspector and he did it in a leap and a bound.'

And off she went again. Even the kid was sick of it by now. It shuffled out of the room and disappeared. I would've gone with it, but I still needed some information. I didn't want to get heavy, so I put up with it.

Finally, she said, ‘If I never see him again it'll be too soon.'

It took me a second to realize what she was talking about.

‘So you wouldn't know where I could find him?'

‘Find him? You want to find him?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why didn't you say? Course I know.'

As I walked back to the bus stop, I thought about what she'd told me. There was so much of it, it was hard to put it in order. But something stuck out, rang a bell.

By the time the bus came, I knew what was ringing the bell.

It was Elena. But Elena wasn't a person. Elena was a thing.

And I knew, too, that Hayward had to be bent.

I knew everything. I was a fucking genius.

The car was parked outside Browne's. The nearside window was open a crack and cigarette smoke wafted out. They weren't worried about being seen, which meant they weren't expecting any grief from me, which meant Dunham must've thought I'd go quietly. On the other hand, they were here, waiting for me, which meant Dunham must have been getting jittery or something.

The car doors opened and they climbed out wearily. The driver was a short man. I didn't know him. The one my side had red hair and freckles on his face. I'd met him before. He looked at me like I'd fucked his wife, threw his fag on the ground and opened the back door.