Truth or Dare (18 page)

T
he Lawgiver waited for the needle to fall, the snare to hit twice then the horns to come riffing in before dancing round the room, his voice enthusiastic but no match for Curtis Mayfield’s beautifully pure and soulful singing. ‘Move On Up’. He had that right.

Stupid rozzer… stupid thick fucking rozzer…

Talk about models, talk about jukeboxes, talk about anything but what he was there for. Easy to fool. Easy to lie to. Stupid. Thick. He had thought at first that the police hadn’t questioned him because he had been lucky but meeting that example, witnessing him in action (or inaction) first hand, he knew that luck had very little to do with it. He was cleverer than them. Superior. That was all there was to it.

They hadn’t caught him yet and they weren’t going to. No stopping him now. Because he was doing the right thing. He knew that. Any doubts he may have had – and there had been doubts, any endeavour worth doing had doubts surrounding it – had been banished by the police officer’s appearance. The Lawgiver had been looking for a sign, something to show him that his calling, his chosen profession, was the right one. He had thought that talking to Phil Brennan would have supplied that. But he had been wrong. Brennan was turning out to be just like all the rest of them. And if Khan was indicative of the calibre of people Brennan surrounded himself with, the members of his team, he wasn’t surprised. Like attracts like, dull attracts dull.

No. Khan’s visit had been just what he needed. He stood still in the middle of the room, let the music flow around him, the beat pound through him. This was it, he thought. This was what he was made for. Put on this planet for. And nothing was going to stop him. No one was going to stop him. No one.

An omen. He didn’t normally believe in such things, didn’t consider himself to be superstitious. That was for the lesser people, the dullards. The ones who didn’t believe in themselves, who needed to blame someone else for the state they were in. Who needed zodiacs and God and crystals and whatever else to get them through life. He was resolutely not like that. His father had drummed it into him
. You work
, he had said.
That’s what you do.
You work, you get on in life. You make your own chances, you don’t wait for anyone else to give them to you. Because if you do, you’ll be waiting there a bloody long time.

He had been right, his father. Even after he lost all his work and soon after that his health then ultimately his life, he never lost sight of what he believed in.

It wasn’t his fault that fashions changed. That what he did, what he was skilled at, had devoted his life to, was an
artist
at, wasn’t wanted any more. Not his fault at all. And he tried hard not to blame anyone else for it. But in the end he couldn’t do that. When his health started to ebb away, when he no longer knew who he was on a day-to-day basis, then he started to say, in his more lucid moments, that it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t to blame for this. But watching his father fade away in front of him, seeing him disappear piece by piece and bit by bit, like one of his precious models being made in reverse, the Lawgiver knew that he had to blame somebody. And when his father eventually died, that’s when he put his plan into action.

Brian Wildman had been the person that his father did most of his work for. They made models for films, TV, stage. And his father was very much in demand. But then the work dried up. A slow trickle at first, then eventually down to an arid nothing at all. And Brian Wildman, who had so admired his father’s skills, had talked about making him a partner in the company, giving him shares even, the man who had told his father repeatedly when he noticed the work slipping away, not to worry. I’ll always see you all right.

But he hadn’t. He had sold up, gone to work in-house for a studio. Left his father out in the cold.

His father could have retrained, done something else. But then the Alzheimer’s hit. And that was the slow end of that.

But the young Lawgiver couldn’t accept that. He knew something had to be done. Some kind of justice. Brian Wildman must be made to pay for what he had done to his father.

So he moved down to where Wildman lived just outside London in Berkshire and followed him. For days and nights. Familiarised himself with his routines, his habits. Where he went, where he avoided. And the most important bit: when he was alone.

That was the easiest bit. Brian Wildman was married with three daughters. He also had a woman he visited in a block of flats just off the North Circular in Finchley. Usually on a Thursday evening. He always drove there alone. Always parked in an unlit street at the side of the building. Always cut through an overgrown pathway round to the front of the building so he couldn’t be seen.

Perfect.

The young Lawgiver got there early, crouched down in the bushes, waited for darkness. And Brian Wildman. He had dressed in black, even a black knitted ski mask. And he carried in his hand a huge baking potato in a sock. He had thought long and hard over his choice of weapon before settling on that. If he was caught or questioned afterwards, or even before, he reasoned, he could claim that it wasn’t a dangerous weapon. That he was going home to cook it. It was a feeble excuse, even to his own ears, but it was better than a knife or a gun. And easier to use. All he needed was anger.

Eventually, he heard Brian Wildman’s car pull up. His heart was pounding, his hands were shaking.

As he heard footsteps approach, his first thought was to do nothing. To stay immobile, go home afterwards. Don’t get involved. Because he knew that once he had done what he intended to do, he would have crossed a line. And it was a line there would be no stepping back from.

He tried to stand and for a few seconds thought his feet wouldn’t move, his legs wouldn’t support him. But they did. He stood quickly. Crossed in front of Brian Wildman, stood there blocking his path. Brian Wildman took in the black clothes, the ski mask and looked instantly terrified.

‘Please,’ he had said, ‘let me through. Let me through or I’ll call the police.’ The young Lawgiver just stood there.

‘Please, I’ll… I’ll scream. I’m going to…’

And almost of its own volition, he was aware of his arm lifting up, pulling back, the socked potato making a huge, heavy arc above his head, then coming down hard on Brian Wildman’s head, the force knocking his glasses off, pushing him to the ground.

‘Oww… what did you – did you do that…?’

Without stopping to think, he did it again. And again. There might have been something inherently ridiculous in his choice of weapon but there was nothing remotely humorous in hearing the sound of it hitting Brian Wildman’s skull, caving it in, watching it turn to pulp. The potato was as hard and resilient as a rock. By the fifth or sixth time, Brian Wildman was no longer moving and his head was soft and purple, the contents spilling out before him.

The young Lawgiver turned and ran. Never looked back once.

He packed up his rental property, came straight back to Birmingham. Almost numb with shock over what he had done.

It wasn’t until a couple of days later when he read about it in the paper that the whole thing sunk in. He had done it. Got revenge for his father. Justice. Or the only kind of justice he was going to get. And how did he feel about it? Well, he had expected to feel terrible. Remorse and pain, guilt. Crying and sorry and insomniac. But he felt none of those things. Quite the opposite. He felt calm, relaxed. Justified. And his sleep was the best it had been for ages.

That was when he knew he had found his calling.

The song finished. There was a pause of a few seconds before the next one dropped. Crackle and hiss, the aural accretion of decades, kicked in first, a prelude to what was to come. Then Ike Hayes at his best. ‘Good Love’. Slow to start, but it hit a groove soon and by the end was a huge, stomping, irresistible force. A winner. He laughed. Just like him. A metaphor for what he was doing.

He should wait a few days before the next one. He knew that. Reason told him that. Take some breathing space, savour the last two, plan the next one thoroughly. But the omens said don’t listen to reason. Go straight ahead. Do it. And do it now. Because he was unstoppable.

But just in case, he’d better check the calendar…

He did so. And laughed out loud. Perfect.
Perfect.
This couldn’t be a better day – or night – for what he had planned next. For who he had planned next.

In fact, it was so perfect and he was so sure of himself and his plan, that he might even give Phil Brennan a call. Not just to tell him he was going to strike again, but tell him who was the target and when he was going to be hit.

And there wouldn’t be a thing Brennan could do to stop him.

Not a thing.

P
hil was in his office trying to work through preliminary forensic reports for John Wright’s mutilation. See if there was anything, no matter how small, some tiny discrepancy that he could use to crowbar his way into the investigation. So far he had found nothing. Whoever the Lawgiver was, he was meticulous.

That had made Phil think again. Perhaps Glen Looker wasn’t in the frame. He was too obvious. And he had no motive. He made enough money from getting his clients off. If he was also murdering and mutilating villains, some that he had successfully defended, then he must be suffering from a severe mental imbalance. No. Phil had been thinking that perhaps the Lawgiver might be an actual police officer. The kind that set up anonymous blogs to moan about aspects of the job that they couldn’t otherwise publicly talk about. But surely their blogs and Twitter and Facebook pages were enough for them? Most of them just wanted to get their gripes off their chests and out into the open. Make themselves feel better by stirring up the waters. It was a big jump between moaning and murdering. At least he thought so. He hoped so.

His train of thought was interrupted by his phone. He checked the display. It was an unnecessary act. He knew who it was by the ringtone. ‘One Day Like This’ by Elbow. Marina.

‘Hey you,’ he said.

‘Hey yourself,’ she replied.

He smiled. Never got old, that routine.

‘Three times in one day. Must be some sort of record,’ he said.

‘Modern marriages, and all that,’ she said. ‘What happens when two career-minded people get together.’

‘Still,’ said Phil, ‘it’s worth it.’

‘Well,’ said Marina, trying to summon up a smile in her voice, ‘I’ve had a couple of nights on the loose with Anni Hepburn…’

‘And now you’re not coming back?’

Marina laughed. Her voice lowered, suddenly serious. ‘I can’t wait to come back.’

‘Good. Me neither. When’s that going to happen, then?’

‘Soon. Very soon.’

He found himself smiling at the handset. ‘Good.’ He gave a quick look round to see whether anyone was listening in. It was a futile gesture. His office door was shut. Still, he lowered his voice. ‘I miss you.’

‘Miss you too.’ Marina’s voice was equally lowered. Talking in a public building.

‘How’s our mutual friend?’

‘Just about to be carted off to Colchester. I’ve got to hang around with Anni to cross the Ts and dot the Is then I’m out of here.’

‘Good.’

‘Anyway, what about you? How did the press conference go?’

‘About as well as could be expected, I think. We’ll have to wait and see what he does next.’

‘Unless you catch him first.’

‘True,’ said Phil. ‘But unlikely the way things are going. Hard to get a grip on him. No clues at all. So far.’

‘He’ll slip up.’

‘Yeah, I know. But I’m hoping we might get a break before then, not have to rely on that.’

‘Just be careful,’ she said.

‘Thanks, Mum. Don’t worry, I am being.’

‘I’m sure you are. But I’m being serious. He’s made contact with you already. He’ll do it again.’

‘I know. As I said, we’re waiting.’

‘You need me back there. With you on this one.’

‘I won’t lie. Your presence here would be greatly appreciated. In more ways than one.’

Marina gave a small laugh. ‘Seriously, though. Be careful. If you’re contacting him. If he’s developed some kind of fixation on you. We’ve got Josephina to think about, remember. We don’t want anything to happen to her. To us.’

The unspoken word
again
hung between them.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I’m being careful. There’s no reason for this nutter to want to get in touch with me personally. No reason. He’s solely interested in me as a police officer. And if there’s any indication that he wants to go further, I’ll make sure she gets protection. And you too, if it comes to it.’

‘And you. Promise me you’ll stay safe.’

‘I will. You’re coming home. I want to be there for you.’

‘Good.’ Her voice dropped once more. ‘I miss you.’

‘You too.’ He found himself smiling again. ‘And I can’t wait to see you.’

‘Likewise. I’ll drop Anni off and come straight home.’

‘Not tempted to stay for another girlie night out?’

She laughed. ‘Definitely not.’

‘Good. I’ll look forward to it.’

They hung up.

Phil tried to go back to the forensic reports but his mind was still on the phone call, on his wife. Then Imani burst into his office. He looked up, startled out of his reverie.

‘Phone call, boss. It’s him.’

Phil was out of his chair and straight after her.

L
etisha Watson looked around her flat. Sighed. Jesus, what a dump. What an absolute shit hole.

She was looking at it with outside eyes. Like a visitor would. Not those coppers who had been here yesterday. She didn’t care what they thought. No. Moses. How he had looked at the place. What he must have thought of it. She cared about that.

And she was sure it wasn’t very positive.

She knew she was still suffering from the appearance of that pig copper, Sperring. Knew she was shaken up by that. But still. She had felt ashamed. That was it. Ashamed at the mess she lived in, the squalor, and ashamed that Moses had witnessed it. What her life had come down to. Seeing it through his eyes made her feel like that. Made her feel like it was the only way
to
feel.

It hadn’t always been like that. There had been a time when the life she had wanted – the one she had aspired to, that should have been hers – had been in reach. Or she believed it had been. Back when she was Julian Wilson’s girl.

Julian and Letisha. Wilson and Watson. Made for each other, they used to say. Meant to be together. Or at least she used to say that. She used to believe that. Thinking back, maybe she had been the only one saying that.

Her heart became heavy with the memories. She rarely thought about those days. It made getting through these days all the harder. It had been glamorous. Ghetto fabulous, as they used to say back in the day. On the arm of the leader of the Chicken Shack Crew, stepping out to clubs and bars around the city. Being shown deference, even reverence. Knowing that all the boys were lusting after her, their girlfriends and babymothers all jealous of her. She loved that. Had thrived on it.

Because she knew what she was, where she was from. She knew how lucky she had been. One of the girls the crew had turned out to make some money. A local girl, Handsworth all the way. School had taught her nothing. Just that she didn’t need school. She had started hanging round at the Chicken Shack when she was in her teens. It was exciting. A dangerous, thrilling life that was so different from the one she had at home. All attending her mother’s church and straight home from school. The Chicken Shack was full of real gangsters. And players. It was cool. So cool. Like a glimpse into another life. A better life.

There were plenty of wannabes hanging around there but she soon saw through them. The real players always outshone them in every way. She would see the guys, the real guys, come in with their girls on their arms. The guys looked buff. Handsome and rugged, their threads cool, their attitude correct. The girls looked so exotic, with their designer clothes, make-up and expensive hair dos, like they were from somewhere totally alien to her, Hollywood or somewhere like it. They would stand around while the boys did their business, their studied bored looks rendering them untouchable, unapproachable. Occasionally – very occasionally – someone would stumble in there, genuinely not knowing who they were and try to hit on them. They didn’t last long. The lessons those fools were taught were short and swift. They were never seen inside the Chicken Shack again. Or anywhere in the area.

That, the teenage Letisha knew, was what she wanted to be. One of the girls.

So she worked towards it, with a passion she never showed for anything at school. She got noticed, got in with the right people. Looked pretty to the boys it mattered looking pretty too. And it worked. Or so she thought. She was invited to parties with the crew. It was only when she got there that she learned what she was expected to do. Letisha had been a virgin until then. And, after the first couple of uncomfortable times, she realised she didn’t mind. When the boys realised she was okay she was invited to more parties. And more. And that’s when she thought one of them would choose her as a girlfriend. Wrong. That’s when they turned her out.

She didn’t mind at first. Getting paid for what she had been enjoying seemed fine with her. She didn’t tell her God-fearing mother what she was doing, in fact she barely went home, choosing to live at a new friend’s flat.

But it wore her down. Being told who to sleep with when she didn’t feel like it was exhausting. And sometimes nauseating. She wanted out. But she couldn’t see a way.

Then she caught the eye of Julian Wilson. And everything changed.

That’s when she became what she had aspired to be all along. Not just one of the girls that everyone was lusting over or jealous of, but the boss’s girl who even the other girls were jealous of. She didn’t know if she was respected or feared, loved or hated. But it didn’t matter. Because she was treated well because of it.

And then she met Moses Heap.

For a while everything got better. Unbelievably so. Happier than she had ever been. And then it changed. From such a great height came the great fall. It was a long fall and when she hit the ground she hit hard. And found herself where she was now.

She looked around the flat once more. Her tiny, squalid flat. Her tiny, squalid life.

And felt nothing but self-loathing.

She didn’t often think of the old days because when she did it led her back to this. Depression at who she was now, where she lived. Getting into a fight with that slag Chloe Hannon over Darren Richards. Had she really come down to that? Had she been so desperate not to lose that loser from her life that she fought to keep him? Had he made things any better for her in the short time they had been together? Really? When she thought about how far she’d fallen, what she had had and what she had lost, she seriously doubted it.

Her mother never spoke to her now. She saw her quite regularly, in the street, at the shops. But just looked away. Like her God’s love and compassion that she was always preaching no longer extended to her own daughter.

She had nothing. No one. Nothing to look forward to. No future except sitting alone with her memories. And Moses, from last night.

Moses.

She felt that familiar tug at something inside her. He connected with her. Deep and hard. A feeling she had never experienced with anyone before and knew she never would feel for anyone ever again. Only him. And in that moment knew she had to see him again. Not just because of what he had said to her last night, why he had come to call on her, but because it was time to stop playing around. She had had enough of sitting here feeling sorry for what she had done. For what had happened. More than enough. Time to move on.

She got up from her armchair, made her way to the bathroom.

Summon up some of the spirit from the girl she used to be. The one who inspired envy and jealousy. Lust and desire. Hopefully not hatred.

At any rate, the least she could do was make herself presentable.