He tried to change the subject by asking again if she needed medical aid or food.
But she ignored the question. ‘I heard one of them speak. We were at a bridge, hiding. My head was cloudy… I’d just found out about Ron… but I thought… thought I might have heard the voice before. Do you think this is why they want me?’
‘Sounds likely. Where did you hear his voice previously?’
She shook her head. ‘Maybe I was getting confused. I was in shock.’
She searched his face for something. Recognition. Worry. Understanding. Something that would tell her he knew who might have done this. Because he knew who Ron’s enemies were. Had been, she corrected herself, and felt the tears threatening again. But there was nothing in his face except puzzlement, and she figured that was probably good. Somehow.
‘I need clothes,’ she said.
‘I brought you some. And painkillers. And toiletries.’
‘Thank you.’ She felt a little calmer now.
Danny looked at her, waiting for her to tell him why the killers had targeted Ron. But she had no idea and her silence soon prompted him to veer the conversation.
‘You didn’t go to number ten. Craig went there to see.’
‘I didn’t trust the safe house,’ she said. ‘In case they tortured the information out of Ron. He always said we only should go there together. And I didn’t know who the police would visit.’
‘As far as I’ve heard, nobody went to number ten. The camera recorded nothing. The police have been pulling everyone in. Nobody’s saying a thing, of course, including about who did this. They’ve got some ideas, but nobody knew all of Ron’s enemies except Ron. And one other person.’ He looked at her, and she understood.
Three months before, just after the clock struck midnight. Two days before he got arrested for serious fraud. A candlelit dinner and a swap of New Year resolutions. For her: no more smoking, which she’d achieved, and no more betting on the dogs, which she hadn’t. For Ron: no more secrets. She had made a joke (go on, then, tell me how many little Rons are out there?), but hadn’t been prepared for what happened next. He had outlined every crime he’d planned, taken part in, was responsible for.
Including murder.
She had listened in stunned silence as her husband exposed dark chasms in a soul that she thought she had well mapped. Four people whose deaths she suspected he was involved with. Three that she had believed were wrongly attributed to him and his gang. And three men that Ron had personally killed with his own hands. Some wives might have fled, but her shock and abhorrence had been overwhelmed by his honesty, and, somehow, she had forgiven him. He promised there would be no more killings. And, to her knowledge, there hadn’t been.
‘I don’t know who could have killed my husband,’ she said in response to his unasked question. Even though Ron had confided in her, she was none the wiser.
‘Okay,’ Danny replied. But he didn’t sound that convinced, and his next sentence seemed designed to prompt her: ‘Doesn’t matter because Ron’s boys are out there cracking heads to find out.’
‘I don’t want that. If my name without his has any sway, you should tell them to stop. What’s done is done. There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt. It won’t rewind time and change last night. You didn’t tell them about me, did you?’
She had told him to keep her contacting him a secret.
‘I’m long out of the loop, remember. Nobody knows anything. And I’m also in the dark about everything. But I could do with knowing one thing: what’s your plan?’
‘I’m going to go to the police. I want to talk to Mr Gold first and have him arrange everything. But first, I need your help. To help Karl.’
‘The man who helped you?’
She had only briefly mentioned Karl on the phone and didn’t want to say much more about him just yet. ‘He got me out of trouble and I owe him. I need you to help me. Have you heard of St Dunstan’s Church?’
Sixty-Two
Mick
It turned out the old guy was a former cop after all. Mid-Anglia Constabulary, 1970–1973. Turned down for detective status, and seemed sour about it. It was as if he was trying to show his skills, proving his worth as a detective, at seventy years of age.
His home was overloaded but neat, as if he were both a hoarder and a clean freak at the same time. A billion vinyl records were set against the wall, so the detectives had to move in single file into the living room. The TV was an old CRT with built-in VHS player on a stand beneath a shelf bearing three ancient rugby trophies and an old black-and-white photo of a woman. Seeing the shelf, and the photo, Mick started to relax a little as a plan formed.
‘Can I have a glass of water?’ he asked.
He directed his men to take the sofa in front of the TV, even though they wanted to stand. When his water arrived, he placed it on the shelf, and then he sat between his colleagues, their knees touching.
Mick checked the time. Shit. He was due at the church in just forty minutes. He couldn’t be late. This thing needed speeding up.
‘What you’re about to see,’ the old chap said as he fiddled with a remote control for the TV, ‘is video footage from two different times. I will start the video at 6.44 p.m. yesterday evening.’ They let him talk because he wanted to. He probably didn’t get many big moments in his life.
The footage was bad, which was good. Shadows were too deep, blacks too black, white parts from the setting sun too bright. But all three detectives, experienced in watching bullshit CCTV footage, barely noticed. Nobody expected a hi-def close-up of a perpetrator’s face.
And they also knew they wouldn’t get it. The camera was at one end of the row of lock-ups, and the garage was at the other. At 6.44, a car entered the scene from the direction of the main road, its lights off. Too dark to make out, but from the shape it looked like a small hatchback.
‘Renault Clio,’ Cooper said. ‘Curve to the back of rear side window.’
The car stopped, sideways on to the camera, at the end of the path, just past the garages. Both right side doors opened.
‘No way. Look, four doors. And that window frame is flat at the bottom. Volkswagen Golf.’
The car was stopped, but nobody got out.
‘Headlights are too small,’ Mick said. ‘Mazda 3.’
He didn’t even know why he said it. It was, of course, a Mazda 3. Dave, the car buff, had stolen it a few days before. He cursed himself inwardly.
‘Three men,’ Gondal said. ‘Makes sense.’
The driver was short, slim, and black. They got that from his neck, because all three wore ski masks and gloves. The other passenger and the guy who’d sat behind the driver were taller, both white, one of them with thick shoulders. Dark clothing for all three, nothing distinctive.
‘Jesus. This looks promising,’ Cooper said.
‘Mid-sized guy could be Smithfield,’ Gondal said.
It was.
The three men walked past the first garage, coming towards the camera. The black one went down into a squat, and seemed to pick something up off the ground.
‘What’s he doing?’ Gondal asked. All three detectives were leaning forward.
Cooper said: ‘Looks like he’s fou—’
‘—nd a penny.’
‘Stop messing about,’ Mick said. He grabbed the garage door and lifted. Slowly, because it creaked.
‘Find a penny, pick it up,’ Dave said, ‘and all day you’ll have good luck. Don’t you reckon we’ll need it?’