Candleland (21 page)

“Well,” said Larkin once the three of them were alone, “she's got you two scared, hasn't she?”

“Shut it, just shut it,” snarled Lenny, eyes darting fearfully around the room.

“So you only pick on people smaller than yourselves, do you?” asked Larkin. “Ones that won't fight back? Like Diana?”

Lenny looked like he was about to explode. “Doesn't matter what size you are when you use this,” he spat, pulling out an automatic from the back of his belt and aiming it square at Larkin's face.

Larkin swallowed, inwardly shuddered. He had looked down the barrel of a loaded gun before and it wasn't something that became easier. He didn't know if this one was loaded or ready to fire, but he didn't want to take chances. He stood stock-still and said nothing, staring at Lenny's unstable, quivering fist.

Suddenly a voice broke through the tension.

“Come on, Lenny, that's not how we entertain our guests, is it?”

Larkin turned. From back in the shadows stepped a man. Small, but carrying himself with a dapper air. He wore charcoal-grey trousers with a needle-sharp crease down the front, black, polished loafers, a light tweed sports jacket and a cream silk shirt, collar over the jacket collar. His salt and pepper hair was slightly receding but well disguised, cut into the sort of mullet that long-haired Seventies rockers tried as a compromise when the Eighties arrived. Around his fingers, wrists and neck and dangling from his left ear were enough gold and gems to provide several children with private educations. But it was the eyes that drew you in. At once open and innocent, yet also hinting at darker secrets, hidden things. The kind of eyes that belonged to iconic rock stars or cult leaders.

He spoke again, his voice East End or Essex with the rough edges deliberately filed off.

“Melissa said you'd arrived. Good evening, Mr Larkin. Charles Rook. Call me Charlie.” He smiled, crinkling his eyes at the corners.

It was the kind of book-learned bonhomie-type gesture that charismatic sociopaths employ. Larkin decided to tread carefully. He said nothing.

“Can I get you a drink?” asked Charlie Rook, as if they were old pals meeting in the pub.

“Why am I here?”

Again the smile. “All in good time. Come with me and we'll talk.” Charlie Rook gestured down a dark-panelled, dimly lit corridor.

“You think I'm just going to walk down there with you? When I've just seen your two mates there torture someone to within an inch of their life? You're off your fucking rocker, mate.”

A flash of anger twitched across Charlie Rook's face. Just a flash: he had too much self-control to allow his emotions to overwhelm him. “If that's the case I must apologise for my staffs over-zealousness,” he said, without a note of apology in his voice. “I assure you it won't happen again. Now,” he said, all best mates again, “about that drink …”

Charlie Rook's office wasn't so much a culture clash, as a culture bare-knuckle fight. The elegant, old-money, wood-panelled space had been invaded by a nouveau riche World Of Leather decor. Larkin sat in a huge black sofa that resembled a giant gastropod, a glass of lager, decanted from a can, at his side, hands now untied. Behind an unnecessarily elaborate desk sat Charlie Rook, his cigar and a bottle of lager. On the wall behind him was a collection of framed prints, Charlie Rook and Robert Plant, Freddie Mercury, Elton John, Marc Bolan, David Bowie, Rod Stewart, plus plenty of others, some Larkin didn't even recognise, all in their Seventies heydays.

Charlie Rook caught Larkin looking at them. “As you can see,” he said, “I used to work in the music biz.”

“But you don't any more.”

Charlie Rook shook his head.

“So what do you do now? And why am I here?”

By way of reply Charlie Rook gave an elaborate exhalation of cigar smoke. “Well,” he said, settling back into his chair, making him appear even smaller. “This place here –” He gestured round the room. “– is what you might call the engine room for that place up there. The City. What we do here drives what goes on up there. Gives it fuel. Keeps it running smoothly.” He gave a smug smile, obviously pleased with his words.

Great, thought Larkin, not only a sociopath but a bore. “That's fascinating,” he said, unfascinated. “But what does it mean in English?”

“Well, my work is … you might term it … event management,” he said. “Someone wants something of a special, and usually sensitive, nature organised. A fantasy made reality. I do what I can to facilitate that.”

A sense of unease and distaste at Charlie Rook's words began to creep over Larkin. “Like a pimp, you mean,” he said.

Charlie Rook gave another studied, eye-crinkling, humourless smile. “No, Mr Larkin, not like a pimp. I have a client base. A very rich, influential client base. Lots of top people. And these top people, naturally, have a lot of … pressure. Stress. And they all have different needs, different ways of release, so –”

Larkin's headache was returning. He cut him off. “All right, Charlie, drop the bullshit. I get it. You know a lot of rich weirdos who like to get their kicks in weird ways. And you sort something out for them, right? To keep them fuelled. To keep the upstairs running smoothly. Sounds like pimping to me.” Larkin didn't bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

Charlie Rook's face twitched, lips suddenly, momentarily bloodless. He pulled smoke down his cigar, making the tip glow angrily red, exhaled. “Yeah,” he said, equilibrium restored, “that's it. If you wanna put it like that.” His accent was thickening up. “Screwed-up people who like doin' screwed-up things for fun. An' I help them. Yeah.”

“So why am I here? What's all this got to do with me?”

Charlie Rook gave a smile. It contained less humour than a Bernard Manning joke. “Would you like me to give you a guided tour? Show you what goes on here?”

“No,” said Larkin emphatically. “I want to know why I've been brought here against my will, why an innocent woman is now hospitalised, and when I'm going to be allowed out of that door.”

“You're free to go any time you like, Mr Larkin.” Charlie Rook leaned forward. “But if you do, you'll never learn what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Larkin stood up, moved towards the door. “I can live with that,” he said. He reached the door, opened it. In the doorway stood Ringo's massive bulk, so big he stopped any light escaping from the room. Larkin turned back to Charlie Rook.

“I thought you said I was free to go?” he snarled.

Charlie Rook smiled, spread his hands. “I'm not stopping you. Just walk out. If you can get out.”

Larkin turned, walked slowly back into the room and sank back into the gastropod. “What do you want from me?” he said in a tired voice.

“At last.” He smiled. “We're both looking for someone, Mr Larkin.”

A tingle of apprehension made its way down Larkin's spine. “And who might that be?”

“Oh come on, Stephen, don't mess me about,” snapped Charlie Rook, irritation showing. “You know as well as I do who it is. Karen Shapp. Or Karen Moir, as you call her.”

“That's where you're wrong, Charlie,” replied Larkin. The use of Charlie Rook's first name made the man flinch. “You're behind the times. I was looking for her. I'm not any more.”

Charlie Rook sat rapidly forward. “You've found her?”

“No,” replied Larkin. “I'm just off the job. Her father's taken over. You'll have to talk to him.”

Charlie Rook's voice dropped ominously. “I'm talking to you. Now she's got something belonging to me. I want it back. And I want her. And I want you to find them both for me.”

Larkin's head was throbbing, his body was aching. He had had enough. “I don't care what you want. Fuck you, Charlie.”

Charlie Rook sat back with a start. Something dark and indistinct passed over his face, scuttling quickly like a malignant insect. He obviously didn't like, and wasn't used to, people talking back to him. He leaned forward, eyes taking on a hard, almost metallic sheen. He pointed his cigar at Larkin. The glow looked concentrated but fierce.

“Now listen to me, you little cunt. I've tried to be nice to you, polite, and you've just thrown it back in my face.” The pretence of civility was completely gone now. The man was stripped to his hard, ugly core. “Well, the gloves are off now. You do what I say, when I say and how I say it. Got that?”

“And if I don't?”

“People who mess with me tend not to be around long. Like Jackie Fairley. Remember her?” He stopped talking, waiting for the reaction. Larkin didn't disappoint him.

“You fucking bastard,” he said. “You fucking murdering bastard.”

Charlie Rook smiled. It wasn't pleasant. “That's right, you're catching on quick. Fuck with me, get on my bad side, and you don't walk out of this fucking room alive, my son. Am I making myself understood?”

Larkin swallowed. “Crystal,” he said.

“Good.” Charlie Rook sat back, control restored. “This is what you're gonna do. You're gonna find the girl. You're gonna find my merchandise. And you're gonna bring them both back to me. Got that?”

“What is this merchandise?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Larkin tried a different approach. “So how are you going to make sure I do it?” he asked. “I could just leave this room and you'll never see me again.”

“You could. Which is why you won't be alone when you do leave.” He pressed a button on his desk. The door was opened almost immediately. Ringo stood there again, grinning.

“Meet your new partner,” said Charlie Rook.

Larkin shook his head, groaned.

Charlie Rook gave a grin that was all razors.

“Welcome to the firm, boy,” he said.

“So what's this one called, then?” asked Larkin, wearily.

“See You In Hell',” replied Ringo, gruffly.

“Lovely.”

“Yeah, it's all about his girlfriend havin' an abortion an 'im 'avin' to bury it on a rubbish heap, or somewhere, an' then hatin' 'er for it.”

“And they say romance is dead,” replied Larkin.

Ringo frowned but didn't reply.

The music in the Jag was deafening. Larkin was surprised the sub frame of the car wasn't giving out. He sat back in the passenger seat, the noise pounding at his brain, adding to the already insistent throbbing, and tried to tune it out. He sighed, looked out the window.

Ringo sat, legs apart, both hands on the wheel, seat pushed well back. No seat belt. It wouldn't reach across his body. He was taking Larkin to South London, with orders to keep him in protective custody. They had crossed the river and were now headed towards Bermondsey. Old warehouses converted into overpriced loft apartments sat side by side with sprawling high-rise council estates. Same area, same view, different worlds.

They were currently negotiating the arches, the maze-like stretch of road tunnels, built into the redbrick viaducts that support the overground train lines. Apart from road markings, intermittent overhead lighting and graffiti, they didn't look like they'd been touched in a century.

Larkin stared at the white brick wall speeding past. He sighed. He felt nothing, dead. The last few days had overloaded his emotions and he was now beyond tiredness, guilt, sorrow and self-pity. He was burnt out. He sighed again and thought. Perhaps he had something left: rage. A hard, glittering, steel ball of rage.

He could feel it sitting there, lodged deep within, growing bigger. Sending out cold snaps of electricity to the rest of his body, sparking, expanding, bringing life. All his recent experiences were being re-filtered, re-formulated and re-defined. The vague, nebulous rage against homelessness, the wasted lives he'd encountered, down to the personal, specific rage against Sickert, Faye's relationship with Moir, even the fucking awful racket in the car.

And now he was going to be used. Exploited by a callous murderer. Larkin didn't see why that should happen. The rage grew, his heart pounded, his hands shook. It wasn't going to happen. One way or another, it was going to end now.

Larkin looked around for inspiration, anything that would help him to escape. And then he saw it. His ticket out of there.

On the floor, under the passenger seat between his legs, protruded the handle of a baseball bat. If he could get that out, do some damage while Ringo was driving, he might just make it. It was worth a try, anyway.

Body humming with adrenalin, Larkin quickly reached underneath the seat and brought the bat out. It looked well used. The business end was chipped, dented and scarred, with what looked like dried blood and other associated matter gumming up the holes.

“Wahey, what's this?” said Larkin.

Ringo turned to him. “Put that back,” he growled. “It's not –”

The rest of Ringo's words were violently and abruptly cut off, as Larkin rammed it into the side of his head with as much force as he could manage. Ringo let out a cry of pain as his head recoiled from the blow and smacked off the side window. His hands automatically shot to his head, leaving the steering wheel free.

Larkin reached across and grabbed hold of the wheel with his right hand, twisting it sharply to the left. The car veered.

“No –” gasped Ringo, foot still on the accelerator. He stuck one of his paw-like hands on the wheel, trying to steady it, but the blow had given him double vision. That, and the pain, clouded him. He yanked the wheel to the right, keeping his foot down, inadvertently aiming the car towards the white ceramic brick wall of the arch.

Ringo realised what was happening, shrieked and attempted to regain control of the wheel. Before metal could make contact with stone, he managed to spin it to the left, narrowly avoiding impact.

He hadn't managed to slow the car down, though, so with a high-pitched Diamanda Galas squeal and a stink of burning rubber, the car flew round a corner on two wheels, narrowly avoiding an oncoming van, and raced down another archway.