Candleland (30 page)

As Larkin watched, Lenny unwrapped the blanketed figure. To his astonishment, it was a very battered Charlie Rook, his wrists handcuffed together in front of his body. Lenny pulled down a hook attached to a length of chain from a ceiling-mounted hoist, fitted the handcuffs over the hook, and hauled him up, slightly off the floor. Any relief Larkin felt at seeing Charlie Rook was tempered by the fact that next to him was Karen, similarly suspended. She looked exhausted and in pain. Larkin looked again at Lenny. The man looked sullen and distracted. Hardly surprising, thought Larkin, the news he'd just received. Next to Lenny, dressed in jeans, boots, sweatshirt and fleece, was Melissa. Her hair was scraped back and her face held such a cruel expression that even from a distance it sent a shiver through Larkin. As he watched, she spoke.

Unfortunately, Larkin could only make out muffled sounds through the glass, so he tried to get nearer. A door set into the wall leading into the warehouse was slightly ajar. He pulled it slowly open and entered.

He was conscious of being visible, so he quickly moved behind a pile of bins and listened.

“– all fucked, Charlie,” Melissa was saying. “And you fucked it. You've got no vision, no …”

The words trailed off as her temper took over. She became suddenly inarticulate with anger, hands bunching into fists, pummelling the chest of the hanging man. Now we're seeing your true colours, love, thought Larkin. You're a vicious, dangerous psychopath.

Melissa's rage abated and she resumed talking, gasping for breath. “You see, Charlie,” she said, her voice dripping with pity, “I had to do it. Had to take over. I've got vision, my sweet. I have to use it.”

Her mood swing was as swift as it was unexpected. It confirmed to Larkin that the woman was unhinged.

“You see,” she said, as if she was a teacher patronising a retarded pupil, “I gave the disc to the girls. I sent Lenny and Ringo after them to get it back. I had planned on keeping the disc to myself and telling you the girls still had it. But …” She gave a theatrical sigh, turned towards Karen. “This little bitch got a bit too clever, didn't she?” She squeezed Karen's face. “And now we have to keep the little whore alive, don't we?” She squeezed harder. “Don't we?”

Larkin stuggled against the impulse to rush forward and intervene. He would have been powerless.

Melissa let go of Karen's cheek. Tears were forming in the girl's eyes. “But that doesn't mean things have to be comfortable for you. You're going to have to do what I say.”

“And if I don't?” Karen managed through a broken sob.

“I'll show you,” said Melissa, face lit by a sick light. “Lenny, bring the stuff over here.”

Lenny didn't move, just stared into space.

“Lenny!”

He shook himself from his unpleasant daydream and moved over to the far wall. He trundled a trolley over, stood it beside Melissa. Larkin recognised what it was. The twin cylinders of an oxy-acetylene torch.

“This is what happens, Karen,” said Melissa. She ripped off Charlie Rook's shirt, fired up the torch, and went to work.

The screams were sudden, loud and sickening. Larkin blocked his ears, screwed his eyes tight shut. It was no good, he could still hear it. And he had to do something about it, or Karen would be next.

Unblocking his ears but trying to dislocate his mind, he moved slowly around the wall of the warehouse, using the bins for cover. There was just enough space for him to squeeze through, and he worked his way round until he was flattened against the wall nearest to where the torture was taking place. Seeing nothing to hand that would help, he took another couple of deep breaths and began to haul himself up the stack of bins.

Charlie Rook's screams camouflaged the noise of his climb. He reached the top, peered down, and wished he wasn't seeing what was happening in front of him. Melissa was systematically searing the skin from the man's back. Larkin swallowed hard, forcing down the bile rising in his throat, and edged his way along the stack, making sure he couldn't be seen from the ground. He stopped when he was positioned directly above the trolley carrying the gas cylinders, and risked a look down.

He knew he had only one chance to get this right, so he braced himself against the warehouse wall, arms against the bin in front of him, and pushed as hard as he could.

The bin toppled over but the rest of the stack, thankfully, held. It came crashing down on its intended target, knocking the cylinders over, wrenching the torch from Melissa's hand, raining plumbing fixtures and taps all around. Keeping the element of surprise on his side, Larkin jumped down after it.

Melissa spun to face him, her mouth gaping. She was the first to work out what was happening.

“Lenny! Get him!”

Lenny ran towards Larkin, trying to pull his gun free as he came. Larkin, thinking quickly, grabbed a length of copper pipe from the bin he had just upset and swung it at Lenny. It connected with the man's forearm, knocking the gun from his fist.

Lenny flinched in pain, grabbed his arm and still kept coming. Larkin ran to the side, dodging out of the way.

Unfortunately, his boot rolled on another length of piping, causing him to lose his footing and stumble backwards.

Lenny was on him fast, pressing his thumbs into Larkin's windpipe, his mouth twisted into a rictus of hate. Larkin tried to pull the arms from his neck but it was no good, they were locked. He tried prising the fingers back but they wouldn't budge. Lenny's arms had locked like a pit bull's jaws. They wouldn't let go until Larkin was dead.

Frantically, he groped round the floor for a weapon. He found something smooth, cold and angular. That would do. He brought the object up with as much force as he could manage, smashing it against the side of Lenny's head. The blow connected, sending Lenny's brain bouncing off the inside of his skull. He cried out in pain, his grip loosening slightly. But not enough. Larkin did it again, but Lenny kept on choking him.

Larkin managed to see what the object was in his hand: a tap. One with four long, straight handle grips. He manoeuvred it round in his hand, steadied Lenny's head by pulling his hair with the other hand, and rammed it straight up, aiming for Lenny's right eye.

He found it. Lenny screamed like a wild animal caught in a trap, and let go of Larkin completely. Larkin, who had closed his own eyes in case he got any of Lenny's in them, opened them and rolled away. Lenny staggered back blindly, stumbling against the press.

“You're gonna die for that, you cunt!” he shouted.

“I don't think so,” said Larkin and found another length of copper pipe. He picked it up, ready to defend himself from another attack.

But Lenny had other things on his mind. He was in pain and reeling around blindly, outstretched hands grasping uselessly. His fingers curled and uncurled, feeling their way along the side of the press. Inadvertently and oblivious to what he was doing, his hand fell onto the huge red starter button and pressed it. The machine clanked into life.

Larkin saw what was going to happen and called out, trying to warn Lenny. It was no good. Lenny was in too much pain to hear. He had his right hand pressed into the remains of his eye, gasping in agony, and stood with his left hand on the edge of the press, gripping it for support. He didn't see the huge razor-sharp blade come down and take his left hand off from below the knuckles.

Lenny screamed all the harder. He brought the stump of his hand up to his good eye and looked at it. As soon as he saw it, his screams started to subside. At first he fell silent but, as Larkin watched, he began to sob, slipping to the floor, back against the moving machine, inadvertently hitting the off switch. He curled himself up into a foetal ball, body jerking with pain.

Larkin found the spectacle pathetic. He almost felt sorry for the killer. Knowing he would be no more trouble, he turned his attention to the others.

Charlie Rook was still hanging there, but there was no sign of Melissa or Karen.

Larkin crossed to Charlie Rook, looked at him. The man was in shock, his eyes blank, escape tunnels into another world. His back was a charred, bloody mess. The stench was awful. Larkin wanted to get out of the warehouse, and when he saw that the side door was open, he ran to it and exited. Into the rain, into the night.

Once in the yard, he looked round. The cars were still parked there, so they hadn't gone far. He checked the skips, the cranes. Nothing. No movement, no sound. He looked at the ground and saw lines through the dirt and gravel, being rapidly eroded by the rain. Drag marks leading to the jetty. Larkin followed.

As he approached, he began to discern two figures making their way towards the end of the jetty, one pushing the other, silhouetted against the lights on the far side of the river.

He moved cautiously closer, eyes acclimatising to the dark, wind and rain lending a sharpened coldness to his body. He saw Karen, still handcuffed, huddled, shivering and tearful. Beside her stood Melissa, a deranged gleam in her eye, a vicious-looking knife in her hand. The knife was held against Karen's throat.

Larkin stepped on to the jetty.

“Stay where you are,” snapped Melissa, “or I'll kill her.”

Larkin stopped moving. “Give it up, Melissa,” he said. “Let her go.”

“Fuck off!” she shouted. “You've ruined everything!” She sounded like a petulant child.

“Just let Karen go,” said Larkin, “and we'll walk out of here and leave you alone forever. You've got the CD, you've got Charlie Rook's business, now let her go.”

“No! No! Leave me alone!” She pressed the knife against Karen's neck. Karen whimpered and tried to pull away, but it was no use. Melissa held her too tightly.

Fuck, thought Larkin. This isn't going to end prettily.

Just then, Karen spoke.

“Is this the spot?” she asked quietly. “The spot where you killed Hayley?”

“It is,” said Melissa, almost proudly. “It's the place where Lenny and Ringo killed her and dumped her. Want to join her?”

Karen gave a slow nod. “Yes. Then I'll be free of you.”

Melissa gave a cold smile. “That can be arranged.” She moved the knife closer.

“Do that, Melissa, and you're dead,” Larkin shouted. “I've just got rid of Lenny. I won't stop till I've got you.” Larkin began to edge forward.

“I said stay where you are!” shouted Melissa.

Larkin looked from one to the other. Stalemate.

At that point, he noticed Melissa's eyes begin to fix on some point behind him. She was looking curiously, apprehensively at something.

Larkin turned, trying to follow her gaze. He could make out a figure striding through the yard with imposing bearing and coat tails flapping, seemingly impervious to the wind and the rain, expression one of focus and concentration. Moir.

“Wondered when you'd turn up,” Larkin said to him with relief. “You can arrest her now.”

Moir ignored him, kept his attention rooted to Melissa. Larkin noticed the man was carrying his revolver down at his side.

“Let her go.” Moir spoke the words as a flat, uninflected command.

Melissa tightened her grip.

“You've got one more chance,” said Moir. “Let her go. Now.”

Melissa opened her mouth to speak. “I don't know who you are, but –”

Moir raised the gun – his father's revolver – and emptied the full six rounds into her. He would have used more: his finger was still clicking on empty chambers.

Melissa's body jerked in a different direction with each shot. Eventually she landed in a crumpled heap, head lolling over the end of the jetty.

Larkin turned to him, shock and surprise all over his face.

Moir ignored him. He dropped the revolver, walked forward like a man with tunnel vision and gathered up his weeping daughter into his arms.

Larkin took a mouthful of Chilean Cabernet, savoured the richness on his tongue and swallowed it, willing himself to relax. The dinner was, after all, in his honour, since he was going home in the morning. Or at any rate, leaving London.

He looked round the dinner table, which was laden with huge bowls of pasta, salad and sauce, bottles of wine and soft drink, crockery, cutlery and glass. Andy was on his left, Mickey on the right. Opposite sat Henry, flanked on either side by a happy Faye and a nervous but relieved-looking Karen.

The dining room of Faye's house was lit only by candles. The six of them sat there, bathed in the warmth of the glow, trying not to let the shadows touch them.

A whole week had passed since that night at Dagenham and they were still trying to come to terms with what had happened. Like soldiers who are relieved that the war is over, they were, nevertheless, finding peace, no matter how worthwhile, difficult to fight for.

Larkin took another mouthful of wine and let his thoughts travel back. One week.

With Moir holding a sobbing, wet, shivering and blood-spattered Karen so tight, he feared she might disappear if he let her go, they had made their way back to Candleland, stopping at a callbox to leave an anonymous tip-off.

As the two cars crawled inconspicuously onto the London-bound lane of the A13, the police and ambulances were noisily announcing themselves from the other direction, breaking laws and records as they sped towards the industrial estate, tyres skidding and screeching in the pouring rain.

In their telephone conversation the previous day, Moir had insisted Larkin told him about Karen. Despite protestations, Moir managed to get him to explain about the disc and the handover, telling him it was going to take place in a pub owned by one of Mickey's old acquaintances, patrolled by some of the old gang members. Moir had insisted on being there and they had argued, eventually reaching a compromise whereby he would wait in the car he had borrowed from Faye, out of the action, but on hand to see Karen afterwards. Moir had seen Lenny drag Karen out but had been powerless to intervene since he didn't want to get caught in the crossfire. Once Larkin and Mickey set off, though, he had followed.