Candleland (31 page)

Back at Candleland that night, despite the fact they were overwhelmed by relief and exhaustion, Karen and Henry had gone down to the basement to talk, once her handcuffs had been cut off by Mickey, closing the door firmly behind them. Mickey and Larkin had gone into the office, uncapped the brandy and flopped into the chairs. For a few minutes they couldn't speak.

“So what happened, then?” asked Mickey, eventually.

Larkin told him everything, even down to picking up Moir's discarded revolver and wiping down any surfaces he could remember touching. By the time he was leaving, the rain was washing away any footprints.

“Who killed the guy in the office?” asked Mickey.

“Melissa or Lenny,” replied Larkin. “My guess is Lenny. This guy was obviously in with Charlie Rook and they wanted him out of the way. They'd all agreed to meet up there after the handover, but with everything going belly up, Melissa saw this as her now-or-never moment.”

“And it turned out to be never.”

Larkin nodded. He could still see the woman's bloodied body lying lifeless on the jetty. In death she had seemed so ineffectual and harmless; the bullet holes could have marked her as an innocent victim.

He had then checked out the other two in the warehouse. Lenny had had enough presence of mind to find a strip of rigid plastic packaging and fashion it into a tourniquet. He sat, fingers twisting the plastic, face covered in blood and the remains of his right eye, hunched in pain, waiting for an end.

Charlie Rook was still hanging, still breathing. Larkin decided not to move him. Let the paramedics do that. If his eyes looked like tunnels before, the way back had now been sealed up completely.

Larkin regarded the two men; brutalised, tortured and, perhaps, dying. He thought of their victims, their miserable, wasted, unwanted lives, the degradation and suffering that had been inflicted upon them, the unimaginable agony of their deaths at the hands of Charlie Rook's clients. He would reserve his sympathy for those who deserved it.

He found Lenny's laptop, removed the CD, wiped it down and left it in a prominent position. Then he left, following the other two over the gate and back to the cars, phoning for ambulances and police on the way.

“Have you heard anything from the pub?” asked Larkin.

“Only that two of the boys died,” replied Mickey. He sighed. “They signed on as volunteers, both of them knew the risks. But they still had people at home waiting for them. Same as the guys on the other side.”

“Doesn't that make your situation dangerous? Won't someone want to blame you for their deaths?”

Mickey shook his head. “Nah. They'll claim on insurance for the pub and they'll have had enough stashed away to sort their other halves out.” He looked straight at Larkin. “Don't get the wrong idea. They weren't there because they wanted to be on our side, or believed in what we were doin'. No. They were there for the aggro, pure an' simple.”

“Don't you feel any responsibility towards them?”

“Course I do. If I hadn't asked them to help they might still be alive. But it was their choice. An' that's what I keep tellin' myself.” Mickey's forehead was creased and his eyes held a dark dolour. “Bastards like Charlie Rook have to be stopped. Simple as that.”

“By any means necessary?”

“Any.”

“Remember what Nietzsche said,” said Larkin. “‘Whoever hunts monsters must in turn guard against becoming a monster himself.'”

Mickey gave a sad smile, turned his eyes heavenward. “I trust the big fella to look after me. Anyway, it's a risk you've got to take. How do you feel?”

Larkin sighed. “Ask me in the morning.” He took a mouthful of brandy. “So what happens next?”

“I suppose we wait an' see,” said Mickey draining his glass. “I doubt we'll have long to wait.”

They didn't. The papers the next day were full of it. “Massacre at the Metals Yard”, as the tabloids dubbed it. Charlie Rook and Lenny Lothario (real name Leonard Webley) were in intensive care. There was no elaboration on the state of either. The dead man in the office, Graham Agnew, was a well-known associate of Charlie Rook's. The police had long suspected his involvement in criminal activities but never had enough proof until now. They were writing the whole thing off as a falling out among thieves. At least that was the official story. There was also mention made of an unidentified young woman. Nothing was known about her, but they were working on the angle that she might have been an innocent victim. There was no mention of the CD.

Larkin wasn't surprised by the last bit of news. He had expected as much.

“We've got to do something,” said Mickey. “We can't just let it disappear.”

“I agree,” replied Larkin, “but we need an honest copper for that.” He was struck by a sudden thought. “And I think I know just the one …”

Larkin imagined the scene the next morning. Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy of Camden CID coming into his office in North Bridge House to find a large package on his desk. He could see him opening it and finding a CD, two folders' worth of papers and an envelope. He would slit open the envelope and read the note inside:

“The files aren't complete and I realise it's not on your manor, but there's enough to be going on with. Put the CD in your PC, get ready to step on some toes and prepare to get angry.

“Your Friends From The North.”

He could imagine Kennedy watching the CD, reading through the papers and going to make some arrests before word got round, lawyers were called and documents shredded. And yes, Larkin thought, he would be very, very angry.

Lenny Lothario came round, but was still very weak.

Charlie Rook came off the critical list and lay there in a coma, threatening to come round, but never quite making it.

The threat was enough for Lenny, though, he wouldn't talk. So, in the absence of any alternative, he was charged with murder.

No one came to question Larkin, Mickey or Moir.

“I don't think I've ever talked so much in my whole life,” said Henry, a couple of days later.

He and Larkin were sitting in a branch of Starbucks just off Leicester Square. It had been Henry's choice, and even though Larkin knew the man wasn't drinking, he was surprised, to say the least. But then Moir had surprised him a lot recently. He had even insisted on paying for the coffees.

They were perched on high stools at the front of the shop, absently gazing through the window. The street was grey outside. Pedestrians, huddled in their clothes, cocooned from contact with others, rushed past, all seemingly annoyed by something, probably that winter was taking so long to leave. Larkin and Moir, on the other hand, were warm inside the coffee shop. Moir was so warm he was shedding layers as he talked, leaving them lying on the next stool like discarded repressions.

Larkin sipped a large latte. “Well, you had a lot to talk about,” he said.

Moir was telling him about his night spent talking with Karen. Neither he nor Karen had gone into specifics when talking to the others about it, but Larkin had managed to pick up quite a lot from listening between the lines, reading the silences.

Father and daughter had had a lot of ground to cover, a lot of anger to release, along with the guilt, rage and pain of a shared history. By morning they were exhausted, but at least they now possessed a clearer understanding of each other: they had actually communicated for the first time in years, perhaps ever.

“Yeah,” said Moir.

Larkin had never seen the big man so relaxed. He was cleaner, slimmer, even better dressed. And he had insisted on meeting in a chain coffee shop. The old Moir wouldn't have set foot in the place. The new one even smiled occasionally.

“I mean it's not perfect,” Moir continued. “We both know that. We've still got a long way to go, Karen and me …” He stopped talking. There were tears in his eyes. “But we're tryin'. That's the main thing.”

Larkin smiled. “Glad to hear it.”

Moir kept his head down. Larkin could see the man was struggling to express emotions formerly untapped. “Look,” he mumbled, face reddening, “I owe you for this.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “You did …” Moir trailed off. He steepled his hands and pressed them against his forehead, palms covering his eyes, hiding his face. He struggled to control himself.

“It's OK, Henry,” said Larkin quietly. “Just leave it at that.”

Moir nodded and looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed. He smiled, gave a little laugh. “I've given up the booze, or I'm tryin' to, I've got a woman in my life for the first time in years, and I've found my daughter.” He shook his head as if he couldn't quite believe it. “Stephen, I'm so fuckin' happy.”

Larkin nodded, his smile a mask. “Good.”

Moir gave a snort. “I'd best get an umbrella,” he said. “It won't last. There'll be ten tons of horseshit fallin' on my head sooner or later.”

They drank their coffee in silence.

“So,” said Larkin eventually, “you had any thoughts on what to do next?”

“I don't know,” said Moir. “I can't go back, can I?”

“To Newcastle?”

“To the force. To anything. I've crossed the line, haven't I?”

“Not just you, Henry. I was there too, don't forget. And Karen, she saw what happened.”

Moir sighed as a shadow crossed his face. “Yeah, but it was me that did it.” His voice dropped. He looked round quickly, checked no one was listening. “I pulled the trigger.”

“You did what you had to do,” said Larkin. “It was the only way to save Karen. Any of us would have done it.”

“But it was me that did it. I was the one crossed the line. The other day I was a copper. Now … I don't know what I am. But I know I can't go back.”

Larkin wasn't surprised by the news. He had thought something like this might happen. “They'll miss you back in Newcastle,” he said. “Hank Moir, scourge of evil-doers everywhere.”

“Piss off,” said Moir, managing to laugh.

“So what will you do instead?” Larkin asked.

“Workwise? I don't know. I've got a bit of money put by so I can live on that for a while. Who knows? I might move into the private sector, do something like Jackie Fairley used to, God rest her.” He took a mouthful of coffee. “Anyway, as long as I'm near Karen for the time being, I'll be OK.”

And near Faye, thought Larkin. “Good luck,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Moir, smiling.

They both lapsed into silence. Outside, people moved past hurriedly, blinkered, purposeful. Larkin and Moir sat and watched them.

“Do you have nightmares?” asked Larkin eventually. “About what happened that night? About Melissa?”

Moir thought for a moment. “Not yet,” he said quietly, then louder: “And I don't think I will. But you never know what's around the corner, do you?” His voice dropped again. “What about you?”

“The same,” Larkin said quickly.

Moir nodded and returned his gaze to the street outside. Larkin did likewise.

When it came time for Moir to leave, he asked Larkin to go back to Clapham with him. Larkin, who hadn't yet spoken to Faye, or for that matter, Andy, declined.

“They want to see you,” said Moir. “They're worried about you, you haven't contacted them since –” He looked for the right phrase. “– the other night. Andy's taking it as a personal insult.”

Larkin smiled. “Tell him not to. There's some things I have to sort out first. And I'm better doing them on my own.”

Moir understood. He relayed a message from Faye, that Larkin was invited round for dinner in a couple of days' time, then left him alone.

Larkin left the coffee shop and went walking.

As he went down Shaftesbury Avenue his eyes were drawn towards the shop doorways. Even in broad daylight, figures lay slumped and curled inside filthy blankets, old sleeping bags and pieces of cardboard. Some asleep, some, for all anyone knew, dead. Sleeping bags turned to body bags. The cocooned pedestrians hurried past them, stepped over them, treated them as if they were a part of the pavement.

It made Larkin angry. Karen had been found, reunited with her father, they were working it out. Good for them. Karen was fortunate. Larkin looked at those less fortunate as he walked past. A lot of them were under thirty, most under twenty. They looked broken, defeated. No one was looking for them, no one cared whether they lived or died. They were adrift in the wasteland. No candles would be burning for them.

Larkin headed for The Spice of Life, the pub he had visited when he had first started looking for Karen. He sat with his pint, thinking. Seeing so many wasted lives on the street had left him feeling impotent. He wanted to do something. After his second pint, he began to feel that decisive action was needed. Even to satisfy his own needs if nothing else: he couldn't move on until amends had been made, some kind of truce had been reached. But he didn't know how. It wasn't until he was on his third pint that an idea came to him. As soon as it had, he downed his drink and, feeling light-headed, lurched out of the door before he changed his mind.

That was how he found himself, later that afternoon, walking down Priory End Lane. He came to number thirty-seven. It was still a place without hope. He walked up the cracked path and knocked timidly on the door. Almost as if he didn't want to be heard.

He stood there, waiting. The first inklings of alcoholic remorse were kicking in and he was starting to convince himself the visit was a bad idea. He willed himself to walk away, but didn't. Something stopped him; something stronger than just the drink. Eventually he heard footsteps coming down the hall.

The door was opened by a dead-eyed girl: limp dark hair, ineptly applied make-up, cheap, tarty clothes that exposed rather than showed off her dumpy, breastless body. She looked about thirteen. As soon as she saw Larkin, she fitted a false smile in place.