Pecking Order (33 page)

Syringes. He needed syringes. Shoving the tiny bottle in his pocket, he set off for the spot by the multi-storey car park where he used to help with the soup run many years before. He shouldered open the graffiti-covered door, flinching at the sharp reek of urine. Quickly he made his way up bare concrete stairs to the roof.

Some things, he concluded with a twisted smile, never change. In a corner by a junction box that now supported several mobile phone masts, lay the detritus of heroin users. Blackened wraps of foil, numerous cigarette butts, crushed boxes of matches, empty bic lighters and several discarded syringes. He crouched down and prodded about, looking for a couple whose needles weren't too rusty. He soon found two that would suffice, one with a smear of blood crusting the inner surface of the barrel.

  From amongst the rest of the debris he picked two protective caps, placed them carefully over the needles and then set off back down to the street.

Chapter 52

Clare surveyed the living room, looking confused. The only change since she'd left was a pile of boxes in one corner, the uppermost one full of old newspapers that had built up around the flat. Shaking her head, she dumped the box with her things from the department in the armchair and was heading straight back out of the door when she saw Zoe's post-it note stuck to the top of the TV.

'In town having my interview at Shout-About-It Design. Should be back around six. Keep your fingers crossed!'

Clare found a pen by the telephone and scrawled on the bottom of the note, 'Zoe, am at the call centre. I'll ring to see how it went. Keep your fingers crossed Rubble phones!'

Then she picked up her canvas bag, slipped out the front door and set off for the centre of town.

The afternoon and evening crawled by. She'd completed all the crosswords in her women's magazines by nine-thirty and had resorted to filling in people's eyes with red biro, giving everyone a grinning, sadistic appearance. One romantic photo story about a handsome man walking his dog in the park, and passing a woman just as her high heel snapped, was transformed into a demonic tale of evil.

'Here let me help you,' leered the man, bloody eyes glowing.

Clare was just adding a row of gore-dripping fangs to the docile Labrador when the phone beeped three times.

'Good evening caller,' said Clare hopefully. 'My name is Sylvie ...'

'It's me. Rubble.'

'Rubble!' She tried to temper the excitement in her voice. 'How good to hear your voice again. How are you my child?' She waited anxiously for a reply and thought she could hear a slight sniffing sound. 'Rubble, are you there?'

When he spoke, his voice was low and fractured with emotion. 'I can never speak to you again.'

'I'm sorry my child?'

‘The man knows I told someone about our missions.'

Clare thought of the eggs and chicken feet. She hadn't thought about the consequences for Rubble.

‘I had to tell him that I'd spoken to you. He was going to throw me off the project. Then he said I could stay if I do another, special, job.'

‘Another job?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What kind of a job?’

‘Don't know. He said it would be different from the others.’

‘Did he say where it would be?’

‘No. But I wanted you to know you were right about everything. And I wish I could speak to you more...' A pause as he gathered his courage. 'Sylvie...' Saying her name made the lump in his throat swell suddenly. Tears sprang into his eyes for the second time that day. He knew that he couldn't say goodbye without starting to sob. Horrified at the prospect, he slammed the receiver down and bent his head over the handset, eyes tightly shut.

'Shit!' Clare yelled, ripping her headset off and jumping up from her seat. Jayne's head appeared over a partition screen a few feet away. 'Clare, you all right?'

'It was him again,' she replied, mouth tight with frustration.

Jayne's face hardened in response, 'You've hit, call-wrap-up?’

'No!' said Clare, instantly pressing the button.

'Right - into Brian's office. And what number line are you on?'

'Twenty-six! '

Jayne marched up the narrow aisle, walking sticks thudding on the carpet, buttocks wobbling with each stride. Clare ran to catch up with her and they burst into Brian's office together.

'Brian, Clare's line, number twenty-six. We need the last caller's number.'

‘Jayne,' said Brian. 'It's against ICTIS regulations to give you that.'

'Bollocks to those regulations,' she advanced towards his desk. 'We need to know where this sick bastard is calling from.'

Craning his neck to look past her bulk, Brian asked Clare, 'Is it really important?'

She nodded just once.

He sighed. 'OK, hang on.’ He highlighted the box on his monitor for line twenty-six and maximised it. Six columns filled the screen. Extension: 26. Operator name: Clare Silver. Operator activity:

Horoscopes / Tarot readings. Activity time: 27 minutes, 46 seconds. Total number of calls: 6. Last call duration: 22 seconds.

Brian right-clicked on the last call and an inner box came up.

Sighing once more, he grabbed a pen and post-it note. Jotting the number down on it, he said, 'Remember girls, it's my job on the line giving you this.'

'Cheers Brian,' they both answered together.

Jayne reached over to take the slip of paper, but Brian held it just out of her reach for a second.

'You'll be the death of me, Jayne Riley,' he whispered with a smile and then placed it in her palm.

Jayne just gave him a wink and ushered Clare out of the room. In the kitchen, she took a mobile phone from her pocket.

'Tell you what,' she said to Clare. 'You brew up while I give Davis a ring.'

'OK,' Clare answered, her face still tense.

Jayne retrieved the number for the front desk of Stanton Street station from her phone's memory. ‘Hello, Duty Officer Davis please.'

The teaspoon clinked as Clare nervously swirled around the tea bags in each cup.

'Jason? It's Jayne.'

Clare looked up on hearing the new tone in Jayne's voice. Was this how she speaks to her punters?

'How are you my darling?' Jayne cooed. As the policeman replied, Jayne smiled at the wall, as if they were face-to-face. When she spoke again, her words were infused with a sweet warmth. 'That's good to hear. And your family?'

Clare found herself wanting to drink the sound in. No wonder Jayne was the most asked-for voice on the chat lines.

Then the other woman’s expression became more serious. ‘Yeah, afraid so. He's really spooking one of my girls. One who really doesn't deserve this sort of shit. Can I give you his number?' A pause, then she read it out. 'OK, we owe you for this, Jason. You're a god-send, my darling.'

She ended the call and when she spoke again her voice was business-like. 'He'll ring us back in about twenty minutes,' she announced, dropping the scrap of paper in the bin. 'You feel up to taking any more calls?'

Clare shook her head. 'No. I'll just wait in here.'

'OK love, I need to clock a couple more up. My mobile’s on vibrate so I'll keep it on the table in front of me. As soon as he rings I'll come back in here. And don't worry; he'll be calling from miles away. You'll see.'

Once Jayne was gone, Clare retrieved the scrap of paper from the bin. After shoving a couple of twenty pence pieces into the tiny pay phone mounted on the wall she rang the number, her forefinger hovering millimetres above the large red 'Connect' button.

In Breystone the phone in the call-box started to ring, the noise carrying across the deserted village green. Down the road from it, a dark blue Volvo, crowded with five people all dressed in black, slowly approached. As the car drew level with the call-box it went over a sleeping policeman and the three men on the back seat heard the baseball bats in the boot clonk against each other.

The man in the front passenger seat peered at the red phone box, his elbow resting on the edge of the open window. As the car continued in the direction of the driveway with the horses' heads mounted on its gateposts, he said to the woman driver, 'Ever wonder who the hell phones call-boxes?'

Clare let it ring for well over three minutes before accepting that she must have missed Rubble. Cursing under her breath, she hung up, then hitched herself up onto the sideboards and sat there anxiously sipping tea.

Two cups later, Jayne hurried back through the doors, the phone trembling in her hand. 'It's Davis!' she said, pointing at the handset and pressing, OK. 'Hi Jason.' The same honeyed tones. 'Thanks for calling back so soon.'

She listened for a few seconds. 'Ah that's great. Yeah, I'll tell her now - she's right beside me.' She looked at Clare. 'He's ringing from a public call-box in some little village called Breystone. It's right out in the countryside, apparently.' Suddenly, she laughed. 'Jason says he's probably got bored with shagging animals and fancied talking to a human for a change. Listen Jason, we appreciate this, you know that don't you? All right, yeah. You too, bye.' She pocketed her mobile. 'There you go Clare, nothing to worry about.'

'Thanks Jayne,' Clare smiled. 'All the same, I think I've had enough for tonight. I'm going to log-off and head home.'

'OK, you do that. Take care of yourself and I'll see you soon?'

"Course,' Clare replied.

Back in her cubicle, she gathered up her things and waved goodbye to Brian as she passed his office. Just as she was about to walk through the exit, the tarot reader who used to work on Mystic Meg's lines stepped out of her cubicle. Their eyes met and she raised a finger in warning.

Before she could speak, Clare slipped through the exit and pushed it shut behind her. Outside, she jogged to the main road and flagged down a cab. Her front door was barely ajar before the heady smell of hashish filled her nostrils.

Damn, she thought, remembering she'd forgotten to ring Zoe about her interview. She shut the door behind her, wondering if the fumes signified the need for congratulations or commiserations. As soon as she stepped into the front room, she knew. Zoe was slumped on the carpet in front of the gas fire, two blackened knives and a cut-off bottle arranged on the hearth. From the stereo came the mournful sounds of Leonard Cohen.

'Zoe?' Clare called gently.

Zoe propped herself up on an elbow and half-looked over her shoulder. 'All right?' she stated flatly, avoiding her friend's gaze.

'How did it go?' asked Clare, sitting down on the sofa.

Zoe continued staring into the quietly hissing gas fire. Her words were groggy. 'They'd given it to someone else before I even got there. A keen young graduate in Diesel jeans and a skateboarder's top. He was already sat on a Mac wowing them all. The studio manager forgot to call me and say not to bother going in.'

Clare leaned forward and placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. 'I'm sorry Zoe, but fuck them. Would you want to work for an outfit that treats prospective employees like that? They're bound to shit on their staff too.'

Zoe heaved out a great sigh. 'Don't know if I want to work for any outfit, full stop.'

Clare frowned in sympathy, 'You'll find a place somewhere decent, believe me.'

Zoe didn't reply.

Clare decided it was time to change the subject. Lifting her voice, she said, 'Guess what? I've found out where Rubble lives - and I don't want to go out there on my own. Fancy coming for a little drive?'

'What, now?'

'Yeah. God knows what Maudsley is up to, but Rubble mentioned that he's going to be doing another job, so I've got to see him as soon as possible.'

Zoe lay back down. 'I don't think so Clare. Maybe tomorrow yeah?'

Clare pursed her lips, looking with disappointment at the apathy-filled form lying on the carpet at her feet.

'Well, can I borrow your car? I really need to see this guy.'

'Yeah,' replied Zoe unenthusiastically. 'The keys are on the hook in the kitchen.'

‘Thanks. I'll see you in a bit.' She stopped in the doorway on her way back out, 'And Zoe? Go easy on the hash. Trust me, it's doing you no good.'

Zoe placed both knives between the bars of the gas fire in an act of silent defiance. 'Clare,' she announced. 'Tonight I intend to get completely off my head.'

'Whatever,' Clare replied, slamming the door shut behind her.

Just down the street was Zoe's silver Polo. She unlocked the door and set off for the motorway.

Chapter 53

'So, about tonight's mission,' said Eric, easing the car into the slow lane.

Rubble sat meekly next to him, head bowed, rubber-coated hands folded in his lap.

'As I mentioned, it's not the same as your previous ones. Tonight's task is normally carried out only by agents far more senior to yourself. So, if you succeed, you are effectively promoted to the next level.'

Rubble looked hopefully up at Eric, determination setting his features in stone.

Eric continued with his speech. 'Tonight's subject is classed by the government as a subversive. Apart from being a member of the animal lib ...' Rubble looked up sharply at the words, like a dog scenting prey. ' ... you don't need to know what she has done. Just think of her as our enemy. Now, on this mission you will not be supplied with a door key. You will get into the subject's flat through a kitchen window at the back. Earlier reconnaissance identified that the panes of glass are loose in their frames. The flat is very close to a railway track. When a train passes you are to use the noise as cover for digging out the putty holding in the window. Once you've removed a pane, undo the handle and climb in. Everything clear so far?'

Rubble nodded again, watching a single set of headlights approaching them on the other side of the crash barriers.

Eric began speaking again. 'The flat only has one bedroom, so your subject should be easy to locate. She is not - I repeat - not, very old. So be ready for a struggle. Eliminate her as you see fit. Perhaps you could snap her neck like you would a chicken's.' He reached under the seat where the two full syringes lay ready. Handing one to Rubble he added, 'And to make sure she's dead, inject her too.'