The City Trap (17 page)

‘You should’ve told me. He’s knocking on my door, Ross.’

‘I thought we’d covered all the angles, but some of the snaps must’ve got into third-party hands that none of us knew about.’

‘All of this is your fault.’

‘Come on . . . I’ll sort it. It’s a loose end that can be quickly snipped.’

‘I want no more killing. You didn’t tell me about the photographer.’

‘It was a mistake. She just flipped and had an accident.’

‘I want this McGinlay deprived of the photos or forced to do a deal. Nothing more.’

‘I’ll handle it myself.’

‘You’ll do it properly or else all the deals we might have in the pipeline are off.’

‘That’s my motivation, Wainwright. Otherwise, who gives a shit if you hit the
News of the World
?’

‘Don’t –’ Sir Martin suddenly pressed a pointing finger at Ross. ‘Don’t get cheap with me, Constanza. I’ve got you well and truly trussed should any of
this get out.’

‘Look, you made the deal with Claudette in the first place. If you’d’ve come through me there would’ve been security. Jesus, it’s me who’s helping you out of
a hole.’

‘OK, she was highly persuasive and I was reckless, but don’t forget we’re both tied together.’

A plane began to descend onto a runway on the far side of the airport. Sir Martin watched it for a few moments, unfazed by the open space, and then looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to
go. Day full of meetings, I’m afraid.’ He opened the door of his Jaguar. ‘I want a regular update on developments, OK?’

Ross watched the car drive off, then turned and looked at the airfield. What a wind shit of a place, he thought with a shudder, and a shit situation, as shitty as when I landed in the nick. He
knew then he should’ve ditched Wainwright the moment he was told of Claudette’s scam. God, he should’ve joined in with her and bled the bugger dry. Ross felt his shoulders sag. He
could well have backed the wrong side, but knew he had no choice but to see things through. He looked down at his soggy shoes and then over at the airport terminal. Too much open space. Vulnerable
to sniper fire. Makes your head spin.

* * *

She had short shaven orange hair, a nose full of rings and a large stomach that squeezed out of a tatty black T-shirt. Her breasts were quite large too, flopping at all angles as
she got ready to lift. But Jerry was most taken with her eyes, pale blue and playful, inquisitive but non-judgemental. He grabbed his end of the mattress and was already beginning to feel at
home.

‘OK, you just keep it up and I’ll pull.’

And another thing, this woman was strong. She braced her silver Docs onto the stairs and easily heaved the mattress up, almost pulling Jerry with her.

‘One more pull and we’ll be on the first landing.’

Since first arriving with his stuff, she’d taken more things up the two flights of stairs than Jerry, carrying two boxes of books to his one. This was perhaps just as well since Jerry felt
frail and run-down, and a simple walk up the stairs made him puff.

‘W-We g-going to be able to get this round the c-corner?’

‘A piece of piss. When I get it on the landing, we’ll pull it round fast so it doesn’t stick.’

‘Sounds l-like you’ve d-done it before.’

‘In this place, loads of times. We get more turnover than the YHA.’

She braced herself again ready to pull.

It was a stroke of luck that Jerry should be doing what he was. Out on Argent Street, wandering like a lost dog, he’d met a casual acquaintance and blurted out he was fearful of going
home. ‘I c-can still see her, m-man, all m-mashed up,’ he kept saying. The guy he’d met, Paul, happened to be one of those people whose connections spread wide around the city. He
knew all about 65 Anselm Road.

‘It’s a long-established squat, man. Been going years. Owned by some rich old dear who can’t get her act together. You’ll get a room there, man. The people are cool, yeh.
They’ll help you get through the shit.’

Jerry wasn’t sure he wanted that kind of help, but he knew he had to move away to stop himself totally flipping. Then it was a question of following Paul around a few pubs until he was
introduced to Jed, one of the long-term squatters, who readily offered him a room. Jerry then persuaded Frederick to drive his stuff over, a pile of cases and boxes crammed in the old Ford with the
mattress flopping around on the roof rack. It all happened so fast and yet it felt to Jerry as if it was part of a plan. He gave a huge sigh of relief when Frederick drove away. A strange house in
an unfamiliar part of the city. It was all right.

‘OK, this is the last pu-lll!’

From the top of the second set of stairs, the woman practically ran the mattress into Jerry’s new room, and pulled him along too. Then she let go and let it slap against the dusty carpet.
She followed, bouncing down on her back, her breasts spreading like liquid jelly and her belly wobbling like the set kind.

‘Wow, I think I’ve earned a rest.’

‘Y-You’ve b-been great. Thanks a lot.’

She hitched herself up onto an elbow and Jerry once more warmed to her eyes.

‘So what are you in here for?’ she asked.

‘Er, I d-dunno, ch-chuck out the old and s-starting anew.’

‘Any particular reason?’

Jerry nodded but couldn’t speak.

‘S’all right, tell me some other time. I tell you, we’ve all got problems here.’

‘Y-Yeah?’

‘Jed’s on methadone, trying to kick the habit but not doing that great. He can’t get a job and keeps getting ill all the time. As for me, I’m on the run. Running from a
lousy childhood in the dark and boring suburbs. And, well, knocking down any sacred cow I come across and there’s a bleedin mountain of them about.’

Jerry began to look around the room, knowing he couldn’t think of much more to say. The woman sensed this and stood up. She bounced in her Docs on the mattress.

‘The name’s Mouse by the way,’ she said.

‘M-Mouse?’

‘We all take weird names here. What’s yours?’

‘Er, dunno. F-Fred?’

‘Ha, you don’t sound too sure.’

‘Any old n-name I reckon.’

‘Yeh, well I’m going to call you – Stray. That seems to me what you are.’

‘Yeh, why not?’

Mouse bounced off the mattress and clumped over to the door. ‘I’ll check you later, OK? Stray?’

‘F-Fine.’

The room was reasonable enough. Not too small and with a nice sloping roof. It even had clean wallpaper, although the marks left by picture frames and furniture were a bit disconcerting. His
window was at the front of the house and he had a clear view of the road. The only problem was the large tree on the opposite side. Jerry felt sure pigeons would be lodged there. Their irritating
noise seemed to be all around. But it was reasonable enough; it was an escape and a chance to start again. He sat down on the mattress amid his possessions. A new life, a new name even, and a
chance to re-enter the world in a different way. Jerry smiled brightly.

‘A m-missing fucking p-person, what c-can you m-make out of that?’

And then a fierce spurt of bile rushed through him as he caught a glimpse once more of the battered Mary and the horny face of that politician.

‘Sh-Shit . . .’

Jerry stood up shaking. He began to wander around the room. And then he stopped and stared at a pale square where someone else’s picture used to be. He started to cry.

18

‘So, how’s it going, Wayne?’

‘Same as ever, mate. Three stiffs from down the morgue most nights and the brewery’s getting restless.’

‘The last of the last legs, eh?’

‘You said it.’

‘So where’s Dick then? He makes up the numbers.’

‘Ha-ha, there’s a bleedin story. The bloke’s been nicked.’

‘What?’

‘Too right, got done for flashin. Can you believe it? Indecent exposure, bloody crazy.’

‘Jesus, Wayne.’

‘I mean, it just goes to show, you can know a bloke for years, on the other side of the bar, but it don’t mean you know him at all, you get me?’

‘Yeh. Guess you could say that about a lot of situations. So where’d he get caught waving his willy then?’

‘Fuck knows.’

Des picked up the two whiskies from the bar. He smiled to himself as he imagined Dick O’Malley doing his thing. Desperate times.

‘By the way, any calls for me, Wayne?’

‘Some guy called asking about you. Didn’t want to leave his name, though.’

Des sat down in the far corner of the bar and slid a glass of whisky over to Errol. He looked up at the walls since he knew that Errol was fuming. Time to let things cool down. Des perused Louis
Armstrong’s clowning face and then the smoke-filled eyes of
Lester Young. Personality, doesn’t it warm the cockles of your heart to have all these familiar faces with you always?
He eased down in his seat and began to inspect the whisky’s golden glow.

‘Look, Des, don’t try an fuckin ignore it. You’ve pissed me about, man.’

‘Don’t see why.’

‘You’ve got vital evidence, for fuck’s sake!’

‘You’ll get the photos, Errol. It’s only a matter of timing.’

‘We were gonna get together and work this through. So what happen? You collar this Jerry git before we do, then he goes and disappears. You get important evidence off him, then won’t
give it in or show it. That is sheer fuck’ry, man!’

‘I told you, I’m just getting some copies made.’

‘What is it with you? You don’t trust me?’

Des lit himself a fag. He noticed Errol’s hair was beginning to thin and his cheeks were sinking inwards.
The trouble with knowing someone a long time, you see yourself getting
old
.

‘Well just tell me something, Errol, right? Up there in the hierarchy of our magnificent police, what will they do about the photos of Sir Martin Wainwright having a kinky
screw?’

‘Probably nothing.’

‘Right!’

‘It’s not illegal, Des, having a fuck, and the photos could be seen as an invasion of privacy.’

‘Jesus! Ain’t it always for the sirs of this world?’

‘I’m just sayin, man –’

‘Come on, Errol, these photos make Wainwright a murder suspect!’

‘All the more reason you hand them in!’

‘Yeh, and have them sat on by some fraternal mason’s arse!’

An edgy silence returned. Errol frowned hard at the table and sucked his teeth. Des would’ve liked to have taken a photo then. Worry. Vexation. That should be the sort of thing shoved on
walls. Everyday lunacies, self-portraits of ordinary lives. Des eased forward and held out his hands in entreaty.

‘Come on, let’s start again, huh? This whole thing’s getting off-limits for the police, and that’s the place I can function.’

‘Dangerous and mad, Des.’

‘No, you can hold the rope for me, right, mate? I’ll give you the photos and any other evidence I can get too and together we can pull it all in and nab the bastards.’

‘And who are the bastards?’

‘Dunno yet.’

‘Great.’

‘Face it, Errol, I’m more likely to find out than you, I mean, with this bigwig involved.’

‘True.’

‘I just need a few more connections and then we’ll know how to play it.’

‘Well, it all sounds like a load of bollocks.’

It was Errol’s turn to ease back then. He pushed against the fake leather seat, gave his tie a tweak and wearily smiled at Des.

‘So why ya doin dis, man?’ he said in his Jamaican voice. ‘You gonna get you’self kill.’

‘Dunno, Errol. You get into it and you can’t stop.’ Des looked up at Louis Armstrong. ‘I mean, if I did stop, what would I be looking at? A big pile of nothing, Errol,
and spiders crawling down the wall.’

* * *

He was definitely losing them, no doubt about it. Ross felt he could almost hear the marbles rolling down the windpipe and clunking like gallstones in Scobie’s gut. He’s
had that stupid grin on his face for days. The guy has got to go. Ross sighed. Look at the fucker now, one eye on his curly fringe, the other trying to give Mount Everest the come-on.

‘How did I end up with so much shit?’

‘What d’you say, boss?’

‘Never mind.’

Ross Constanza was feeling as miserable as he’d ever felt in years. From the moment his eyes had first seen light that morning, a big cloud had followed him round. He couldn’t get it
up with his girlfriend. He couldn’t eat any breakfast. His office had seemed like a poxy cell full of niggles and bad vibes. For the first time in ages he felt like shoving it all.
‘Hard man Ross’ was a bloody great laugh.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this Wainwright business, Scobie. I don’t like it at all.’

‘Reckon you should let the bugger sink. I would.’

‘We’re in too deep. If he gets fucked, so do we.’

‘So what you want me to do then?’

‘There’s this dick, McGinlay, he’s got some of those snaps of our famous friend.’

‘And we want em back pronto?’

‘Right. But get this, Scobie, we want them back without any more blood spilled, right? You can teeth them, or do a deal with the git, but we can’t afford any more dead bodies. Has
that penetrated your friggin thick skull?’

‘Sure, I ain’t gotta do the guy in.’

‘I’ve been doing a bit of checking. He hangs around the Fedora a bit, got a pad off Argent Street and is buddies with a well-up tec in the police.’

‘Who’s paying the fuck?’

‘Not sure yet, but I can make a good guess.’

‘OK, boss, I’m on it.’

‘You got it clear what I want now, Scobie?’

‘Yeh, yeh, no dead bodies.’

Scobie got off his chair, gave his hair a flick as he passed a mirror by the door and then went out of the office. Ross hugged himself. First chance, he thought, feed that git to the wolves.

Gus then poked his head into the office. ‘You got a visitor, boss.’

Ross looked up. The big black cloud had walked right through the doorway.

‘Why did I think I might see you again?’

‘Guilty conscience probably.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Ha, see you haven’t changed.’

‘Well, it must be nigh on twenty years since we last mixed it and you certainly have changed. But that’s the curse of a lot of women, though, ain’t it? Big bums and big tums.
Sagging tits and double chins.’