The Informant (18 page)

She batted him with her hand. ‘Fuck off!’

‘Seriously babes, you’re smart y’know. I been looking into this art game. Me and Ash, we spent the day going round these galleries. We seen paintings a kid of five coulda done
and they’re asking thousands for them. I tell you it’s a right old racket. I never knew or I’d’ve been in it before.’

Kaz smiled. His boyish enthusiasms always had the power to charm her. It helped erase the other Joey from her mind, the one who’d tossed Jez Harris off a balcony as if he were a bag of
garbage.

‘There is a bit more to it y’know, if you wanna do something good.’

Joey grinned. He was off on one of his flights of fancy. ‘Course. I know it ain’t all a con. Or if it is it’s a legitimate con. And that’s what we need. Paintings are a
great investment if you pick the right ones. And you got the eye. One more string to our bow babes. We’ll clean up.’

Kaz fixed him with a thoughtful look. It was now or never. In a mood like this she had the best chance of making him listen.

‘Before we get into any of that, there’s something else we need to talk about.’

He cocked his head, she could see the suspicion surfacing. She’d had plenty of experience of Joey’s lightning changes of mood. But she ploughed on.

‘What happened at Natalie’s – I’m not prepared to sweep that under the carpet.’

Joey shot an irritable glance at her, a warning of choppy waters ahead. ‘It’s sorted. On all levels. Natalie’s in rehab, the filth’s got nothing. What more do you
expect?’

Kaz gazed into those baby-blue eyes, she could see the anger rising, but she held her course.

‘Jez ain’t the only one you killed, is he?’

Joey puffed himself up defensively. ‘What? What bollocks you talking?’

Kaz took a breath. She hooked his gaze, waited until he was looking right at her. ‘I want you to stop killing people.’

There, she’d said it. It was out there. Her words hung between them for maybe thirty seconds before Joey guffawed.

‘Jez Fucking Harris! Why you so hung up on him? He was a fucking waste of space in anyone’s book.’

She stood her ground, Joey took a step back from her, anger fizzing into a physical need to just move. Kaz tried to hold on to eye contact. She needed him to look at her.

‘Joey, listen to me. I’m not talking about Jez Harris. I’m talking about you, what you do. It has to stop babes. For your sake.’

‘What d’you mean, my sake? What the fuck you talking about?’

‘No one else knows what it was like for you growing up. But I know. Okay, we did stuff, we did what we had to to survive. Those days are gone. You said you wanted a new start. Well
now’s the chance. But you gotta change too. ’Cause if you don’t . . .’ Kaz had to swallow hard to keep her feelings in check. ‘If you don’t . . . you’re
gonna turn into him. And I don’t think I could bear that.’

Joey stood there, arms clutched protectively round his own chest. His face was blank, there was no emotion in his eyes. ‘You saying you think I’m like him?’

Kaz blinked. She was close to tears, the idea of Joey turning into their father was a corrosive acid burning inside her. ‘No. But you gotta start looking at what you’re doing
Joey.’

He looked straight at her. He seemed calm, but defeated.

‘What, you think I’m turning into some kind of psycho?’

‘No. ’Course I don’t.’ In her head there was a fine line between reassurance and lying, she wasn’t sure if she’d crossed it. Joey looked so forlorn. If a
demonstration were needed of the effect she could have on him, this was it.

‘Someone called me that – a psycho. I thought he was a mate. People let you down Kaz. You trust ’em, they let you down. Is that what you’re gonna do?’

He looked so small and vulnerable now, turning in on himself, imploding. Kaz moved forward, put her arms round him. He let his head drop on her shoulder and the tears started to flow.

‘I never . . . never meant to hurt anyone. Even fucking Jez. I was just trying . . . I dunno . . . just sorting things out. You got to keep on top of things, y’know, or they get out
of hand.’

Kaz stroked his hair, even cut short it was so thick, as it was when he was a boy. She let her fingers ripple through it. ‘Sssh, it’ll be okay.’

‘He’s . . . he’s a fucking monster! I don’t want be like him. No fucking way!’

‘You’re not gonna be. But you have to listen to me Joey.’

She could feel the heat of his breath, the wetness of the tears on her neck. A shudder quivered through him.

‘I am listening. See, this is why I need you in my corner. Tell me what to do . . .’

She lifted his head from her shoulder, wiped the tears and snot away with the back of her hand, as she’d done so many times before. She waited until he was gazing straight at her.

‘Okay . . . we follow your plan. Use the Net, move into the mainstream, make the business totally legit. But . . . no more killing. ’Cause the police ain’t idiots.
They’ll keep going and in the end they’ll nail you. So it all stops, stops now, then they got nothing.’

‘They’ll try and fit me up.’

‘That’s what you got lawyers for. You have to put yourself out of harm’s way babes. Avoid trouble.’

He nodded. He seemed to be taking it in.

‘And that’s the deal between you and me. It all stops now. We go totally legit, stick to business. You agree to that, then we’re partners.’

Joey stared at her. He seemed flabbergasted. He started to chuckle nervously. ‘You mean that? We’re really gonna be partners?’

‘Yeah, if you accept the deal.’

He didn’t reply, just beamed from ear to ear, seized her round the waist and whisked her off her feet.

‘Come here partner!’

For Helen Warner Sunday mornings were sacrosanct. Maybe this was the result of growing up in a church-going family. Her parents were good people and robust Christians, which
meant she and her two brothers had to be washed and scrubbed and paraded every Sunday morning in the pews of their quaint village church. They had no choice in the matter until Helen was sixteen
and, as the eldest, felt duty-bound to rebel on behalf of them all.

Now her Sundays were all about doing exactly as she liked. Living alone had, in her view, many advantages. She only had herself to please. And what pleased her was to get up on a Sunday when she
wanted, throw on an old pair of joggers and a sweatshirt and go out for the papers. During the week she relied on digital media, but the rituals of her new religion required she spent Sunday
mornings immersed in the broadsheets, with a pot of good coffee, catching up on the week in politics.

She was lounging on her sofa doing just that when the doorbell rang. She thought it might be her neighbour. Henry was in his nineties, long ago widowed, a retired doctor. He had family who
called in regularly, but Helen tried to keep an eye on him. He occasionally locked himself out and his daughter had given her a spare key. In return, Henry gave her plants for her window boxes. He
liked to chat and was a bit of a flirt.

The flats were on five floors of a very elegant Edwardian mansion block in Bloomsbury. The rooms were high-ceilinged and spacious, and Helen had only been able to afford such a desirable
apartment with a sizeable legacy from her grandmother and some help from her parents. It was her home and her haven.

She opened the front door with a smile, ready with a quip for Henry. Then she blinked with shock and the colour flooded up her neck and into her cheeks.

‘Karen? What are you doing here?’

Kaz smiled. She had spent some time weighing up the pros and cons of surprising Helen at home. In the end desperation got the better of her. Helen had given her the address years ago, during a
prison visit; Kaz had wanted to send her a Christmas card she’d designed herself. When she started the art classes in Woburn Square and realized she was in Helen’s neighbourhood,
she’d done a recce and searched out the flat. This morning she was about to ring the entryphone from the street, but someone coming out had held the door open for her. So she found herself
standing on Helen’s doormat, feeling slightly awkward. The tone in Helen’s voice didn’t improve matters. Kaz knew at once that she’d made a mistake, crossed an invisible
line. Now she had to front it out.

‘You said you wanted another drawing.’ She held out her sketchbook. ‘Thought I could show you a few. My life drawing class is round the corner in Woburn Square.’

Helen gave her a sceptical look. ‘It runs on a Sunday?’

Kaz had a ready-made lie, only a small one. In the circumstances it felt justified. ‘I had to pop into the studio, pick up some stuff. But you’re probably busy . . .’

Helen painted on a smile. ‘No no, I’m just slobbing about. Sorry, do come in.’

She stepped back from the door and Kaz followed her into the hallway. The floor was old-fashioned wooden parquet blocks, the smell of wax polish rose up from them. Helen was barefooted, Kaz
watched as she walked ahead, her feet seeming to skate over the shiny floor. It was almost a shock to see Helen this naked. But isn’t that why she’d really come, to infiltrate her
lawyer’s private life?

Helen led her into the kitchen. Though the rest of the flat retained its prized Edwardian features, the kitchen was ultramodern; the high-gloss surfaces were pristine and, with the exception of
a matching kettle and toaster, the worktops were bare.

Kaz gazed around. ‘Wow, you’re neat.’

Helen filled the kettle. ‘Tidy home, tidy mind. Coffee?’

‘Thanks. Listen, I probably should’ve called first . . .’

Helen returned the kettle to its base and flicked the switch. ‘Let’s see then.’

Kaz was momentarily puzzled, the fact she was actually in Helen’s flat was absorbing all her attention.

‘Your drawings.’

Kaz became aware of the sketchbook she was clutching. ‘Oh yeah.’

She plonked the heavy pad on the kitchen counter and flipped it open to the first page. Leo was resplendent on his cushions, head flung back, legs akimbo, one hand suggestively close to his
rather large penis. Helen looked the drawing over and smirked.

‘He looks . . . rather pleased with himself.’

‘His name’s Leo. He’s got a tendency to fall asleep, must have these wet dreams, ’cause he gets a hard-on like you wouldn’t believe. At one point, Mike, he’s
the tutor, kicked his foot. Apparently it’s . . . unprofessional.’

Helen laughed. ‘A model with an erection? I should think it is!’ She turned to Kaz, her gaze had warmed up. Leo had proved an unexpected icebreaker. ‘It’s very good, but
I’m not sure I’d want him on my wall.’

‘I wanted you to see what I been doing.’

Helen found it difficult to remain annoyed, she gave Kaz a diffident smile. ‘I’m sorry if I seem . . . I dunno, I am pleased to see you. You took me by surprise.’

Kaz nodded, inclined her head towards the sketchbook. ‘So whad’you think?’

Helen turned her attention back to the drawing and gave it some serious scrutiny.

‘It’s good . . . it’s, well don’t get me wrong, but it’s different.’

‘No one gave me the chance to draw naked men before. Or naked anyone for that matter.’

Helen laughed. ‘What I mean is, you’re drawing with far more confidence. It’s bolder. Sharper.’

Kaz grinned. ‘That’s what I thought. So I should thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For telling me to become a proper student.’

Helen pondered. The kettle was boiling. She opened a cupboard and took out a cafetiere. ‘Did I tell you that? Surely Becky was the one encouraged you to do the A-level?’

Kaz folded her arms. ‘You were the one I wanted to impress.’

Helen didn’t reply. She busied herself spooning coffee into the cafetiere and pouring boiling water into the pot. Kaz could see the tension in her shoulders, the taut sinews running down
her neck. Without her office uniform and her make-up she seemed much younger, more Kaz’s age, more of a peer. And Kaz could feel Helen’s discomfort; she needed rescuing.

‘Joey’s got one of these coffee-making machines. Froths milk. Does all sorts.’

Helen picked up this thread gratefully, adopting an overly cheerful tone. ‘Yes, my parents have got something similar. Espresso machine. They were on at me to get one.’ She grinned,
indicated the empty worktops. ‘Thing is, where would I put it?’

Kaz chuckled. ‘I’m guessing you’d have to put it in a cupboard.’

‘Exactly. And then you’d be forever getting it in and out, wouldn’t you?’ She produced two bone china mugs and a tray. ‘Do you take milk?’

‘Black’s fine.’

Helen loaded the tray and carried it through to the sitting room. Leaving her sketchbook, Kaz followed. The room was large and airy, with windows on two sides; considering its size there
wasn’t much furniture: two pale cream sofas, a glass table, a plasma screen. Kaz noticed that there was already a drained coffee pot on the table, together with an empty mug and a pile of
newspapers. Helen glanced at it as she put the tray down.

‘Now you’ve caught me out with my private addictions. Coffee and more coffee.’

Kaz smiled. ‘There are worse things.’ She sat down on the opposite sofa, giving Helen plenty of space.

Helen began to carefully fold up the newspapers, she ended up with a small stack; she was buying time, getting over the shock. Kaz turning up like this, invading her private space, it was
dangerous. It was also exciting.

Kaz watched the paper-folding with curiosity. ‘How many Sunday papers do you get through?’

‘I usually buy at least a couple. I like to get an overview.’

The tension between them was palpable, dressed up in a politeness that Kaz had never experienced in their previous encounters. Helen seemed entirely focused on pouring the coffee and Kaz
couldn’t help but watch. Both their gazes converged on the tilt of the pot, the steaming black liquid swirling into the white ceramic mugs. Finally Helen handed one to her. Kaz took it and
sighed.

‘I’m sorry, coming round like this. I shouldn’t have. But I had to talk to you.’

Helen gave her a rueful look. ‘Southend?’

Kaz put the mug down carefully on the table in front of her. The tears had started to come. She put her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to cram them back down.