Hanging Hill Part 23

But she wasn't fine, of course. Her head was full of static and images. David Goldrab. The smells. The way the colour had crept into Zoe's cheeks when she was standing in the kitchen this morning. The 'pattern'. And now she thought that, whatever part of the pattern between humans she and Steve had made in the last few days, it was ugly and wrong. And that whatever happened now, it couldn't be changed. The ugly, k.n.o.bbly part would become an uneven, deviating vein in the fabric that would, with time, be woven over and built on, as the generations kept moving. On down the line.

16.

Zoe spent the rest of the day in the office, following up leads and answering emails. She still hadn't heard from Dominic Mooney so she put in one last call but was told he was still 'in a meeting'. By the time she left the office the sun was low, the roofs and high windows of Bath gilded with the last of the light, as if they'd been dipped in gold. It would be dark by the time she got home. She could have a Jerry's and ginger and watch the stars come out on her own, while Ben and Debbie were doing whatever it was they did, wherever it was they did it. The welts and sores on her arms ached dully as she went into the car park.

She came to a halt. A guy dressed in red chinos and a blazer was standing in her way. He was very tall and thin and looked like an Asian version of David Bowie, with his jet-black hair gelled up in spikes. Even in her heeled boots she stood an inch or so shorter than him not usual for her. She took a sidestep to go round him and he mirrored her movement, blocking her. She did it again, going left this time, and again he barred her way.

She laughed. 'Very good. I like the way you do that.'

'I wouldn't laugh if I were you.' He was from Scotland. Somewhere posh, Edinburgh perhaps. 'If this was the movies it'd be the bit where I hit you on the head and throw you in the back of the Chrysler.'

She put her head on one side and scrutinized him. 'Do I know you?'

'Captain Zhang.' He produced a card and held it up to her. 'In the movie you'd wake up tied to a chair, a spotlight on your face. Never trust the Chinaman don't they teach you anything in your job?'

'Give me that.' She made a grab for his card, but he returned it neatly to his pocket. 'Special Investigative Branch. SIB. But you can call us the Feds.'

'The Feds Feds? Oh, please. I thought you said this wasn't the movies. Special Investigative B-' She broke off. Of course she should have known he was military from the way he was dressed: typical Sandhurst graduate get-up. 'SIB I know who you are. Military Police. They call you the Stab in the Backs the squaddie rubber-heelers. Standing here making out you're in the f.u.c.king Special Forces, but you're just a squaddie spy. Stopping me getting to my bike? I don't think so.'

'Well, I do.'

She shrugged, tried to walk round him. He barred her way again.

'Do you want a fight?' she asked. 'See who wins?'

'I'd win.'

'No, you wouldn't.'

Zhang sighed, as if he was trying to keep his patience. 'We need to speak to you, Inspector Benedict. We need a frank and meaningful talk about Dominic Mooney. I think if you're patient you'll find we're all singing off the same hymn sheet no need for any arm-wrestling.'

She looked at Zhang very carefully. Dominic Mooney. The MoD guy she'd called. 'OK. You've got my attention now. You really have.'

'Good.' He fastened his blazer and smoothed the front, as if something in the encounter had made it go awry. 'That's what I was hoping for.'

'So?' She turned, opening her hand to indicate all the vehicles lined up in the car park. 'Which boot are you going to lock me in?'

17.

Twerton was Bath's crippled cousin. Its humpbacked secret brother. No one in the nice northern squares and crescents of the city could say the name without putting on a cod country-b.u.mpkin accent and tucking their tongue in the corner of their mouth like a congenital idiot. Anything that went wrong in the city seemed to emanate from there, or have a connection. It was where Jake the Peg could be found when he wasn't loitering outside one of the cla.s.sier public schools.

'Whatever happens, you stay in your seat.'

In the pa.s.senger seat Sally shot a sideways look at Steve. 'Why? What're you going to do?'

'Don't worry. I've done this before, trust me.'

She clenched the envelope between her knees, her palms sweating and slick. She'd got Millie to call Jake to tell him the money was ready, then driven her over to Isabelle's for the evening. She and Steve had directions to where Jake was waiting, but in truth, she thought, as they pulled up, you could have found him by instinct alone. He was parked at a bus stop in front of a row of shops. One or two were open, lit with pools of light a fish-and-chip shop, an off-licence, an all-night convenience store. Otherwise the street was dark.

Steve pulled the car up alongside so it was partly blocking the road. He didn't seem to mind other traffic getting stuck. He didn't seem to mind witnesses.

'h.e.l.lo.' Engine still running, he wound down the window and held up his mobile phone to Jake. Clicked the Record Record icon. icon.

Jake jerked a hand in front of his face. He opened the window and leaned over, yelling, 'What the f.u.c.k you think you're doing? Turn the f.u.c.king thing off.'

'Not if you want your money back.'

'Jesuuuuus.' He got out of the jeep, slamming the door, and strode over to them, his hand up in front of his face. He was wearing a gym vest and jeans that hung so low they gathered in folds around his trainers. He seemed like a different person now he was on his own territory and not on David's. More confident, swaggering. 'You are doing my head, man. Doing my head. Keep that thing outta my face.'

He leaned through the window to grab the phone, but Steve held it out of his reach. 'You take the phone, you don't get the money.'

'Give me the f.u.c.king phone.' He made a swipe for it. 'Or you can double what you owe me.'

'Do you want the money or not?'

'Giss the f.u.c.king phone.'

He leaned in again and this time Steve pressed the electric-window b.u.t.ton. Jake realized what was happening just in time and pulled back to avoid being squashed. 's.h.i.+t. You w.a.n.kers You w.a.n.kers.' He bounced his hands off the window in fury. Thumped the roof. 'You w.a.n.kers.'

He went around all the doors, pulling at the handles. When he couldn't get in he went back to his jeep and opened the rear door. Rummaged inside.

'What's he doing?'

'I don't know.' Steve didn't turn. He handed Sally the phone, then tipped the rear-view mirror down and watched Jake. 'When he comes back don't stop filming, but keep the camera on his face. Don't have it on me OK?'

She knelt up on the seat and swivelled round, aiming the camera out of the back window. As she did, Jake emerged from the jeep. He was holding something long and metal, lit red by the car lights. It took her a couple of moments to realize it was a tyre iron.

'Steve,' she began, but Jake had already lifted the tyre iron and swung it down on the roof of the Audi.

'f.u.c.k.' Steve slammed his hand on the horn. 'You s.h.i.+thead.'

The noise was deafening. A group of kids in the stairwell of the block of flats opposite stopped what they were doing and turned to watch. Steve took his hand off the horn, opened the window and leaned out. 'Hey! What the f.u.c.k do you think you're doing?'

Jake reappeared next to him, bending down and grinning at them nastily. With one hand he dangled the tyre iron. The other he extended for the phone. Steve gave the hand a contemptuous look. 'I really don't think so.'

'Well,' Jake said, 'I do.'

He raised the tyre iron again, ready to bring it down on the car, but this time something stopped him. It had been a quick movement, like lightning. Steve had leaned back in the car and straightened himself enough for his jacket to fall briefly back from his stomach. It happened so fast that Sally thought she'd imagined it, but she hadn't. Jake had seen what was there too, and his face changed instantly. It was the b.u.t.t of a gun, tucked in Steve's waistband.

Jake lowered the tyre iron and stood awkwardly, uncertain what to do. For a moment he was the same fidgety person she'd seen at David's. 'Yeah, well.' He glanced around, checking up and down the street who was watching, giving the kids in the stairwell a look that made them all turn away. He licked his lips and made a circling motion with his hand. 'OK, man. Let's just do it just do it and put it to bed, eh?'

'Thank you,' Steve said. 'Thank you very much.' He closed the window again. 'You can turn the camera off, Sally, and count out the money.'

'W-what?'

'You heard.'

Shakily she switched off the phone, reached down to the bag at her feet and began counting the stacks of twenties. She kept trying to see into Steve's waistband, covered now by his jacket. 'Was that what I thought it was?' she murmured.

'It's decommissioned. Don't worry, I'm not going to shoot my nuts off.'

'I can't believe this.' She glanced up at Jake, who was standing a few feet away, arms folded, bouncing his head back and forth as if he was moving to music no one else could hear. 'I can't believe any of it.'

'Neither can I. Just count the money.'

She did, and pa.s.sed it hurriedly to him.

'OK. Start filming again. When we leave, get a good shot of the jeep. The licence plate especially.'

She turned on the phone and scrunched back in the seat, holding it in front of her like a s.h.i.+eld. Steve wound down the window. Jake came forward, glowering at him. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the money and sauntered back to the jeep. He slammed his door and sat for a moment, lit by the interior light, bent over as he counted the blocks of cash. When he had finished, he didn't look at them, just reached up to switch off the light, started the jeep and roared away, narrowly missing taking their front b.u.mper with him.

'Did you get his number?'

Sally nodded. She stopped the video and sank back in the seat, breathing hard. 'G.o.d,' she muttered. 'Is this the end of it now? Is this really the end?'

's.h.i.+t. I hope so.' Steve readjusted the mirror and started the engine. 'I really, really hope so.'

18.

Captain Charlie Zhang was based temporarily in an old Victorian red-brick villa, set, incongruously, in a garrison to the east of Salisbury Plain. It might have been a military base, but when Zhang led her along the cool, carpeted corridors, Zoe decided the Military Police definitely had it better than the common-or-garden cops. There were fitted carpets and panelled walls, and the doors all closed with a rea.s.suring shush shush as if they were on the as if they were on the Stars.h.i.+p Enterprise Stars.h.i.+p Enterprise.

Zhang's commanding officer was a cool-looking woman in late middle age, Lieutenant Colonel Teresa Watling the army equivalent of a chief superintendent and fairly heavy hitting in the grand scheme of things. With her blow-dried grey hair, the gold pendant over her black turtle-neck and her black reptile-skin heels, she looked like a Manhattan businesswoman. In fact, she explained to Zoe, as they went along the pa.s.sageways, it was far more pedestrian than that. She had been born and brought up in the home counties.

'Cool.' Zoe swung the ID they'd issued her at the control gate. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Anything.'

'When I get tied to the chair, are you going to be the bad cop or the good cop?'

Lieutenant Colonel Watling ignored that. She stopped at a door and pushed it open. The room inside resembled a boardroom at an oil company, with a polished walnut table and twelve hand-carved teak chairs. There were water gla.s.ses and leather notepads at each place setting, so clearly the cutbacks that were axing thousands of backroom staff in the civilian police hadn't reached here yet. The three of them filed in. Zoe chose the seat at the head of the table, furthest from the door, and Captain Zhang sat next to her, his long, delicate hands folded one on top of the other. Six large files were placed down the centre of the table. It would have taken a long time to ama.s.s that lot, Zoe thought. A long time.

Lieutenant Colonel Watling opened a sleek black box and offered it to Zoe. At first she thought it was a humidor it seemed somehow appropriate to light up a stogie in a place like this, kick back a little and watch the sky out of the window go indigo. She wasn't going to say no if that was the way the evening was going to work. Maybe a little snifter of Talisker on the side. But it wasn't cigars in the box: it was coffee capsules, in rainbow colours. She looked at the key and chose the strongest.

'Black, please. Two sugars.'

Watling began to make the coffee. Zoe watched her, wondering how she'd got this job. It would be cool to wear Jimmy Choos to work, she thought. Maybe swap them now and again for combats and a quick, safe investigation at one of the bases in Iraq or Afghanistan. She'd heard they had a Piacetto cafe in Camp Bastion that did the best cakes. 'I know your boss,' Watling said. 'I worked with him on a couple of operations in Wilts.h.i.+re.'

'Was he into psychological profiling in those days?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Nothing. He's a nice guy. What do you want to talk about?'

'Oh, just this and that.'

'This and that?'

Watling gave Zoe her coffee and lined up her own cup next to the leather writing pad. She sat down and clasped her elegant hands on the pad. 'Zoe,' she said. 'Do you remember those good old days when the Crime Squad and the Intelligence Service combined forces and SOCA came on line? How we were told it was going to revolutionize our lives? The right hand was at last going to know what the left hand was doing?'

'Did you believe it?'

She gave a cold laugh. 'I'm a post-menopausal woman who's lived in a man's world for twenty years. A more cynical, cruel creature it's hard to find. But it's true, I thought SOCA might help. I believed that at least other agencies would check it make sure a target they were looking at didn't have a great big flag marked "SIB" waving over it. Why didn't you check check before you started leaving messages at Mr Mooney's office?' before you started leaving messages at Mr Mooney's office?'

'You're telling me Mooney's in trouble?'

'Yes.' Watling splayed her hand out to indicate the long line of folders. 'These represent almost two years of work they're ready to go to the Service Prosecuting Authority, which is our version of the Crown Prosecution Service, and, believe me, just as a.n.a.l about procedure and-'

'Hold on, hold on. Correct me if I'm wrong here, but Mooney he's a big cheese, isn't he?'

'Extremely. Doesn't mean he can't be a naughty boy.'

Zoe stirred her coffee thoughtfully. She watched the sugar dissolve and waited for this new information to move itself into line. 'OK,' she said eventually. 'I get it now. I've stumbled into something and I apologize for that. I didn't check SOCA because it never occurred to me I just pulled Mooney's name out of a hat, from Dodspeople, because he'd done some time in Kosovo. I thought he might give me some information, point me in the right direction. I'm working on a misper on my patch, a p.o.r.nographer who had something a bit moody going on with someone connected to the UN in Pritina. I followed my nose, came up with Mooney as a starting point.'

'Look,' Watling folded her arms, 'you know, of course, because it's unspoken conventional wisdom by now, that where the United Nations goes, human trafficking goes too. That it makes a kind of hole in the ground, and all the women in the region who aren't weighted down just roll into it.'

'Yup.'

'Well, that's what happened in Pritina. The floodgates opened, the prost.i.tutes poured in. Except this time the UN got smart and set up a unit to monitor it. The Trafficking and Prost.i.tution Investigation Unit.'

'Yeah I saw that. Mooney headed it up.'

'And, as it turned out, made a few inroads into the local population himself.'

'Inroads?'

'That's a euphemism. To make what he did sound less horrible, the way he abused his position.'

'Like?'

'Oh no limits. Selling girls to the highest bidder, offering protection from criminal prosecution for s.e.x, arranging abortions some of the babies were his. The list is mind-boggling.'