Page 14

A ARON WAS BONE-WEARY as he made his way back to Lisson Grove after yet another long and miserable day. The last week had been one of the most sapping of his life.

DI Davis had piled work on his desk, not just the canal-workers’ union, about which Aaron had carefully found nothing to object to, but two other cases. He had been scrambling to keep up with those and the entirely stalled Marks investigation; he’d done damn all to confirm his suspicions about DDI Colthorne.

He felt useless, and Aaron hated feeling useless. He’d joined the police because service was purpose, and if he couldn’t achieve anything there, if he wasn’t any good to anyone—or perhaps he was even worse than useless, propping up an organisation that was rotting from the head—and all for a job that had cost him so much...

Aaron didn’t want to think how much it had cost him. He’d been trying not to think of that for months now, since his father’s death. Not to think of Challice sobbing because other women’s pain was being used to beat her down, or of people who asked for help and went unanswered while their so-called protectors lined their pockets, or of good men—they were good men, he insisted to himself—like Sergeant Hollis, bullying Joel for Aaron’s benefit, or Inspector Cassell, dismissing an act of sexual violence if the victim was the wrong sort.

He’d wanted to make things better in a world that screamed for help, and he’d sacrificed so much for that and been so lonely, and he wished he could say, It was worth it .

He had achieved things. He’d caught Wilfred Molesworth, put away a lot of men who deserved it, done things that needed doing to keep people safe. He knew that intellectually. But his belief in the job was slipping through his fingers like sand, and all the faster because of his constant drumbeat of regret over Joel.

He had made such a damned mess of that. He shouldn’t have taken Joel out for dinner at all: it had been too much temptation. He’d wanted to blurt it all out, tell him everything, unburden his soul of his fears and worries because Joel felt absurdly like someone he could trust. He’d wanted to go back to that wretched bedsit more than he wanted air. And when he’d learned he couldn’t, he should have left him at Shafi’s, rather than trailing after him like a dog and then abruptly blurting out a refusal without explanation. No wonder Joel had been offended.

He wished he could have gone back with Joel. He wished more that he still had him as a friend. He had a feeling that he wasn’t going to have any friends at all left by the end of this.

He had started composing a letter of apology, one to send if everything either got resolved or went badly wrong, and had managed two paragraphs over three days. He was so tired.

He plodded up the stairs to his flat, head low, contemplating dinner without enthusiasm. Another omelette, he supposed: the thought didn’t appeal. Then he saw the envelope.

It was jammed at the base of his front door, which was exceedingly tight-fitting: he kept meaning to get it looked at. A white rectangle on the mat, no inscription. He opened it, and pulled out a sheet of paper adorned with an ill-controlled scrawl.

Angelos now

JW

***

A ARON RAN DOWN THE stairs and back out into the cold, having taken a full seventy seconds to change his shirt and tidy his hair. He hadn’t shaved, although he tended to sport a five o’clock shadow and it was well past that hour; he didn’t want to waste the time. The thump of breathless excitement at Joel’s unceremonious eruption back into his life was irresistible.

Angelo’s Italian restaurant was on the corner of the Grove: it was where he’d thought about taking Joel for the ravioli. He strode in and was greeted by the proprietor. “Mr. Fowler, good to see you! Your friend has been waiting—” Angelo made a face to indicate an excessive time. “I give him bread.”

“Thank you,” Aaron said, and followed him to the table where Joel sat with a half-demolished plate of bread, a half-drunk glass of red wine, and the expression of a deeply unhappy man. “Joel. Good evening?”

Joel just glared. Angelo pulled Aaron’s chair out for him. “A drink, Mr. Fowler?”

“Red wine, please,” Aaron said. “And a few moments before we decide, thank you.”

Angelo whisked away. Aaron examined Joel’s face and said, “Did we have an appointment that I forgot?”

“No,” Joel said. “Obviously. I realise you probably don’t want to see me.”

“Of course I do.”

“Really? Because at our last meeting you told me to fuck off, and then I told you to fuck off, only I actually used the words, so—”

“I didn’t say or mean any such thing,” Aaron said. “Though I dare say it seemed that way, so I can’t complain that you were annoyed. Are you less annoyed now? Because you don’t look it.”

Joel breathed out very hard. “I am extremely annoyed, and also upset and terrified. I need to tell you some bad things, if you’re willing to listen.”

“Of course. Do you want to talk here?”

“In the restaurant? You probably know best about that. I expect even if we’re being watched, a public place is preferable to your flat.”

Cold snaked down Aaron’s spine. “Do you think you’re being watched?”

“I don’t know. I took an absurd route to shake anyone off, two tubes and a bus, but that won’t help if they’re already here.”

“I don’t think that’s the case,” Aaron said. He lifted a hand as Angelo brought over his wine. “Angelo, is there anyone new in tonight? Unfamiliar faces?”

Angelo glanced round. “No? All regulars. You want I tell you if someone else comes in?”

“If you would. Joel, do you know what you want to eat?”

“We’re going to eat?”

“Well, I’m hungry, and I’ve never known you be anything but.” He shot a glance at Joel’s left arm, saw he wasn’t wearing the prosthetic. “The ravioli is excellent. It’s a first course but if you’d like a larger portion—?”

“Fine.”

“The ravioli as a main course for my friend, please, Angelo, and the veal for me. If we could have privacy?”

Angelo shook his head in sorrow at Aaron’s inability to order Italian food properly, and moved off. Aaron said, “Right. What’s going on?”

Joel eyed him. “I notice you’re not surprised that I’m talking about being watched and followed. And the owner chap wasn’t surprised at the question either. If you knew this was going to happen, you could have bloody told me!”

“I don’t know what’s happened. Talk to me.”

Joel swallowed a mouthful of wine in a Dutch-courage manner. “Four days ago, the Sabini gang sent round a man to shake me down. Protection racket. A pound a week, with a month payable in advance, to be protected from, in effect, him taking a brick to my remaining fingers.”

His voice crackled with anger and fear, unless that was the buzz of fury in Aaron’s ears. He forced down the wave of rage and self-reproach. “Did he touch you?”

“No. I paid up. Four quid in advance.”

“And have you gone to the police?”

“Of course not.”

People so rarely did. Aaron knew all the reasons. “Go on.”

“This morning I had another visit, same man. He said Sabini had changed his mind, and if I could pay four quid a month I could pay ten.”

“Good God.”

“I said, is it going to keep going up, because that’s some inflation you’ve got there. He said yes, it was. I—got a bit upset. And he waited for me to, uh, finish being upset, and then he said Darby Sabini might let me work something out, if I had sufficiently useful information for him.”

“What information?”

“That’s what I said. He said I needed to talk to Mr. Sabini about it. I said I didn’t know anything useful. He said, what about your pal the copper?”

Aaron’s fingers tensed convulsively on the stem of his wine glass. He made them relax before he snapped it.

“I said, what pal is that,” Joel went on. “He said, the one who keeps coming round here, who took you out for curry just the other day.”

“Ravioli for you, signore!” Angelo announced from over Aaron’s shoulder. He deposited the plates, waved the pepper grinder around, and departed.

“This smells marvellous,” Joel said, prodding his plateful. “Shall I go on or would you rather eat first? It seems terribly ungracious to spoil both our appetites with unpleasant things. Although, once I’ve told you, you might wish I’d just got on with it.”

“If we don’t eat, Angelo will be offended. I come here at least once a week and I can’t lose my favoured-customer status.”

Joel forked up a single parcel, and chewed cautiously. “Mph,” he said with his mouth full. “God, that’s good. No, you’re right, mustn’t upset him.”

They ate in silence for a few moments. Aaron was ravenous, perhaps more so because Joel had sought him out.

“I’m glad you came to me,” he said. “I made a pig’s ear of our last meeting and I’m sorry.”

Joel’s eyes snapped up to his. He had a mouthful of pasta, so Aaron took his opportunity to keep talking. “You have probably gathered that I haven’t been having an easy time, but I handled things poorly, and I apologise. It wasn’t anything to do with you.”

Joel swallowed. “Thanks. And I’m sorry too. Partially.”

“Partially?”

“You had every right not to come back to mine if you didn’t want to, or to change your mind about it. Throwing myself at you doesn’t oblige you to catch me. But it felt easier to be cross about that than to say what I was actually upset about, which was prickish of me, and I am sorry. Not partially.”

“If you would like to tell me what you were actually upset about,” Aaron said with caution, “perhaps I could apologise specifically?”

Joel gave him a level look for a couple of seconds longer than felt comfortable, then let out an abrupt breath. “Look, I’d let myself hope for—well, more that you just coming up for a couple of hours. And I realised I shouldn’t have, and it hurt a bit. That’s all. Well, it’s not all, because then I was an arsehole about it.”

The words were a fist to Aaron’s chest. How he’d failed, what he’d missed. “I’m sorry,” he said again, uselessly, because he wasn’t sure what else to say in the face of that bare truth. He didn’t think Joel wanted to hear I’d have hoped too, but I didn’t have the nerve . “I’m sure my behaviour was confusing. I don’t really know how to, uh, conduct this kind of thing at the best of times, which these are not. But if it helps, I wanted to come up that night more than I can say. It wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

Joel gave a tight imitation of a smile. “Indeed it wouldn’t, because there was a man watching my house that night, who I have to suppose was a Sabini. Did you know that was going to happen?”

“Not when I invited you to dinner, no. Rahim warned me just before we left Shafi’s. He said he’d just had a visitor—a Sabini—who had told him to report back on who I was eating with.”

“Shit. Really? Shit.”

“I assumed, as long as I didn’t go back to your flat, there would be nothing to report and no problem. It would have been more sensible to part at the restaurant door, but the truth is, I didn’t want to. That evening was the only good thing that’s happened to me in some time and I didn’t want it snatched from me before it had to end.”

“That’s nice,” Joel said. “Glad to be of help. It’s made my life considerably worse, but the food was wonderful, so I dare say it’s swings and roundabouts.” He stabbed a bit of pasta with his fork, and added, “Ignore me, I’m being a bitch. This isn’t your fault.”

Aaron was uncomfortably sure he was wrong about that. “I didn’t intend to bring you harm. In retrospect I was a fool, but I didn’t expect what’s happening now, or anything like it.”

“No, I dare say not. And as you say, lucky you were warned. How come restaurant proprietors are so helpful to you?”

“I’ve evicted a couple of tiresome customers, both here and at Shafi’s. I like to stay on the right side of good food.”

“Wise.” Joel had cleared his plate. He ran a piece of bread over the remaining sauce, with a look of regret that might have been because he’d finished, or because they had to talk about this again.

Aaron set himself to it. “So. You were watched that night, and shaken down. Who was this man?”

“He called himself Mr. Twigg. About my height, twice as wide, looked like a right bruiser. Broken nose, and something horrible had happened to his right ear.”

“A prostitute tried to chew it off when he assaulted her,” Aaron said. “Eddie Twigg, a close colleague of Darby Sabini. Blast: I was hoping someone was taking their name in vain. And are you going to see Darby?”

“I’m supposed to do that tomorrow. He’s expecting to hear all about you. I said to Twigg there was nothing to tell, that you were a miserable sod with no friends who had to pay people to eat with you , and I went for the free meal. He just laughed and said good story, tell it to Darby.”

Aaron made himself eat the last mouthful of veal, though it was more fuel than pleasure now. “Tomorrow. What will you say?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed. He shot a glance round then said, very low, “Well, I thought I’d mention that you gave me details of an ongoing case and then sucked my cock. That should sort everything out nicely for us both. What the hell do you think I’m going to tell him?”

Aaron wasn’t sure how this level of aggressive sarcasm could make him feel so warm inside. “All right, but you’ll have to give him something. Darby Sabini is an alarming man. You didn’t ask for any of this and you’re entitled to protect yourself.”

“I was rather hoping you’d protect me, actually. And I haven’t finished, by the way, because after Twigg left, as if today wasn’t shitty enough, I got this.”

He pulled out a letter. Aaron took it, murmuring thanks as Angelo came to take the plates away. It was in his cousin Paul’s hand.

Mr. Wildsmith

You are a liar, a scoundrel, and a slanderer. Your lies have damaged my reputation and caused me material harm and I intend to seek financial redress in the courts unless you make a full public apology and acknowledgment of your dishonesty in mutually agreed terms.

You are reliant on Aaron Fowler lying in court to protect you. Be assured that he will not be able to. His dealings with you are entirely unbefitting a police officer, he has no right to meddle with my private affairs in an official capacity. And your relationship with him is not one that he will wish to admit in court. If he is foolish enough to try I will not concern myself with his reputation when I destroy yours.

Yours sincerely

Paul Napier-Fox

“Christ,” Aaron said.

“Indeed. I’ve a few questions.”

“I’m sure you do.” Aaron wasn’t sure what to say. The sheer barrage on so many fronts was overwhelming. “I’m sorry. I had no idea they would go at you like this.”

Joel sat back. “I’d like to know what’s going on, please, since it’s very much my business now. You can start with who ‘they’ are, because don’t ask me to believe it’s pure chance I’ve had your cousin and the Sabinis come down on me at the same time.”

“I’ll tell you if you like, but not here.”

“Where?”

“My flat? I doubt it makes a difference now.”

“That somehow makes me feel extremely unhappy,” Joel said through his teeth. “Could you possibly do or say something reassuring?”

Aaron wished he could think of what that might be. “Pudding?”

“What?”

“They do delicious puddings here. Would something sweet help?”

“My life is falling apart and you’re recommending pudding.”

“Feeding you has always helped so far,” Aaron pointed out, and there was a tiny relaxation in Joel’s face that emboldened him to add, “They do a thing called dolce Torino—sponge biscuits, chocolate and hazelnuts. It’s delicious. And sweet tea is good for shock, so—”

“—therefore pudding must be?” Joel finished. “I’d call you an idiot except that I didn’t have any lunch because of all the fuckery and actually I am in no hurry to find out how my life is going to be upended for the, what, fourth time, so yes, why not, let’s have pudding. You’re paying.”

Angelo arrived in response to Aaron’s raised hand. Aaron asked for a dolce Torino for his friend and another glass of wine for them both, and got a raised eyebrow from Joel. “Are we making a night of it?”

Yes , Aaron could have said, in a different life. I’m going to watch you eat chocolate and make those noises of pleasure that go straight to my groin, and we’re both going to have that second glass and go back to my flat, and then—

“Dutch courage,” he said. He nodded thanks as Angelo brought wine and sweet. “Try that.”

Joel took a spoonful. His face convulsed. “Oh God. Oh my God . This is— Can I eat all of this?”

“I don’t think I’m up to fighting you for it.”

“Well, you’re bigger, and trained, and you have more hands. But I’m motivated, because this is in the top three of things I have ever put in my mouth. Mph.”

Aaron wanted, urgently, to ask about the other two. He resisted, despite his companion’s uninhibited moan, and just sipped his wine and enjoyed Joel’s near-sexual relationship with his pudding until the plate was scraped clean.

“That was amazing,” Joel said, accepting that it was over with clear reluctance. “You know how to treat a man.”

“This and Shafi’s are my favourite places in London.”

“I can see why. Thank you for sharing them with me.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed them both. I may never be able to eat here again without hearing the noises you were just making, but it’s a small price to pay.”

Joel stuck out his tongue, as if that had been banter rather than a devastating truth. Aaron’s toes curled in his shoes. “I suppose we should talk now.”

***

H E LET THEM BOTH IN to his flat, and poured whisky. It might be unwise on top of two glasses of wine, but he wasn’t sure if things could possibly go any more wrong.

Joel took the seat he had last time, and clutched the glass Aaron handed him. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “I’m frightened. And you’re not going to tell me I’ve nothing to worry about, are you?”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

Joel nodded slowly, and knocked back half the whisky in a swallow. “Gah. Why do people say that helps? It doesn’t help. All right, then, tell me what I do have to worry about.”

“I will, but I’m not sure where to start.”

“The beginning?”

“I don’t know where that is, unfortunately. I feel as though I was dropped into this half way through.”

“Then start with your cousin Paul. Who I’m sure you said was going to leave me alone, so what’s this letter about?”

Aaron grimaced. “Paul doesn’t like me, and I’m sure he’s angry with you, but he’s far lazier than he is vindictive. This letter is out of character.”

“Well, it would be: he didn’t write it,” Joel said. “It was dictated to him.”

Aaron had a bad feeling he was right about that, but he said anyway, “Based on—?”

“Oh, look at it, it goes in waves. Scribble, pause, scribble, pause. It just looks dictated, all right? And anyway, is that how your man-about-town cousin usually expresses himself? It sounds like a lawyer talking.”

“Not a lawyer,” Aaron said reluctantly. “A policeman.”

“... Shit.”

“Yes.”

“Oh God. Just tell me.”

Aaron took a deep breath. “Paper number seven. The man you said was a monster, with no moral compass and blood on his hands. He’s my superior officer. Divisional Detective Inspector Colthorne, the head of G Division.”

“Jesus fuck,” Joel said. “ Fuck . Have you told anyone?”

“Told them what? And who? The Commissioner of the Met is highly resistant to accusations against his officers. There was that case just recently, Sergeant Josling in Soho. He reported another sergeant for taking bribes, and was dismissed in disgrace for slandering a brother officer.”

“I read about that.”

“The man he accused is notorious for having his hand out. Everyone in Soho knows he was bang to rights, but Horwood wouldn’t hear it, so the Home Office deliberated behind closed doors, threw the charge out, and got rid of Josling instead. And that was just for a sergeant; any sort of accusation against a divisional inspector will need full chapter and verse to stand a chance.”

“So what do you have?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Aaron said. “Sweet Fanny Adams, if you’ll excuse the phrase. Plenty of suspicions, nothing concrete.”

“Hang on. You’re not basing all this on my reading?” Joel asked.

“I’ve seen your work. I believe it.”

Joel’s lips parted silently. “Oh.”

“I don’t understand it but I believe it. Which is alarming, but here we are. But the truth is, when you spoke about number seven, I knew it would be Colthorne, even before I checked. I don’t like him and I don’t trust him, and there’s any amount of little things that have been adding up.”

“Like what?”

“You recall that business with Dapper Melkin, when I was in the papers?”

“You Valentino, you.” Joel was trying for a normal voice, but he looked very pale. “Yes?”

“The defence brief accused me of being in cahoots with the Sabinis. You said yourself, there’s talk they have an in with King’s Cross nick. I think that’s DDI Colthorne. I think he’s been quietly giving them a helping hand for a while, which may explain why they’re returning the favour now.”

“Running his errands. Bothering me.”

“Exactly. I suspect he was setting me up to take the fall there, or at least to look suspicious or unreliable. There’s been a lot of odd things, like him accusing me of being a publicity seeker—I wonder if he arranged that flurry of pieces in the press—or bringing up all sides of my family in the worst manner. Italian blood, Society connections and a union firebrand father: he and his lapdog DI Davis remind my colleagues of it all the time. At this stage—God, I’ve been at King’s Cross for two years, and I truly don’t know if any of them would stand up for me. And I can’t prove any of that is his fault, as I can’t prove anything at all, but Rahim said the man who asked about me was a Sabini man, and I sent that telegram to you from work.”

“From the police station?”

“I can’t think of any way Darby Sabini could have known what I was doing that evening, unless someone in King’s Cross nick was watching me. And I can’t think why Darby would care, unless someone important had asked him to find out.”

“Find out about DS Fowler’s boy friend,” Joel said hollowly.

“I’m afraid so. I think, if Colthorne suspects he’s got that on me—”

“Oh God. Could he? Is that my fault, my record?”

“Not if he’s talked to Paul,” Aaron said. “As he must have done if he dictated that letter. I, er, had something of an affair at school.”

“Ooh, did you now,” Joel said, a pale shadow of his usual teasing. “Well, shit. So what’s the plan? Darby Sabini puts the frighteners on me, extorts more than I can pay, then lets me know I can get out from under if I grass you up?”

“You spill your guts to Darby, he takes it to Colthorne, Colthorne dismisses me for gross misconduct. I won’t stand a chance,” Aaron said flatly. “I involved you in an ongoing investigation and you’ve got an indecency conviction. I could try to fight it but the insinuations and the press reports would destroy me, even if I was cleared.”

“Yes, but hang on,” Joel said. “How would that make you look like the Sabini nark in King’s Cross?”

“I don’t think that’s his aim any more. I think that was the original plan, but I have since stumbled on something that made it urgent for him to discredit me immediately and comprehensively, even if he has to put himself in debt to Darby Sabini.”

Joel’s eyes were huge. “What thing?”

“You said yourself. The murder he committed. Possibly murders.”

Joel grasped for words for a couple of seconds, then downed the rest of his whisky in an emphatic manner. Aaron shoved the bottle over; Joel shoved it a half-inch back. “If I drink until I feel happy, you’ll be sending me home in a wheelbarrow. Are you sure about this?”

“No,” Aaron said. “I can’t be because it’s all shadows and suspicions. What I know for certain is, in the last couple of weeks my DI—you read his hand too, he’s the obedient bully—has been piling work on me. I’ve been strongly discouraged from pursuing the murder case in which I suspect Colthorne’s involved. You’ve been harassed both by the Sabinis and by my cousin Paul, and Paul is an idiot and a snob. He wouldn’t write a letter at Darby Sabini’s dictation, but he would gladly take help from a gentleman and not question why it was offered. I think Colthorne is the puppet-master behind it all, and I think it’s because he knows or fears I’m on to him.”

“How? And how would he know about me?” Joel demanded. “We’ve only met a handful of times, it’s not as though we’ve been kissing in public!”

“I was wondering that too. But Sergeant Hollis knows about your conviction, and the business with Paul. If Colthorne asked him questions, he’d have no reason not to answer. And my DC on the murder case spoke to him in a way which I suspect made him realise he could be in trouble. That was unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Joel yelped. “ Unfortunate? ”

“You know what I mean.”

“I bloody don’t! Or, yes, I do but that is not the fucking word! How are you so calm about this? You’re talking about a sodding murderer trying to use me to ruin you! And that’s shitty for you, but if your cousin sues me for slander, or the papers make a field day of Corrupt Policeman Pays Fraud Graphologist, or we get done for gross indecency, or Darby Sabini decides I’m annoying, I am fucked ! This isn’t fair!”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t!” Joel shouted. “No, you don’t know that because this is happening to me ! You aren’t the one who’s had thugs turn up and take your money, and if you get attacked you’ve got two hands to fight with, so you do not know! All I did was a fucking reading! It was your idea to pick on me because of your shitty cousin, it was your idea to shove a lot of shitty people’s handwriting into my face, and now I’ve got gangs and the Met using me as a football, and I’ve already been to prison once! Stop ruining my life!”

Joel’s voice was rising and choked with tears and his distress was unbearable because it was, indeed, all Aaron’s fault. He reached out without meaning it, driven by nothing but the urgent need to offer comfort, and Joel flung himself into his arms.