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FORTY-FOUR

While Alex Brightwell waited for the news he felt sure was coming, he walked, and wondered if there was anything else worth doing.

Any one else.

Though nothing he’d done had been very radical – that kind of business cost money he didn’t have – he’d made an effort to change his appearance as best he could at least twice since they’d shown his picture at that press conference.

Shaving or not, hats and glasses, all that.

Even so, he knew they’d be looking at CCTV from outside Archway station where he’d paid that wino, and from the prison when he’d been in to see Andre Campbell, so there was always a chance someone might clock him.

They’d mounted a major operation, he knew that, so the possibility was always there, and if he was caught he’d already decided that he’d just have to suck it up.

He wouldn’t stop. He’d carry on making a noise in a different way, that was all.

These last few years, he’d learned a lot from Peter about how to survive in prison, and as someone who’d been put away for killing coppers he was bound to have things a damn sight easier inside than his brother ever had.

They’d be queuing up to pat him on the back.

Sometimes, when his mind wandered into even stranger places than it normally did, he wondered if fate had played a part and the pair of them had always been destined to end up behind bars: the Brightwell Boys together again, even if they were in different prisons.

Had someone told him years before – when they were teenagers and Peter was going off the rails – that if and when that happened he would be the one who was actually guilty, Alex would have thought they were barmy.

It was funny how things turned out.

Not that he had any particular desire to spend the rest of his life in prison, so, while leaving the country was a non-starter – they’d be monitoring the borders – and he wasn’t willing to hide himself away permanently, he did his level best to prevent that happening.

He kept out of the city, stayed off public transport and walked where there were very few people about.

The Olympic Park behind him, he trudged down to the river Lee, then along the towpath, moving under the series of decorated road bridges beneath the A12, before the traffic noise began to fade and he turned eventually into Wick Wood.

Head down and hood up, he passed or was passed by a couple of dog-walkers and a wheezing jogger, but none of them paid him any attention.

He was feeling out of sorts, lethargic and at a loose end because, for the first time in a while, he didn’t know who his next target would be.

Since he had dealt with those directly responsible for Peter’s conviction, there was nobody blindingly obvious.

That said, Callaghan had just dropped into his lap, so it was always possible something similar would happen if he trawled through those message boards again.

Maybe whoever had told him where to find Tully and warned him about Emily Mead would decide to be helpful again and suggest a name.

Someone would turn up eventually.

For ten minutes he walked parallel to the river, then turned on to a path and up a ramp until he reached Homerton Road.

Staying under cover of the trees, he stared across the street, over a wall of wire and rusty iron sheets towards the changing rooms for Hackney Marshes playing fields.

He knew that’s what the building was because he’d been there several times with Peter.

They’d watched a few games together, pissed themselves at some of the half-arsed antics of Sunday footballers, then had a fry-up afterwards at a greasy spoon nearby.

To be honest, the level of skill on display those mornings was far higher than when the two of them had kicked a ball about themselves.

Peter was a better player than he was, but Alex had always got stuck in.

And besides, it didn’t matter how rubbish it was, because they were out in the back garden with their dad, getting out of breath and sweaty and having a laugh.

Their mum, watching from the kitchen window and clapping.

Making breakfast for her boys.

She’d even put a football scarf on once or twice, just to join in.

There didn’t seem to be much happening over the road, not this early on a Tuesday morning, but just seeing the green of the pitches in the distance he could feel the anger rising up like sick in his throat. The determination that there would be someone else to go after.

It wasn’t like there was any shortage of them.

Fate had nothing do with any of it.

Alex knew who was responsible for Peter being where he was, and that they’d do exactly the same thing to him given half a chance.

Little men who’d been given a sniff of power and thought it made them big men.

Twisted little sickos who thought they could get away with anything because they had a uniform or a badge, who did what they wanted and were willing to let others pay for it.

He turned away and walked back towards the woods.

He needed to get stuck in again.