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  How would I know? From Adam, I don't know you, so how should I know when you got out?” Puzzlement crossed the youngster’s pale brow and narrowed his blue-grey eyes and he uttered, “Come again?”

  “Come again? Come where, again?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A question you asked me. How would I know that you got out on Wednesday? I didn't know that you'd been in.” Albert looked down at the younger man. He bent forward, as tall men often do. “Just told you, didn't I?”

  “Did you? Did you?” Albert nodded and drank some beer then said, “So, you went away for eighteen months and on Wednesday you came back. Miss you, I didn't. Like I said, I didn't even know you'd gone. Did you miss him, Colonel?”

  The colonel offered a critical glance and said disapprovingly, “A.W.L., eh? Don't approve. Jankers, my lad, for you.”

  Albert sighed. “AWOL, I think it is. There you are, an old soldier even, mistakes can make. Rasher, what do you think? Rasher?”

  Rasher didn't move.

  “Well, Rasher?”

  From the corner of Rasher's mouth came, “Don'tgiveafuck!” And that was true. There was only one thing that Rasher cared about and she was so distant now that in the dark he forgot what she looked like. Albert nodded slyly and his gaze fell on Mr Lawrence. He thought better of asking his opinion and turned back to the young man who, standing on one leg with the other wrapped around his calf, was waiting patiently.

  “So, on Wednesday you got out. For what did you go in?”

  “Stitched up, wasn't I?”

  “Were you? How did I know that?”

  “Filth put a bag of tools in my hand and threw me in a car. A police car. They punched my head in so that I didn't hit my head on the…the door, the door, like…?”

  “Frame?”

  “Yeah, that's good, the door frame. Is that what it's called on a car?”

  Albert pulled up his eyebrows and for a moment they hid the deep lines on his forehead. “Took me down to the nick and put the boot in. Kept booting till I signed up for twelve months. Well, eighteen months actually. Got six off for good behaviour.”

  “And now?”

  “Straight, innI? Learned my lesson. Mustn't accept gifts from the filth.”

  With a huge hand Albert patted the young man's back.

  “That's good. Good, that is,” he said. “Two lives we should live, one for rehearsal. Then sorry we wouldn't keep saying. Still, you are young enough to start again but, unfortunately, not old enough to learn by your mistakes. Some people never learn, no matter how old they get.” He glanced across at Mr Lawrence.

  Roger noticed that in his profundity Albert had stopped sounding Jewish.

  Albert went on, “Where are you living now?”

  “That's the problem, innit?” The young man's face dropped.

  “Squattin' down Avenue Road, know it?”

  Albert blew out his cheeks. His whiskers separated, stood out as though they'd been shot with static and, only slowly gathered together again. “Avenue Road, Ticker Harrison runs.” The Jew had returned. “Squatting on his manor is not healthy. No sir, not to be recommended. Ticker Harrison is a dangerous man. More than that, even, he's a fucking dangerous man.”

  Roger interrupted, “I told you I don’t want any fucking in this boozer. I’ve got a wife and daughter upstairs. Blair’s bringing in a fucking law to outlaw bad language along with smoking. He’s going to put me out of business but does he care? The only thing he cares about is Bush, and I’m not talking about Cherie’s bush either. I’m not surprised the bastard’s turning Catholic. For what he’s done for this country he’ll need to spend the rest of his life in the confessional box.”

  Albert shook his head and sent dandruff flying. He looked at the youngster out of calculating eyes and said, “I was saying, Ticker Harrison is a dangerous man.”

  “That's it, innit? The kids in there, makes me feel old, half of them out of their heads. Sniffin', snortin'. At their age. I ask you? In trouble, innI?”

  “Problems. I know just what you mean. Children and wives you need, ethnic parentage, an asylum seeker you need to be or, you need to have capital with which to bribe the housing authorities. Then all right you'd be. I fear it's Cardboard City for you, my son. Written all over you, it is. On your face is the address. Capital letters. Cardboard City.” Albert's huge hand gripped the young man's shoulder before he went on, “Now, if by chance you should happen on a few trinkets, things that sparkle in the night, then into instant readies I could turn them. Then Cardboard City would remain a distant place. Now, to welcome you back, a drink I will buy you.” He caught the cold eye of a girl in a tight black skirt. “Miss,” he said firmly. “Put a half a pint into this young man's pint pot.”

  The youngster watched the girl bend to pull his drink and fixed his gaze on the curve of her cleavage. He'd been inside too long, forgotten the subtleties of light and shade, of big and bigger.

  Albert said, “Strapped across that, you would like to get, I bet.”

  The young man nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I would.”

  “Find the trinkets, my son. Girls like that, barmaids in particular, like men with bulging pockets.” At pub closing time the local restaurants filled up quickly. Chinese and Indian were three doors apart and midway between The British and the Gallery. Squeezed between the Hong Kong House and the Spice of India were a launderette, a DVD rental shop and a pet shop.

  The Indian glowed red through white net and the air outside was filled with the farts the diners left behind. Candles on the window tables shimmered like beacons in a red mist.

  The Chinese was brighter. Perhaps it had less to hide, thought Mr Lawrence, but then he remembered the salt used in the cooking and the dark alley, a narrow gap between the restaurant and the shop next door. Dangerous places, alleys, where cats screamed and the air was soaked with piss.

  Mr Lawrence had set his mind on Madras but a bunch of youths blocked the pavement so he ducked into the Chinese.

  He was settled with 7, 14 and 21, when the young man entered. Albert or the colonel must have mentioned where Mr Lawrence dined. The young man who had just got out had come in to make a beeline for his table. On his face was a look of surprise, the coincidence of meeting him again, and the softer look of friendship.

  Chapter 3

  Out of the darkness a copper's cheap lighter flared and in an icy wind sparks shot away. The JPS felt heavy in Rick Cole's chest. He breathed white into the night and coughed a smoker's cough. River water slapped impatiently against concrete and in the distance flames leapt from steel drums and threw a pale glow on the lonely figures surrounding them.

  A villain's voice came out of the darkness. “A bit Pearl Harbour, boy. A nip in the air. Thank Gawd for global warming otherwise it might be really chilly.”

  “Forget the Nips. I’ll lay odds there’s a bunch of skags clocking us.”

  “Those cunts wouldn't recognize themselves in the mirror.”

  The wind gusted again and more angry flames burst from the drums. In a few days the missions would open and for a week at least, for the shadows, there'd be a mattress and a guaranteed dawn. The cold smacked the DI’s face.

  Seriousness crept into the villain’s tone, “The city’s a dangerous place, always has been, but not for us, never was. Think about it. We're the dangerous fuckers around here and people know it.” Cole grunted indifference.

  “It's been a long time. So what’s happening?”

  A pause, then Cole relented, “Shovelling the same shit. A city full of yobs and villains and now you can add the fucking terrorists. We always had the micks but this is different. These fuckers don’t mind killing themselves to make a point. The average man is in more danger now than he was during the war.” “There’s a few dirty fuckers I know who wouldn’t mind topping themselves if they thought they could shag a hundred and fifty virgins on the other side.”

  “Ton and a half?”

  “Inflation. Why sh
ould heaven be any fucking different?” Another pause sharpened the darkness, a chuckle, then, “So, it was on the news. The bomb. Who'd want to bomb a deserted shed?” “Maybe it was being kept there. Who knows?”

  “The arse in the air brigade? Bastards get everywhere. That’s the trouble with this country Rick. I don’t even understand some of the cunts on the BBC News nowadays, never mind the weather. Every fucking arse is a potential launch pad, right?”

  “Bomb Squad say not. This was amateur.”

  “Another Nazi nail bomber, then. Maybe it was a test. Everyone's got to start somewhere.” He was referring to the London bombing campaign against Asians, blacks and gays. The Admiral Duncan pub explosion, as well as Brixton and Brick Lane, had used up a lot of man-hours. The older coppers wouldn’t forget David Copeland in a hurry. The younger ones had probably never heard of him. The villain rubbed his hands together. “So, your people killed any more innocent Brazilians lately? I thought dumdums were illegal?”

  He was referring this time to Jean Charles de Menezes.

  “They were hollow point, not soft-headed. In any case, they’re only illegal in war, against the enemy. You can still use them against civvies.”

  “Yeah, well, that makes a lot of fucking sense, I’m sure. They must have taken his fucking head off. I heard there were eleven shots but only eight hits. How could they miss three times from two feet? Even my guys would manage to hit something from two feet away, especially if it was pinned to the fucking floor!”

  Cole wasn't drawn. He said, “So what do you want?”

  “You ain't changed, Rick. You got no sense of small talk or self-preservation. People like you, people who don't give a fuck, are the scariest people on earth. Go ask the psychiatrists, they should know. Even I'm scared of you, and I'm the fucking crown jewels around here. One day I'll find out what turned you against yourself.”

  “You'll never come close.”

  “Guarantee there was a woman involved.”

  “Let's get on with it.”

  “This is important, Rick. It upsets me to ask you for help.”

  “Course it does.”

  “Helen's done a runner.”

  It didn’t show or, rather, it wasn’t heard, but Cole was surprised. He managed, “Go to relate.” “This isn't funny. I can't have people taking the piss, understand?

  It's hard enough running a business as it is. You people are not doing your jobs. I've got hassle with the youngsters who believe in free enterprise, the Maltesers are playing up again – God knows why with that shithouse of a fucking place they come from – and every black bastard in town is packing enough hardware to start world war three.

  And now the fucking Albanians are trying it on. They're into everything going and they're organized. You've got to blame Blair for letting all these fuckers in. Talk about the blind leading the fucking blind. Asylum seekers. These fuckers are controlling half of London's dope and they've only been in the country two minutes. Even the Chinese are getting pissed off. And they're hurting me too. Passing off their toms as Spanish and Italians. They need the fucking trade description act thrown at them. Pay up front for a Latin quarter and find you've got two fingers up a Balkan arse, it ain't funny. It's like going to a Gordon Ramsey and being dished up condemned meat. Well out of order. It's not right. There's no fucking respect anymore. She's been gone a week.”

  He slipped it in, out of the blue, and tightened Cole’s features.

  “A week?”

  “She's never left before. I put the word out, my own people, but they couldn't find a fucking nigger on the North Pole. Kicking the shit out of someone they can do, but using their bonces… They ain't so hot on subtlety, you know? Like fucking Barclays. Big doesn’t appeal if it’s out of the bedroom. The cunts think pie and mash comes with an alcoholic beverage. What can I do? All the good guys have gone soft in middle age or they're banged up. They talk about the old days, but the old days were never that tasty, we know that. Those old bastards wouldn't make second division today. Not with the fuckers I’ve got to deal with. These bastards today have got no style at all, Rick. You think you’ve cut a deal, they’ll go to the shithouse, come back looking like they’ve stuck their hooters in a tray full of baking powder and start blasting away. How can you do business like that? We need to build another iron curtain just to keep these fuckers out and that includes the cunt who bought my football team.”

  “I didn’t know you were a Chelsea fan.”

  “It’s not something you spread around, Rick. Who admits to a sack-and-crack job?”

  “This is important and you’re taking the piss. I can't afford a scene; not when I've got every fucker in town trying to muscle in. This has come at a bad time for me. At the moment I'm talking, being very reasonable, but these fucked-up foreigners aren't reasonable people. As for the youngsters, what the fuck do they teach them nowadays? A month out of school and they think they can run a deal on my manor. This country has gone to the fucking dogs, Rick. Fuck New Labour and all their fucking promises. These little fucks are actually squatting in some of my properties while they deal and half the fuckers are on benefits. Can you believe that? That's a fucking liberty.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Listen, Christmas is coming. I want my family back for Christmas.

  I want us singing around a fucking tree. A real fucking tree. Not one of these fucked-up plastic ones. Once in fucking David City. Right? I'm willing to forgive her. Whatever she's done.”

  “Benevolent, you?”

  “I'm serious. I've thought about it. We all make mistakes. This is the season of goodwill. Look at me. If it wasn't dark you'd see the sincerity. I'm in love with her. Always was. Can't help it. Want to, but can't.” “And?”

  “I told you, I'm a reasonable man. I read about these other missing women; see the posters all over the shop. Got me thinking, worrying. Know what I mean? Maybe she didn't do a runner. Maybe there is more to it. Maybe that's why she didn't take her things with her.”

  A ship's horn carried through space. A plane heading for Heathrow shone brighter than Venus. The darkness deepened; even the fires seemed further away.

  “She didn't take her things?”

  “Not so you'd notice, but she's got so many clothes and drawers stuffed with crap, how am I to know?” “What about cash?”

  “Cash I do know.”

  Cole sensed the shake of his head.

  “You know Helen. She never wore a damned thing for more than an hour.”

  “I remember.”

  It was true. Cole knew Helen. She had looks that would pull you over from a hundred yards in a room full of beautiful people. But behind the feminine bit she was as cold as a Russian handshake. Even in those days she had Ticker Harrison wrapped around her little finger, even if he didn't know it. Yes, Cole knew Helen. More than Ticker would ever know.

  “On the boat she monopolized you. Remember? We still got photos of the three of us on deck. What the fuck was that place called?”

  Cole remembered well and either the cold or the thought that Ticker had held on to the photographs made him shiver. He remembered a white bikini and the top coming off and, later, after Ticker had gone ashore, the bottom coming off too. At length he said, “Greece. And it was a long time ago.”

  “It doesn't seem that long.”

  “In this weather, right now, it does.”

  “Will you help me out?”

  After a pause Cole said, “It doesn't sound right. You're not leveling with me.”

  A sigh came from the darkness. The river slapped some more, then, “We had an argument. I was never so hot with words, the old fucking… GCE, eleven plus, you know that.”

  “What was the argument about?”

  Right? If you don't you get problems. You get your toes sucked and your tits all over Fleet Street or some arsehole creeping butler telling everyone your favourite position. I'm the bollocks around here. It was my dick that fucking moaning tart was sitting on when her pictu
re was painted. There was nothing enigmatic about that expression, boy, that was fucking ecstasy.”

  “That sounds pretty reasonable to me.”

  “Well, anyway, I lost it for a moment. Slapped her. Aimed for the air, just to make a point, but got it wrong. She went out like a fucking light. I get our own GP out. Cost don't come into it. She gets the special treatment but does it make a difference? Does she care? Not a bit. When I come home two hours later she's gone. Faster than a Jewish foreskin.”

  “You left her with the doctor?”

  “No. He'd gone by then. Left her having a lie-down. Just popped out; a bit of business. Even cut that short to get back to her and that cost me fucking money. That's love for you.”

  “But nothing went with her?”

  “That's what I said. Can you help me out? I want to know about these other missing women. It's stupid, I know, and she'll turn up having taught me a right old lesson, but I can't help worrying. I got to point my people in the right direction.”

  After a long silence Cole said, “I'll poke around but they're dealing with it over at Hinckley. They won't like interference. You understand I can't make it official unless you do.”

  “Me, go to the kozzers? Do you want me to lose all credibility?”

  “She's a missing person; you should report it.”

  Ticker Harrison drew a long breath and said quietly, so the night wouldn't hear, “You do it for me. Put the word out. Let's do it on the quiet. Get someone to call over, discreetly. Make out it's a speeding ticket or something. If you can find her tell her I love her, that I love kids. I've changed my fucking mind. There's nothing I'd like more than kick a fucking ball on the park, diving into dog shit, that sort of thing. Tell her any fucking thing she wants to hear. I'm relying on you, Rick.”

  “Let's find her first, worry about the rest later.”

  “That's all I'm asking. She'll trust you. After all, you're a fucking kozzer. And I know she liked you. She's often mentioned the boat and what a great time we had. She's often asked about you. Unfortunately these girls don't grasp the reality. You and me. Know what I mean?