Towards the back were some photographs. The biggest was of the murder scene. Green’s body was under a white sheet, only the sole of his shoe poking out. Blood had stained the sheet. Little circles of chalk were dotted around the body, ringing pieces of the Mondeo. The next pictures confirmed this: shots of pieces of the bumper, and even a chunk of the bonnet. He must have been hit hard. Close-ups of his face followed, bloodied and battered. One of his left hip, black with blood and misshapen, where the Mondeo had struck him.
I was about to return the printouts to the holdall when right at the back, close to a description of the strip bar, I found another photo. Staring up at me, dressed in a black suit, his hair parted, a familiar smile creeping across his face, was Leyton Alan Green.
The same man I’d seen in a photograph in Mary’s basement.
Leyton Alan Green was Alex’s Uncle Al.
31
Gerald opened the door a fraction. Recognition sparked in his eyes and he pulled it all the way back. ‘What the fuck d’you want?’ he said, glancing over his shoulder to where the guillotine sat in the centre of the room, pieces of card and cellophane strewn on the floor around it. Half-finished IDs lay on top of empty cartons of food.
‘I need to speak to you.’
‘You did all your talkin’ last time.’
‘I want to buy something from you.’
He smirked. ‘You must be outta your fuckin’ mind.’
I reached into my pocket. He backed up half a step, as if I might be taking out a gun. Instead, it was my wallet. I opened it up. There was over £800 in it.
He glanced at the money, then back at me. ‘You shouldn’t be walkin’ around with that.’
‘I know.’
‘So, what do you want?’
I closed the wallet.
‘I want a gun.’
Michael left the church at six o’clock. The night was cold, steam hissing out of vents, warm air rising out of the ground as the Underground rumbled through the earth. I waited for him in a darkened doorway outside the Tube. As he approached I zipped up my top and followed him inside. He went through the turnstiles and down the steps to the platform. A train was already in the station when I got there.
I had a ski hat on. I pulled it down as far as it would go over my face then stepped on to the train a couple of doors down. He sat and removed a book from a thick slipcase that probably had his laptop in as well.
With a jolt, the train took off. Michael looked up, then around at the other passengers. I turned away, staring down into my lap, conscious of him seeing my reflection in the windows. After a while, I flicked a look at him and could see he was sitting with his legs crossed, the book held up in front of him.
After we changed at Liverpool Street, I glanced at the scrap of paper Gerald had given me the first time I’d been to see him — written at the top was the address where he’d been told to drop the IDs: Box #14, Store ’N’ Pay, Paddington. I’d found it in the Yellow Pages and called them from Starbucks. It was a storage facility; a thousand lockers. People paid a daily or monthly rate for a unit and got a swipe card that gained access to the building any time they wanted. The lockers weren’t huge, but big enough to store holdalls and briefcases, coats and suits. They’d certainly be big enough for what Michael was going to pick up.
When we got to Paddington, commuters filed out; a tidal wave heading for the exit. Michael went with them. I waited until the last minute then bundled out after him.
The escalators were rammed. I could see him halfway up, his face still buried in his book. I followed him, taking two steps at a time all the way to the top. On the other side of the turnstiles he headed for the mainline trains, then moved through the crowds and out into the night.
He headed south-east. We were moving in the direction of Hyde Park, slivers of residential streets running like capillaries either side of us. I maintained a distance from him, following from the other pavement where it was darker and safer. I could see the park up ahead as he veered right into a narrow road with cars parked on either side and a shop front at one end. A sign hanging above the door said STORE ’N’ PAY. I stopped as he climbed the steps up to the front. He slid a swipe card through an electronic lock and pushed the door open.
Store ’N’ Pay had a big window at the front, a blue neon SECURE LOCKERS sign buzzing at the top. There was an unmanned front desk and a series of red lockers behind it. Michael stepped past another man, who was standing in front of an open locker, and up to Box 14. It was on the left of the window. He put his laptop case down, punched in a combination number and pulled open the locker. Inside was a small brown envelope.
As Michael looked through the envelope, the other man finished up and started coming towards the main door. I quickly crossed the street and headed up the steps, catching the door as he left. He glanced at me, then did a double take when he laid eyes on what they’d done to my face, turning round and looking again as he moved off down the street. Five cars down, he passed my new rental vehicle. Before getting the Tube out to Redbridge, I’d parked it there.
I’d need the car close by — for when we left.
I stepped inside and pulled the door shut. Michael was standing with his back to me, the locker open, still checking the contents of the envelope. After a few seconds, he pushed the locker shut, picked up his laptop and turned around.
He locked eyes on me.
‘David,’ he said. He looked shocked, his mouth dropping a little, the colour draining from his face. But, quickly, he regained control of himself. ‘I’ve got to admit, I didn’t think we’d see you again.’
‘Well, even the Church doesn’t get it right all the time.’
‘No,’ he said, smiling. ‘We certainly don’t.’
‘Where’s Alex?’
He acknowledged the name, but only with a slight nod of the head.
‘Do you need me to speak up?’
‘No, I heard you. Why do you want to know?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m not going to ask you again.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, ‘why don’t we trade? You tell me why this is so important to you, and I’ll tell you where Alex is.’
I didn’t reply this time. He was trying to redirect the conversation.
Trying to force me into another trap.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to turn this into a confessional.’ He paused, smiled again. ‘Our Catholic friends seem to find forgiveness in the blink of an eye. A couple of Hail Marys and you’re away. I believe you should have to work a little harder at redemption.’
‘I don’t give a shit about anything you believe. Where is he?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re making big problems for yourself here, David.’
‘You tried to kill me.’
He shrugged.
‘You tried to kill me.’
‘That was nothing to do with me.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I said, nodding at the envelope in his hands. ‘You’ve got no idea what goes on outside the walls of your church.’
‘A name means nothing, David.’
‘You saying you came all this way for nothing?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand what drives you. I mean, why? Why come this far? This has nothing to do with you. You could have turned away at any time. But you didn’t and now… now you’re going to get torn apart. Why? Is it the money?’
I didn’t reply.