The swing came back, but Larry didn’t push it this time. Susan twisted around and saw him running toward the roundabout. He got to John’s side and almost knocked the man off his feet. From Susan’s point of view the incident looked ugly; the man stepped back, stumbled and fell. John began to cry.
Susan stopped the swing and got off. She ran across the playground.
“Larry... Larry, what are you doing?”
He was hanging onto John, frantically looking around for Tony. He saw him by the chute and waved.
“Come here! Tony! Get over here!”
Susan ran up, looking puzzled. She watched the young man pick himself up off the ground. She glared at Larry.
“What did you do that for?”
“He was messing around with John.” He turned aside anxiously. “Tony! Tony!”
“He wasn’t messing around with him,” Susan said, shaking her head, looking at Larry now as if he were something pitiable. “You know who that is, don’t you?”
Larry frowned. “It’s Freda’s boy, from the newsagent’s. He’s simple. All the kids know him. What did you hit him for?”
At one stroke Larry felt like a monster. He looked at the cowed, hesitant lad getting up and moving away to the swings.
“I didn’t hit him, all right? I just... I just...”
“I just think it’s time we went home,” Susan said coldly. “Come on, love.” John was still snuffling. “Daddy didn’t know it was Eric...”
Tony finally came and joined them. Susan took both boys by the hand and walked away toward the gates. Larry, not able to explain why he had overreacted, stood for a moment to catch his breath and let his emotions recede. As he finally went after Susan and the boys, he glanced across at the stricken Eric, who was watching him from behind the swings.
“Sorry, mate. No harm meant, okay?” Eric gave a small wave, making Larry feel ten times worse.
12
On Sunday morning, after he had spent an hour working out in the gym, Von Joel had a leisurely breakfast in the kitchen. He then bathed, dressed, and went to the sitting room, where he sat cross-legged on the floor and played chess against himself. It was strange to have been quiet for such a long time, after so many days spent talking endlessly. It also seemed that time had gone into suspension and nothing moved; that was a feeling he did not like.
At mid-morning DI Shrapnel wandered into the room carrying a mug of coffee. A small cigar smoldered between his knuckles.
“Frank,” Von Joel said, without turning from the chessboard, “the air down here’s bad enough without you polluting it any further.”
Shrapnel, unconcerned, slurped his coffee.
“Sydney Jefferson waltzed in with your pal Bingham,” he said brightly. Von Joel was shocked. He felt himself stiffen, going defensive without trying.
“Let’s hope he keeps schtum,” Shrapnel said. “We need more information on Rodney, by the way. Have a think on it, will you?”
Von Joel stayed motionless, struggling to hide the tension that had gripped him. He waited until he heard Shrapnel leave the room, then slowly and very deliberately he leaned forward and swept all the pieces off the chess board.
Later that day, a similar tension began to make inroads on the nervous system of George Minton’s wife. She was with George at his junkyard, standing among the battered, rusting hulks, watching him as he made a detailed inspection of a vehicle that was not a wreck. It was a dark blue Transit van, recently painted and minus number plates; George walked around it, touching it, kicking the tires, peering at it like a trainer with a promising horse. As often happened, his wife felt she was being kept in the dark.
“One minute you tell me to get packed,” she said, her voice on the thin edge of hysteria, “next, I don’t know where the hell you are. George? Do I take the kids out of school?”
“Just get their passports and their gear packed,” he snapped.
Mrs. Minton’s imagination, fed by hard experience, began to frighten her.
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” She stepped closer to him. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m in it up to here!” he snarled, banging the side of his head. “But I’ll sort it. Now get out of my sight.”
He pushed her roughly away from him and stamped off toward the office. Mrs. Minton took a deep, shuddering breath, standing still for a moment, driving down the impulse to scream. She walked stiffly to the Jaguar. As she opened the door a thickset man in his late fifties came threading his way through the wrecks toward her. She recognized him, though she knew nothing much about him apart from his name — Jack. She opened her mouth to say something, a polite hello, but behind her George was beckoning from the office, urging Jack to hurry, which he did, ignoring Mrs. Minton. She got into the Jaguar and drove out of the yard.
In the office George spoke quietly and urgently to Jack.
“I don’t know how long I’ve got before I’m in the frame.” He looked around him at the piled wrecks, like a man preparing to say good-bye to something beloved. “Eddie Myers is rapping again.” He looked Jack straight in the eye. “You know what that means. That shooter’ll take you and me both down.”
“Are we going to get the shooter?” Jack said.
“No. We’re going to get Myers.”
If Larry Jackson were ever asked to say, honestly, what he considered to be the symbol of his marriage, he would probably think of confrontation — although he would say something else just to save face.
It seemed that everything turned into a showdown. Even a kitchen tap left dripping could come to a face-off. That Sunday evening, as he got ready to go back to the safe house, he found himself on the defensive again. He was standing in the living room in neatly pressed shirt and slacks, his new jacket over the back of a chair. His overnight bag was packed and at his feet. Susan stood three yards away, knuckles on hips.
“I wasn’t hiding anything from you!” Larry yelled. “Shit! I can’t do anything right this weekend. I just put the bag into the waste basket.” He spread his hands, trying for sweet reason. “It’s my money.”
Susan’s chin jerked as if she had been punched.
“You want to spend half your salary on a bloody jacket, it’s my business as well.”
Larry glanced at her, rummaging for a come-back.
“He’s filling your head with a load of rubbish,” Susan said. “He’s rotten. What kind of man rats on his friends? And ditches his wife?”
“I know what kind he is. This has nothing to do with him and you keep your mouth shut about him!”
Susan shook her head. She had her look of disdain on again, as if he were more to be pitied than shouted at.
“Who do you think I’m going to talk to about him? He doesn’t interest me, Larry.” She took a step nearer, her head tilting at a sharper angle. “But you be careful. Because he seems to interest you, and don’t try and tell me it’s all down to police business. He’s twisting your head. That’s what it was all about in the park, wasn’t it?” She glared at him. “Well? Wasn’t it?” Another thought seemed to occur to her, more urgent, making her angrier. “If you’re putting your kids or me in any danger, then—”
“Get off my back, Sue!”
“I’m not the one that’s on it!” she shouted as he grabbed his jacket and hurried out of the house.
Later, still feeling raw and put-upon, Larry stood in Von Joel’s bedroom and glumly submitted to an inspection of his new jacket.