He reached down to the cool-box and took out a bottle of Mahou. He was still sweating, still rushing from what had been an eventful day.
He'd had a couple more beers up in Ronda after his chat with Thorne, had enjoyed the afternoon and driven home a little pissed. It wasn't something he worried about a great deal. He'd been stopped twice in the past and both times the mention of a high-ranking local cop had seen him waved on his way.
A nice quiet life, that was what he'd said to Thorne, and Thorne had been right when he'd come back at him. Sometimes you had to do whatever was necessary to keep it that way.
Some things went beyond business, hurt you in all sorts of places.
In the bar, Clint cocks the rifle and everybody turns to look at him. He tells them he's there to kill Little Bill, that he's killed just about everything that walks or crawls at one time or another. That gets their attention all right.
What had Thorne expected him to say when he'd reeled off those names? Monahan, the bent screw and the girl Thorne obviously had a thing for. 'Fair enough, mate, we'll finish our drinks and then you can pop me on a plane back home to face the music'?
Probably just looking for a reaction, for a weak spot or whatever.
Well, he'd be looking a bloody long time, same as everyone else.
Clint shoots the owner of the place, but Gene Hackman knows he's only got one round left, so he isn't that worried. Then the classic misfire and all hell breaks loose and after he's shot Gene, Clint just gets himself a drink, cool as fuck. Says he's always been lucky when it comes to killing folks. And Clint hadn't even wanted to get involved, that was the thing. He had his own nice, quiet life, didn't he?
He hadn't started it…
Those fucking photos, it all came down to them, and whichever spineless ponce had stuck them in the post.
He was only reacting to the situation he'd been put in, after all. He hadn't asked for any of it, done anything to warrant all the aggravation. But now the shit was flying at him from every direction and all sorts of people had to be sorted out.
Only Gene Hackman isn't really sorted out, not yet. Says he doesn't deserve to die. Clint tells him that 'deserves' has got nothing to do with it before he finishes him off, up nice and close. He walks slowly into the rain then, past his mate's body, and one by one all the hookers come out too, the whores like Candela who started it all. They all stand there and watch him ride away, even the one with the messed-up face.
Fucking priceless.
Langford waited and let the credits run, because he believed it was rude not to. Then he reached for another beer and pointed the remote so he could watch the scene one more time.
FORTY-ONE
Alison Hobbs, who used to be Alison Talbot, had remarried three years earlier. Six months after her first husband Chris had finally been declared legally dead. When she answered the door, there was a toddler peering from behind her legs, and her new husband was waiting for them when Holland and Kitson were shown into the living room.
Stuart Hobbs had a firm handshake and gave a suitably solemn nod.
Alison went to make tea, leaving Holland and Kitson to fill an awkward few minutes with small talk while her husband wrestled his small son on his lap. The drive up from London had been pretty good, despite the average speed checks on the M1. The toddler's name was Gabriel, and the 'terrible twos' were kicking in. They were waiting on a quote to have the kitchen extended.
Everyone looked happy when the tea arrived.
'It'll be a relief, actually,' Stuart Hobbs said, 'if you have found Chris. It's not been particularly easy for either of us.'
Holland said he could understand that. 'Like I said on the phone, though, we can't make a positive identification at the moment. That's why we're hoping you can answer a couple of questions that might help.'
Alison sat down next to her husband. He took her hand. 'Fire away,' she said.
'Did you know much about what Chris was working on?' Kitson asked.
She shook her head. 'He didn't really talk about it and I didn't really want to know. Not once he'd moved into plain clothes, anyway. I knew there was a good deal of secret stuff, some seriously nasty people they were after, but he didn't bring it home with him, if you know what I mean.'
'Sensible,' Kitson said.
Hobbs shifted his son gently to one side and leaned forward. 'I thought this was just about… identification.'
'It is,' Holland said. He had already put a call in to Chris Talbot's former DCI at Serious and Organised, but was still waiting to hear back. So far, Alison had certainly said nothing to suggest that the work her former husband was doing would not have brought him into contact with Alan Langford ten years before.
'You think the fact that Chris was a copper is important?' Alison asked.
'Yes, it might be.'
'Might have had something to do with what happened, you mean?'
'Well, as I said before-'
The door to the living room opened suddenly and a boy walked in – twelve or thirteen, with shoulder-length hair and a My Chemical Romance sweatshirt. He stopped as soon as he saw that there were visitors, shifted awkwardly from one trainer to the other. 'My World of Warcraft account needs topping up,' he said, looking at the carpet.
'I'll sort it out later,' Hobbs said.
The boy mumbled a 'thanks' and left quickly.
'That was Jack,' Alison said.
Holland and Kitson nodded; the maths was easy enough. Chris Talbot's son.
'Stupid bloody computer game,' Hobbs said.
There was a slightly uncomfortable silence until Alison got up, saying 'oh' as though she had remembered something and going to fetch a cardboard box that Holland had seen at the bottom of the stairs on their way in.
'I got this down from the loft,' she said. 'It's a few of Chris's things. I thought they might be useful.' She laid it on the carpet in front of Holland and he leaned down to look at it. 'There's a few photos and some other bits and pieces. Not much, really. Considering.'
'That's great,' Kitson said. 'Thank you.'
Holland lifted the flaps of the box, tried to make his question as casual as possible. 'I don't suppose you'd know if Chris had his appendix out,' he said.
Alison looked taken aback, then nodded slowly. 'I think so. I mean, there was a scar, but you should probably check with Chris's mum. I can put you in touch with her, but we don't really talk much these days.' She shrugged, summoned a thin smile. 'She wasn't exactly thrilled when Stuart and I got married.'
Kitson said, 'It's difficult.'
Alison squeezed her husband's hand.
'Did he ever have an operation to put pins into his leg?' Holland asked.
'Yeah, Chris smashed his leg up playing rugby, the silly sod,' Alison broke into a smile. 'He was pretty good, actually. Played for the Met's first fifteen a couple of times.'
Holland nodded, impressed. He reached down and began rummaging in the box, but could not resist a glance across at Stuart Hobbs.
'I play football,' Hobbs said.
Holland looked up at Alison and he could see then that she knew they had found Chris Talbot's body. He had no idea what she still felt for the man to whom she had been married and whom she now knew to be dead, but the swell of sympathy he felt was not just because of her loss. He could see that the woman simply did not know how she was supposed to react. Sitting there as wife and widow, ten years on, with her new husband and his firm handshake.