‘The Trust does. But we’re not the Trust.’
There was definitely an edge in Reggie’s voice now. I could see that we were heading for a point at which he was going to give up the unequal struggle between mood and manners and tell me to sod off. But I was feeling a little bloody-minded myself now – maybe because of the headache, which was back worse than ever – and I wasn’t quite ready to back off. I looked across at Greg Lockyear, who was now leaning forward with his elbows on the counter and looking out across the Thames towards the Gallions Point marina as if it was the most riveting thing he’d ever seen. A conviction started to grow in me.
‘Greg,’ I said, leaning out past Reggie to get a better line of sight. ‘You keep in touch with Peace at all, after he left here?’
Reggie didn’t like the fact that I’d just done an end-play around him, and Greg – when he turned his dazed-rabbit eyes my way – didn’t look all that happy to be back in the conversation. This was making friends and influencing people the Felix Castor way. ‘No,’ Greg said, shaking his head emphatically. ‘No, I never really got on with him all that well. Glad to see the back of him, to be honest.’
‘Any clues as to where he was going? Or did anyone ever visit him while he was here? Anyone who might have put him up afterwards, I mean?’
Greg looked out of the window again, as if checking an autocue, then back at me. ‘No.’
I turned my attention back to Tang. ‘Who else is staying here, Reggie?’ I asked. ‘I mean, besides you two?’
Reggie folded his arms. ‘Nobody.’
‘And you’ve been staying here since—?’
‘Castor, you said you came here looking for advice. You really think acting like a cop is going to get you any?’
‘Well, you said you were happy to help. I’m just taking you at your word.’
‘Okay. I think we helped you enough now. So my new word is sod off out of it.’
‘That’s more of a phrase,’ I pointed out, reasonably. ‘I’m not a cop, Reggie.’
‘You think I’m simple? I said you were acting like one.’
‘Not even that. A cop would be picking up on all your bullshit and shoving it back in your face to see if you blink.’
There was a moment’s – or maybe just half a moment’s – tense silence. ‘What bullshit?’ Reggie demanded.
‘Well, let’s see. You’re a Buddhist, but when I come in you’re sitting in front of a plate full of sausage, eggs and bacon. You can’t bring yourself to actually touch the stuff, but you do your best to pretend it’s yours. And Mister Potato Face over there had the same problem with the fag, so it’s fair to assume that somewhere nearby there’s a chain-smoking carnivorous mate of yours who doesn’t want to be introduced to me for some inexplicable—’
It was just as well that Reggie’s eyes flicked upwards. Like an idiot, I’d been watching the door at the back of the galley, but seeing that tell-tale glance I rolled off the couch a split-second before a burly form crashed down feet first from above and two size-ten boots thumped into the space where I’d just been sitting.
I hit the floor and rolled, fetching up against Reggie’s feet. He jumped back hastily, proving that his Bruce Lee looks were all window dressing, but the guy with the roomy footwear was a bit more aggressive. He strode across to me, lifted me up by my lapels with surprisingly little effort and slammed me into the wall.
‘Hold on to him!’ he bellowed.
Reggie and Greg rushed to comply, taking an arm each. I could have fought back, but only at the expense of a few more hard knocks. I figured the time for that would come.
The man standing in front of me, rubbing right fist into left palm, looked like hard knocks were a daily fact of life for him. He was big enough to be covered by building regulations, and his hard, craggy face bore a couple of days’ growth of stubble. His hair was sand-blond, his complexion sandpaper-rough. There were deep shadows under his eyes, as dark as bruises. He must have been fairly handsome once, in a weather-beaten, roughly chiselled out, oversized kind of way. Now, in middle age, he looked like someone who was just starting to feel the pull of gravity and letting it get to him – psychologically, if not physically. He was wearing one of those shades-of-grey urban combat jackets over a green turtleneck sweater and olive-drab trousers tucked into those intimidating Dixon of Dock Green boots. An incongruous flash of gold from his wrist caught my eye: he was wearing a bracelet. But before I could take in the details he reached out and grasped my cheeks in his hand, tilting my head up so our stares met.
He glared at me – a warning glare.
‘I got your message,’ he said. ‘That was you, yeah? At the Oriflamme? So you wanted to talk to me. Well, here I am. What do you want to talk about?’
‘Abbie Torrington,’ I suggested.
That was meant to be an opening gambit, but it got a more spectacular reaction than I was expecting. Dennis Peace gave a wordless roar and punched me in the stomach. I saw the punch coming and threw myself backwards as far as I could into Reggie and Greg, trying to ride with it. Even so, it was like standing in the path of a cannon ball. The pain was incredible, and I folded up with a feeble hiccup of displaced air. I sagged, but Reggie and Greg held on so I didn’t actually fall.
‘You don’t – you don’t even talk about her!’ Peace bellowed. ‘You don’t even – you bastard, you think I’m going to let you—? Who’s paying you? Who’s fucking sent you here?’
He grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked my head up again – but not before I took a closer look at that bracelet and saw it for what it was: a heart-shaped locket on a golden chain, wrapped twice around his muscular wrist.
‘Who sent you?’ he asked again.
‘Her – her mother,’ I wheezed.
‘Well, you tell that bitch she’s never seeing Abbie again in this world or any fucking other. That’s over. It’s over! I would’ve – I would’ve – I’ll kill before I let that coldhearted bastard—’
He ran out of words, his face flushed so deep a red it looked like he was about to bust a major artery. He brandished his fist at me again, but didn’t go for a second punch. He took a long, shuddering breath, visibly struggling to get himself back under some kind of control. I remembered that he was popping speed: that’s not generally conducive to moments of calm reflection.
Then things took a turn for the worse. Peace flicked his jacket away from his body on the left-hand side and pulled a handgun out of his belt. He shoved it hard up against my cheek.
‘Take it easy, Den,’ Reggie Tang murmured anxiously.
‘Shut up, Reggie,’ Peace growled. He looked at me with a sort of agonised hatred. He seemed to be working himself up to something, and I opened my mouth to try to head it off. Before I could speak, his free hand shot forward, balled into a fist. I didn’t have time to move – just to close my eyes. A splintering, rending sound came from just to my left. Opening my eyes, I turned my head a fraction and saw the gaping hole that Peace had just punched in the decorative fascia above the breakfast bar. He curled and unfolded his fingers three times: as far as I could see, he hadn’t even broken any skin.
‘If I ever see you again,’ he said to me, a fraction calmer now, ‘I’ll kill you. I mean it. I’ll kill you. Don’t come looking for me unless you’re ready to cut my throat while I’m asleep, because that’s the only way you’re getting her. And don’t assume I’m asleep just because I’ve got my fucking – eyes – closed.’
He punctuated these last three words with three sharp jabs of the gun barrel into my face. He flicked a glance at Reggie, and then at Greg. ‘Give me five minutes,’ he said, ‘and then let him go.’
Reggie nodded. Greg just blinked. Peace was already heading for the wide-open spaces in any case, tucking the gun back into his belt, and he didn’t look back as he ducked to clear the low door.
Well, now. I liked these odds better.